ClownFellas (22 page)

“Come on, Pink,” Nick said as Pinky staggered toward him. “What do you think you're going to do in that condition? You can hardly walk.”

Pinky pointed his revolver at him and staggered closer. In the background, Hats tried to swat at Pogo like a fly with his fist-bazooka. He wasn't able to hit him, but the hit man wasn't able to get past him, either.

“You never told me,” Pinky said. “Why'd you flip?”

Nicky ducked behind cover, hiding behind a carousel elephant.

“Because I wasn't going to rot in jail for no one,” Nick said.

Nick fired a bullet in Pinky's direction but didn't even come close.

“You couldn't do a little time for the family?” Pinky asked. “What kind of clown are you?”

Pinky shot at him. A collection of poppies grew from the wooden elephant's neck.

“The kind that never gets what's owed to him,” Nicky said. “Do you know how many times I've been passed up for promotion? It's been years. I've put in my time. I've given my life to the Bozos. And what do they give me? A big fat wad of nothing. I'm only repaying the favor.”

Pinky fired another round at Nick. Carnations sprouted from the wooden pony behind him.

“You've been passed by because you don't do a good job,” Pinky said. “You're lazy. You don't try hard enough.”

“What do you know, kid? I've tried plenty. It's all just a popularity contest. They promote blood relatives, in-laws, people they owe favors to. They don't promote guys like me.”

As Nick spoke, Pinky reloaded his revolver, losing half his bullets in the process. The more he moved, the worse his wounds were getting. He felt like he was going to keel over at any minute.

Nick continued, “And yesterday when Spotty said that you were going get made before me? That was the final straw. The Bozo Family can go to Hell if they promote some half-clown son of a whore before me.”

Pinky raised his revolver, aimed it at a part of Nick's lower spine that was exposed beneath the elephant's ear. “It doesn't matter whether you get promoted or not. If you rat out the family, you've got to die.”

The revolver fell to the ground. Pinky attempted to squeeze the trigger, but he no longer had the strength. He tried to pick it up but his legs gave out under him. He fell to his knees.

When Nick saw his state, he came out from behind cover and kicked Pinky's revolver away. Then he chuckled as he pointed his gun at the half clown.

“You're right,” Nick said. “But remember:
You're
the rat here. Not me. At least that's how the family sees it.”

Pinky looked up at him. He could barely speak anymore.

Nick continued, “So if you say that a rat has to die then a rat has to die. Preferably by suicide.”

Taffy screamed through her gag as the gunshot rang out. The depressor bullet hit Pinky in the gut and flooded his body with chemicals. He looked up at Taffy. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“You should be feeling the effects by now,” Nick said. “Your mind should be overwhelmed with a sense of utter despair. In less than a minute, you'll have no choice but to end your own life.”

Pinky pulled out his knife.

“That's it,” Nick said. “Now cut your own throat. That would be a quick way to end it all.”

Pinky looked up at Nick and smiled.

“Hey, why the hell are you smiling?” Nick asked.

Nick shot him again. But even with a double dose of depressors, Pinky wouldn't stop smiling. He pointed his knife at Nick.

“What are you doing?” Nick asked. “You're supposed to use that on yourself.”

Pinky pulled himself back to his feet.

“What the hell's going on?” Nick cried. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

Pinky staggered back for a moment, but then he took another step forward, the smile beaming from his face.

“Why are you still standing?”

Pinky raised the knife and kept coming at him.

“There's no way,” Nick said, shooting him one more time. “Nobody can withstand that many depressor bullets.”

But what Nick didn't realize was that Pinky Smiles was just too damn happy. Even after all he'd been through in the past twenty-four hours, Pinky still held on to his positive attitude. No amount of depressors in the world could wipe that off his face.

“It's impossible…”

Even after he reached Nick and drove the blade deep into the rat's belly, Pinky was still smiling—not because he got his revenge on Nick, but because he was thinking about how much he loved Taffy Bozo. He was thinking about what his day would've been like if he'd never gotten the black joker card, if everything had gone just as he imagined it. The thought of Taffy Bozo agreeing to marry him was enough to drive off any sorrow he could possibly face.

As Nick fell to the ground, he fired the last round from his gun. But he didn't hit Pinky with it. He shot the love of his life.

When Pinky turned to Taffy, he saw her muscles go slack, then tears pooled in her big clown eyes. He could sense the sadness radiating off her. Seeing her in such a state, it was almost enough to push Pinky into succumbing to his own artificially induced depression.

Taffy fought against her restraints with all her might. She wanted to free herself from her bonds, then free herself from the miserable world. She was looking at the rooftop. Then Pinky realized that she wasn't firmly bound anymore. Shrapnel from Mr. Pogo's explosives had hit her and cut into her ropes. She was nearly free. And Pinky was too wounded to reach her in time.

As Pinky tried to pick up his pace, a bloody form fell out of the sky and landed in front of him, blocking his path. It was Mr. Pogo. He looked beaten and bruised. Hats was lying wounded on the other side of the rooftop. The stubby clown had held him back for as long as he could, but the hit man finally got the best of him.

“Time's up,” Mr. Pogo said. He had a surprisingly high voice for such an intimidating figure.

But before Pogo opened fire and finished him off, the hit man stopped in his tracks. Something got his attention over Pinky's shoulder. Smiles looked back and saw a clown car pull up to the restaurant. Three clowns stepped out. Vinnie Blue Nose, Jackie the Grump, and Beano Moretti.

Beano Moretti had a black eye and a bloody lip. One of his massive plate-sized ears also looked bruised and swollen. When Beano Moretti made eye contact with Mr. Pogo, he shook his head. Pogo got the message. He looked back at Pinky Smiles only once. Then he hopped away, bouncing from rooftop to rooftop on his springing legs.

Once Pogo was gone, Taffy cried out in despair as she pulled her gag out of her mouth. She had gotten free of her bonds, and the depressant in her bloodstream was now overwhelming her system.

“Taffy…,” Pinky said, staggering toward her.

She looked back at him. Her tears had melted her green mascara down her white cheeks. Her bright-red lips were dry and cracked. Snot dripped from her tiny purple nose.

“Just wait there,” he said, trying to reach her in time. “Fight the depression. Don't do anything stupid.”

But as she looked Pinky in the eyes, Taffy couldn't help but remember all the bad things she'd ever done to him. The times she'd ditched him so that she could go dancing at clubs. The times she'd slept with other men. The times she'd made fun of him to her friends behind his back in order to save face for dating a half clown. She felt like such a horrible person.

“I love you,” Pinky said as he arrived in front of her.

Those words only made Taffy hate herself even more. She knew she didn't deserve anyone as loving and faithful as Pinky. She didn't deserve anyone. She was a spoiled brat and she knew it. Pinky was better off without her.

Taffy turned around to run for the ledge. She had to end it. She thought it was the only thing she could do to escape her overwhelming guilt. But before she even made it one step, Pinky Smiles grabbed her by the arm. He got down on one knee and held out the ring that he'd been dying to give her since the day they first met.

“And I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Pinky said.

As Pinky Smiles proposed, the depression in Taffy's mind drained as happiness poured into her.

She said, “Yes,” and then helped him balance his trembling hand as he put the ring on her finger.

When the two clowns embraced, not a soul in Little Bigtop would've been able to guess that they'd just been shot up with a bunch of depression bullets. The both of them looked as if they'd never been happier in all their lives.

The country hadn't been the same ever since the government outlawed comedy three decades ago. Some comedian by the name of Bobby Goldstein, who was all the rage back in the day, made one too many jokes about how the presidency was handling the war overseas. This was not at all uncommon back in the day, but once some loon quoting one of Goldstein's gags made an assassination attempt on the president's life and took out the First Lady by mistake, a law banning jokes against the president was quickly passed. When the feds realized how easily they were able to get away with it while the country was in mourning, they also outlawed political satire of any kind.

It probably would've been fine if they stopped there, but the US government was like a bad gambler—they didn't know how to stop when they were on a roll. The next thing everyone knew Congress was passing the Comedy Prohibition Act, which made all forms of comedy illegal. Sitcoms were pulled off the air, Hollywood stopped producing comedy films, and television censored jokes from older movies like they were obscenities. All types of comedians from stand-up comics to sketch comedy actors found themselves out of work. A person couldn't even tell a joke on the street or laugh out loud at a funny thought without spending a night in jail. It turned the entire country into one dry, humorless place that took itself way too seriously.

But this was all good news for some people. Just as it was proven when they outlawed alcohol in the last century—in times of prohibition, the mafia prospered. Comedy didn't disappear. It just moved underground.

Since then, the joke trade had been a good racket for the Bozo Family. They created a large distribution network, selling bootlegs of old uncensored comedies as well as any comical films still being made overseas. But a large portion of the Bozos' income came from the speakeasy-style comedy clubs they had all over Little Bigtop, where citizens could be entertained to their heart's content for steep ticket prices.

The business proved more lucrative than extortion, drug dealing, and prostitution combined. It was nothing less than an empire. And the clown in charge of this comedy empire was a capo by the name of Buggy Buttons.

“Your jokes stink, Snuggles.”

Buggy Buttons sat behind his desk, bored out of his mind. He'd been auditioning two-bit comedians all day, and none was good enough to hire. Bad news. He needed some new blood, and fast. With the majority of his top comedians behind bars, he didn't have enough acts to fill the shows he had lined up for that week. The boss was not going to be happy about it.

“What do you mean they stink?” Snuggles yelled. “I gave you my best routine. Those jokes should've left you in stitches.”

Moisture filled Buggy's cream-colored clown suit as the afternoon sun invaded the room. He undid the top button to let some air inside, releasing a stench from his sweat-stained undershirt.

Buggy said, “Well, they didn't leave me in stitches. They damn near put me to sleep.” He pointed at an elderly bulldog lying in the corner of the room. “Mittens didn't like them, either.”

Snuggles started when he saw the bulldog; he hadn't noticed it had been lying there the whole time. The animal's hide was so mangy it blended in with the weathered furniture behind him.

Mittens looked up at the comedian with glazed eyes and said, “Erff…”

It was the laziest bark the comedian had ever heard in his life.

Snuggles approached Buggy's desk. “I think your problem is that you didn't
get
any of them. Everyone back home thinks my jokes are hilarious.”

Buggy was sick of having to deal with the egos that came into his office. Every single comedian thought they were God's Gift to Comedy and took every ounce of criticism as a personal insult. The newer the comedian, the worse their attitude. And this clown was as green as they came.

Buggy used a copy of
Playjoy
to fan himself as Snuggles dug through his bag of whoopee cushions, plastic mallets, ventriloquist dummies, and other groan-worthy props.

Then Snuggles said, “I'm telling you, my stuff is comedic gold. Unlike your usual comedians, my jokes have
edge.
They're going to blow people away. You just have to give me a chance.”

Buggy Buttons stared at the young clown. It was the same with every comedian who stepped into his office. No matter how direct he was with them, they just wouldn't take no for an answer. And worst of all, they didn't show him any respect despite the fact that he was a capo-ranked member of the Bozo Family crime syndicate.

“You had your chance,” Buggy said. “Try your routine at Open-Mike Mondays and see how it goes over with that crowd.”

“Are you kidding me? Only amateurs do open mike. I expect to get paid when I perform, especially with the risk it puts me in with the feds.”

Buggy just shrugged. “Then give up. Not everyone's suited for comedy.”

Snuggles packed up his props. “You know what your problem is, Buttons? You have no sense of humor. You wouldn't know a good joke if it was slapped across your face with a rubber chicken.”

Then the comedian stormed out of the office.

Buggy breathed a sigh of relief once Snuggles slammed the door behind him. He thought the guy would never leave. There were only three more auditions he had to suffer through, but judging by their nervous demeanor he doubted they had any promise at all. The clowns were going to have to wait a little longer. Buggy Buttons needed to take a long break.