Episode 13 - Dreams of a Mouse Part 3

In which the gormless get a clue

from: Not Jack Book 2: A fatal R.S.V.P. pour vous
by Mat the Hooplah, boisterous blunderbuss of Saint Seer of Tallow's stuffed-n-such.

--well fellow blogskateers, this twisted tail of slight-of-hand and shiftiness was not one of the carnies, as is often the case. No, the Clowns have perpetrated dark deeds beyond the boundaries of the media in which they have found themselves. Confounding as it is astounding. Read on, in amazement--

The Ellephant's trunk curled up and unrolled as she breathed, the Mouse scratched behind an ear, and resumed dreaming. The First Mark watched, compelled, for somewhere at the end of this strange adventure
alien
there would be a punchline. It would come to an end and she could resume her life.

The Mouse's Dream had this flavour:

Jess admired the fourth object she'd only just completed. A statue in her series on the Evil Clown. It had yet to have a name or a title, but she knew that soon enough, there would be both.

She was eager to begin another, and was certain of the image, yet uncertain of the medium. She'd already done the cardboard and saliva, dried fruit and plastic building blocks, industrial glue and real-hair wigs, and the most recent in condiments and stainless steel.

Jess closed her eyes...

Bozobub appeared to her, grinning wickedly. Jess started, but could not wake herself up.

"It's a trick I learned from those delightful Freddy Kruger movies. Quite handy, as you can tell by your fear," he said to her. "I'm not going to do you harm, Jessssssica. There's a certain someone I would love for you to meet."

"Who, someone?" was what drifted from between her lips and down her throat.

"An artist. I'm sure you'd get along smashingly. You will know him by the name Scrow. Time's up for me, darling. Must go. Sweeter dreams." Bozobub faded away, leaving a trailing scent of a burning pile of wet, rotting leaves.

Jess woke of a sudden, her nose atwitch with the stench. It lingered beyond the duration of her dream. Jess retained the fear with which she had awoken. Stricken with insomnia, restless, she went to her studio, and began work on her fifth piece.

Scrow dozed into deep sleep in the midsts of his nine canvasses of the emergent PunchPunch. He passed out on dark zephyrs of imagination. More's the pity.

PunchPunch descended on him the moment he awoke in his dream. "Got you, my little squirrel!" she cried out exuberantly. "You paint like a dream, doll, but don't fret, fret not. Know why?"

"Why, no."

"Let me tell you, that's what then," called PunchPunch, "this isn't the dream you thought you was having, just so we're both in the same cell. This is something that can only be attributed to your atrocious diet. And your skin doesn't fit quite right."

"quite right."

"I know just the woman for you. You might want to take down the paintings first, though. On second thought, maybe not. Ah, Hell who cares. Never mind."

Scrow shook his head, no.

"You, you are following this aren't you? Getting through?"

"Getting through."

"I still have doubts. Ah well. Look, I think the girl for you is named Jess, and she's a sculpturess. Find her. After you awaken. All right, I have to fly. Good night, and good bye."

Scrow awoke, dazed, soaked in sweat.

"What the hell was that??? I need a belt." he went in search of scotch.

The First Mark gasped at what she saw as the impending conflict between two pained souls coerced by two tortured souls. She wondered how much more she could take.

"One last," cried Not Jack, from somewhere behind the curtain's slack.

Which one will it be? let's read on and see, shall we?

--to be continued--

Episode 12 - Dreams of a Mouse Part 2

In which the Evil Clown Bozobub and the Evil Evil Clown PunchPunch make the attempt to render themselves made manifest, such that the latter can beat the former senseless, as the saying goes.

from Not Jack; Book 2 - the First I Ever Heard of It
by Mat the Hooplah, subjective objectifier of Saint Seer of Tallow, well-known, well-done Medium.

--the sordid tale continues with the dream, the Mouse beneath the deepest waves of the Ocean, eyes dancing swimmingly in the currents. The Mouse had eaten a particularly vivacious seed but moments earlier, something in the nascent phases of sprouting. A budding awareness, ingested unbeknownst to the ingestor--

The Mouse rolled over, shifting position atop the Ellephant's generous pate, which never shifted through the whole process. The First Mark blinked, realising she hadn't for the duration of the first part of the dream. She felt vertigo of a sudden.

The Dream continued.

Bozobub and PunchPunch approached the physical plane from their tale of origin, approaching it ever through the imagination of the sentient. Particularly the sensitive sentient, who perceived with a greater amount of their intuition than most. These were the prey for the Clowns.

Bozobub found a Sculptor, chiseling a hunk of marble into a likeness that he felt resembled his image of himself. The Sculptor, strong of arm would be his for the coming conflict. Bozobub set about his incarnation.

PunchPunch discovered a precocious Painter, who had long been splashing oils on canvas, making them dance among the light, dark and shadow, revealing tortured faces of Clowns, writhing expressions of agony, pain, anger, violence.

She hesitated, but for a moment, then made about her incantation.

Both Clowns fell to whispering to their respective chosen inhabitants of the physical world.

[PentWhistle hopes that they do not read this tale presently -Ed]

Please allow for allow for a brief interlude, while our two angonised protagonists discover their means to their ends.

It has been noted, although by neither Mat the Hooplah, nor any other scrivener on the subject, that there is a definite hue to the colour of the relationship between the two.

Namely, that the Evil Clown is a Clown, whose evil deeds are perpetrated upon the good, whose violence doesn't delight or lead to the sublime, regardless of its artistic expression. That's not to say they won't pick a fight with those other than practitioners of good deeds.

An Evil Clown might ritualise their deeds to the painstakingly nit-picky details of serial murderer.

An Evil Evil Clown, on the other hand, is defined by the evil deeds of the Evil Clown, and so, is a response. The Evil Evil Clown wreaks evil down upon the evil. Both Bozobub and PunchPunch were cruel, malicious and without mercy in dealing with their respective targets.

And thus did they slowly emerge into fuller detail in the imaginations of both the Sculptor Jess and the Painter Scrow.

Jess' next sculpture, made entirely from chewed cardboard, resembled Bozobub in every detail. Jess found herself watching his face emerge, the minutiae of his contours allowing themselves to be found.

Jess did not put the sculpture up for sale or auction. She placed it at the foot of her bed.

Scrow painted a series of paintings on canvas in multimedia, some acrylic, some india ink, some marker and a few objects. The series of nine paintings featured PunchPunch.

His earliest paintings were cruder, her shape vague, as if she wandered in the fog. As the series continued to evolve, PunchPunch emerged. She wore a cruel, colourless expression, and carried a long smooth wooden bat.

PunchPunch only interacted with anyone else in but the last painting. She stood, bat slung casually over one shoulder, legs akimbo, over a crushed Punch puppet, crumpled around the hand within has it had broken and curled in pain.

The arm lead off the canvas to an unknown, unseen Puppeteer. Whether they were alive or dead was unclear.

Scrow hung them in a circle about his bed in his basement room.

the two Clowns laughed.

and the First Mark felt shivers run down her spine. She looked to escape her seat, but she discovered it floated, unbolted from its concrete moorings, in the surrounding sphere of impenetrable darkness. The only other thing was the Ring, the Ellephant and the dreams of the Mouse.

dear blog-scanners, what mad merry-making will be made manifest materially? More to come, you won't forget the next instalments, in which Evil and Evils grip Jess and Scrow, respectively.

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction Episode 11- an Elephant remembers in the Dreams of a Mouse Part 1

In which the Circus' first act, before a crowd of the First Mark, and she alone, gets underway, and the origins of Evil Clowns is laid bare, the grease smeared away

from; Not Jack; Book 2 - that weird Ellephant-Mouse thing.
by Mat the Hooplah, questionable quill-boy to Saint Seer of Tallow, epicurean of all that is ingestible.

--Alas my poor blog-servers, the story to be unfolded here is a thing to remember, and recount to countess generations of audience, to prove their stoicism--

"I remember it as thought it was but a lifetime ago," began the Ellephant, who fell into silent reverie of a sudden. The Mouse, perched precipitously upon the pachyderm's pate, paused peacefully in sumptuous sleep. The Mouse dreamed.

And with the dream, its ghost rose out of the Mouse's cranium and into the darkness above, for the First Mark to see. She gasped in wonder, for before her the coalescing image, a prismatic nebula condensing into a dense chromatic swirl, which exploded in a firework starburst. The First Mark flinched. The stars hung all over the black space around her, into the sparkling distance.

A Red five-pointed star spun around a Green five-pointed star in a whirling dance. The First Mark wondered what the Mouse had eaten before bedtime.

She hadn't noticed the spinning disc where the colourful ball had been. Before it blew up. Its diameter stretched with it, until it took on the size of the Circus' centre Ring. From its centre emerged, as if out of the dirt and sawdust of the floor itself, a Clown in full makeup, rainbow wig and suspenders to match, ridiculous in the extreme. The First Mark chuckled despite herself.

The Clown reached into the swirling whirlpool at the centre of the ring, still not settled, and out emerged another Clown. The Two reached in and out emerged two more. Then four and on and on, until the entire Ring was filed with Clowns.

One Clown, who's makeup was Black and Red, whose smile consisted of bloody, jagged teeth, and who wore hobnailed big, ox's blood, floppy shoes with suspenders to match, reached into the swirling pool but moments before it closed for good. Out he pulled a Clown-sized cannon. This Clown grinned with malicious intent to match his makeup.

This was the First Evil Clown, who's name was Bozobub.

Bozobub took advantage of the Clown's propensity for allowing themselves to be fired out of Clown-sized cannons, and began firing the Clown's out of his. One by one, the gullible, clueless, and curious sailed off into the darkness. All of the Clowns would have met this end to satiate Bozobub's odd sensibilities.

Portofoil the Clown, always suspicious of ill-intent, refused the cannon. "No, Bozobub. I won't let you send me into the darkness until you tell me what you hope we'll find there."

"Ah," said Bozobub, honing this thoughts on the stone of his heart, "I was hoping you would tell me, dear Portofoil."

"How many Clowns have returned?" asked Portofoil, ever resistant to the beckoning of the barrel.

"Many of them are even now on their way here, you will see," hissed Bozobub, like a snake laughing at the dying throes of its prey in its coils.

"I see. Why, what's beyond the darkness. I heard a rumour about something called 'Bleachers.' Is there any truth to those?" Portofoil asked.

"Oh, don't believe in rumours, but believe me when I tell you there are bleachers. They will burn through your makeup, nose and clothes and turn you white. Don't worry, there's a net to keep us from falling into them," assured Bozobub, beckoning another Clown into the barrel.

"And, where is the net, Bozobub?" asked Portofoil, suddenly hopeful for a shot at the cannon.

Bozobub fired, and another Clown sailed off into the darkness. "I was hoping you would tell me, Portofoil."

"No, I'll wait, thank you." Portofoil wandered to the back of the line..

"Ah, here we are," said Bozobub in a voice to terrify children and charm adults, "the first has returned."

Bozobub was referring to the shape emerging from the darkness on foot. It spoke, "Bozobub, you shot us into the bleachers1 It hurt like hell you idiot." The Clown who emerged was bleached bone-white, head to toe.

This, then, was something new, an Evil Evil Clown, for this Clown had something of a mix of vitriol and venom and villainy in mind heart and soul, and Bozobub was the intended recipient.

This, then, was the clash, the fall, the schism, the end, the beginning, the lapse, the split, the wound, the rift, the feud.

Half of the Clowns sided with Bozobub, because he worked the Canon. These were Evil Clowns.

Half of the Clowns sided with the first of the Evil Evil Clowns, all of them completely white.

The ensuing contest rapt the First Mark with its brutality. She felt a wave of nausea, sympathy and horror wash through herself. She laughed, more and more loudly until she was close to delirium.

In the end, but two clowns remained, Bozobub and the first Evil Evil Clown, who named herself PunchPunch.

PunchPunch sneered, "I'm going to beat you senseless, just so you know."

Bozobub, turned the Cannon on her. "But just a moment PunchPunch. How can you beat me senseless?"

"Well, I was planning on starting with a left hook, then probably a right cross or uppercut," she said, approaching with cruel glee in her eye.

"That's not what I meant," Bozobub continued, keeping the Cannon between himself and PunchPunch. "You see, you can't beat me senseless. Nor could I do that to you. Can't you see where we are?" He gestured to the darkness around them and the ring illuminated around their feet.

"And where do you think we are?" she asked, slyly, approaching more stealthily.

"We're in the dreams of a Mouse," he said, his face falling when he realised she didn't start at the revelation.

"You're right, and you're wrong. We aren't in the dream of a Mouse," replied PunchPunch, "we are in an immaterial story, in which we exist only in the imaginary sphere, in which we appear in the dream of a Mouse. You're wrong because I can beat you senseless, but I have to manifest myself in the Physical plane to do so, and so will you," PunchPunch grew impatient.

"Then, what happened to all the other Clowns? Didn't we beat them senseless?" wondered Bozobub.

"No, don't you recall? We annihilated them. I just want to beat you senseless," said PunchPunch.

"Can I defend myself?" asked Bozobub.

"Of course," replied PunchPunch.

"Then fine, I'll meet you there."

They shook hands on it, shocking one another with the lack of joy buzzer.

And with that, they walked into the darkness, the spotlight slow to follow, and approached a shallow pool of water, a ladder rising into the darkness above. Bozobub climbed first, followed by PunchPunch, up up up up up until they reached a tiny platform. Both dove simultaneously, falling falling falling

and splashing into the pool, vanishing.

The First Mark found herself holding her breath. She gasped to let out her building panic. She began to wonder, if the PunchPunch and Bozobub knew that they were in the story that the Ellephant remembers in the Dream of a Mouse, in what strange place she existed.

Beyond the blog.

--to be continued--

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 10

In which the Biggest Show in the Whole Wide Worlds is spun out by the RingMaster, Not Jack, to the Marks sitting enthralled in terror.

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - Into the Limedark
by Mat the Hooplah, th'inker for Saint Seer of Tallow, oracle of the abyss

--my my my, the Circus clambers ever onward in its parade of the familiar-yet-not. The fates for our protagonists and antagonists, howsoever they may be paired and coupled, have yet to reveal themselves, as they unfold, unravel, and denoue. The RingMaster's charm and glamour are irrefutable, and the Marks show their scars, as the ineffable sounds that erupt from them. Brace yourselves for all to see--

"Ladies and gentlemen and... others, welcome to the Three-Ring Big Top, the Greatest Show in the Whole Wide Worlds! You will astounded and amazed by all the magic and buffoonery in store, and oh, so much more." Not Jack, in top hat, red coat and tails, white pants and cloven black boots, called in a booming tenor voice that the Marks could feel shaking the marrow of their ribs. He didn't wear a microphone, yet none strained to hear.

He stood in the lone island of spotlight in the depths of the sea of blackness around him. Its obfuscation was complete. The Marks couldn't see the person next to one another, so deep was the pitch. All eyes could see Not Jack.

Traught traced his hand between his eyes and the RingMaster, it passed as deepest dark, an eclipse of the moment.

"Brace yourselves, for the show is begun..."

The light vanished, the pitch swallowed them.

The First Mark felt lightheaded. Dizzy. She swooned, catching herself before she gave in to the vertigo. She had been holding her breath, she exhaled and drew in air, gasping. Alone. In the darkness.

Utter silence. Not a word. Not the sound of a murmur, a shift, a breath. Not even her own. The First Mark focussed her hearing on her breathing, which quickened with dawning realisation. She drew a deep breath, then let out a long, loud scream to the very top of her lungs. And heard a deafening silence.

Meanwhile, in the Midway, Uncle had only just escaped getting caught up in a melee that had broken out at the Endless Cheese-thing. One diner had knocked another's and a fight had resulted. He wasn't sure why so many people had gotten involved.

He had run a zigzagging path through the stalls, alleys and lanes formed by the mishmash of tents and stalls, until he had become completely and utterly lost. Traught's Uncle had been losing hope since he lost Traught, Seems so long ago now, back in the parking lot. So long ago.

Traught's Uncle only wanted to find someone to give him directions. No easy task, but why not? He had been met with such spite and undecypherable messages that he had given up. Then he had been thrown into the wild punches and fighting, while the cheese stood alone. He felt deeper in the maze now than before, although no closer to getting anywhere.

He scanned the colourful tents lining a broad path that ran straight to the Big Top. Finally, some luck. He took the boulevard to his right, heading for the Great Tent. Most likely find someone who can help. Uncle looked over his right shoulder at a pavilion made of intricately woven hues of aquamarine, sky, indigo and violet. A single sygil labeled the site. Uncle had never seen it before, and it was too unfamiliar and alien in design for him to remember.

He turned back to his destination. It's gone! He looked back to the tent, then to his empty destination. He looked behind, over his right shoulder, and there stood the Tent. That was behind me! He looked back to the tent. It's design was much different, more like an huge yurt, coloured in bungundies, crimsons, scarlets, and bloods. An equally complex sygil in what appeared to be a different, yet equally alien, language.

Traught's Uncle resumed his journey towards the Big Top. He would not let it out of his sight.

He heard screams erupt from the tent, and didn't abate. He flinched, then quickened his pace.

Inside the darkness of the tent, Traught bounced up and down in his seat, particularly restless, but not particularly distressed. He thrived on the buildup of anticipation.

The First Mark had screamed her throat hoarse. She returned her attention to her body, which shuddered with the effort of her exhausted tears. She sat up in her chair, able to resume some manner of composure, when she felt the carved wooden box in her hands She ran them along the carved surface, the contours and crenellations unrecognisable.

What good is this? Hope it's something useful.

The box slipped from between her hands and fell in her lap. She heard the soft thud of it land in her lap. The First Mark found it again, only with the lid ajar. She reached inside, running her fingers along the lining within.

Empty! I can't believe I'm a Mark! Mind you, I dd eat a lot of cheese and bread. Fair enough. So, I'm a Mark.

"La la li laa," sang the First Mark, delighted to have her voice back. "Hello," she called.

No response. She listened intently.

Alone. How's that possible?

"Now you will learn what is possible," a voice boomed out of the darkness.

The First Mark shut her eyes against the sudden blare of light onto the three rings. She opened them tentatively, incrementally, until she blinked the scene into view.

She sat alone.

The Three Rings were ablaze with activity. In the Ring to the left, a cadre of Evil Clowns tumbled along the perimeter. Evil, because they tripped, poked, slapped, gouged, bit, and pulled the hair of one another. They bounced off of mini-tramps, colliding in midair, landing on the Evil Clowns below, who yelled in unintelligible outrage.

The Ring to the right held a BeastTamer, who wore a green pith helmet, and bore a whip. She kept a line of owls, jaguars, alligators and a three-headed dog. Scorpions and spiders covered the Ring's floor.

High above, Bats flew around a Trapezist, who confidently closed the distance.

In the Centre Ring, an Elephant and a Mouse.

The RingMaster stood between them.

"Now, here's a story for you..."

The lights went out. The First Mark heard the Trapezist fall, screaming all the way to the loud thud, and the softer thud. Then, "uh-oh."

The lights came back on. She found herself in the entire crowd, staring down at the Centre Ring, where an Elephant flipped through an enormous book with her trunk. The Mouse dozed on top of her head. Sleeping.

Dreaming.

"Once upon a time," began the Elephant.

--to be continued--

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 9

In which Traught's Uncle and the First Mark pass through their respective gates.

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - Into the Dark
by Mat the Hooplah, sepiartist for Saint Seer of Tallow, prognosticator to the passed on.


--well, well, things coalesce, like so much rennet in the gut, as the saying goes. Unless it's otherwise, which might just be the case. Plattersworth has watched the First Mark eat the first four precariously positioned pieces of bread, leaving her but one to finish to break the record. She trembled while threading the bread, the assembled crowd leaning in to watch her. Dare you think on what might happen?--

The First Mark was escorted away from Plattersworth's Endless Fondu, having beaten the old record, and retired undefeated. Plattersworth had awarded her a carved wooden box, inlaid with gems and stones. She hadn't noticed until later that it didn't have any visible seams, hinges, latches, locks or swivels. She marveled at the images etched and painted in, and found her eye drawn back to it again and again.

Before she knew it, she was at the Bit Top! She blushed with excitement, her escorts, had they been human? she looked straight into the chest of the Flap Flipper, who wore a charcoal grey suit in the style of a doorman or bellhop. "Just one moment."

The First Mark took out her ticket, the satisfying crinkle of its dried surface on across her fingers sounded of a certain legitimate authority afforded it. Moreso than most paperwork or currency. "Oh, my!" Exclaimed the Flap Flipper, "I didn't realise. Come right this way." The Flap Flipper flipped the flap, and the First Mark entered, with a grin of self-satisfaction. The Flap Flipper flipped the flap closed behind her.

"Hey, why can't we go in?" demanded one keen observer.

"You're not First," replied the Flap Flipper.

"No. She was the First. Now I'm the Second!" continued the observer.

"There is no Second. Only a First, and you're not her," replied the Flipper, who then fell silent to further argument.

Traught's Uncle had crawled through the parking lot in the flow of the crowd, when of a sudden, it picked up speed. People began to trot towards the gate. What's this? What's this? Not right. This is not right.

He swept up to the box office and the gate, how long ago when i'd given that note to the first in line. The Box Officer was waving people in. "No more room iin the Big Top, but free admission to the Midway!" repeated the monkey, over and over to each new wave of patron.

After carefully counting each head through the gate, the Box Officer shut the gate, and announced, "Please accept our most heart-rendering apologies, for we have reached the capacity for this venue. As any person leaves, another may enter. Please be patient. We're pulling for you!"

The Box Officer posted a sign with the same message, and disappeared into the concourse within.

Uncle searched frantically for a map of the grounds, yet found none. He looked for security guards, and saw none. Although, he did notice a lot of open drinking. He entered the first stall, the Industrious Weapons of the Sweater Brothers. It smelled of a forge, yet was distinctly cool inside. Under the cover of the tent Uncle took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light.

There was a plain table covered in a plain white cloth and nothing else. A flap opened in the white wall behind the table, and a figure in business attire and immaculate grooming appeared. "Yes, how can we assist you?"

"I'm lost, and I-"

"Lost! Well, you've come to the right place! You are in the hands of the Sweater Brothers now. I'm Cardigan, by the way. And your name is?" Cardigan reached out a hand to shake. Uncle looked at it blankly.

"I'm looking for my nephew?"

"Oh, I see. Well, maybe we can't help you with that. Who are you with? What outfit?" He looked hard at Uncle.

"Oh, um. What? What outfit? I don't understand."

"Well, you didn't just wander in here, right?" he gave Uncle a nod and a wink, "even the reason is as simple as serendipity, then there is a reason you came here and not any one of the other stalls."

"Of course," said Uncle," yours is the first one I came to."

"Which shows you the power of our influence. You see?"

"Yes. Yes I see." Uncle was humouring them. He had stopped paying them any of his mind. "Is there an administrative office or a lost and found?"

Cardigan chuckled. The chuckle became a laugh which sank to his belly, and eventually, it became a tortured cross of a guffaw and a snort. His face turned red and he could hardly breathe. Uncle was unsure if he should intervene.

Suddenly, the laughing stopped. "Hooo-wee, that's a good one. Now, get outta here before I toss you out on your ear, you hear me?"

Uncle exited swiftly, then followed the crowd, swerving to the left of a bifurcating path, which landed him on Fortune Teller's row. He suddenly got a great idea (which happened at this very juncture for a surprising number of Marks), and stepped into the first card reader's tent.

The Lady of Poultry.

The Lady of Poultry sat on eider down pillows, set on a divan dating back a century or two. Uncle admired the fine silk of her clothes, and the richness of colour in her stall.

"Cards! You wan the Deck!? To hear what it says!"

"Yes, yes. Tell me. Tell me how I can find my lost nephew!" He sat down in chair across the low table from the Lady of Poultry. She clapped her hands, and a giant land-crab scuttled out from the kitchen, and brought a platter with steaming bowls of soup and other, less familiar victuals.

"Here, eat something. This is chicken soup. Here, pate de fois gras on braided egg bread. Go, eat." She handed him a bowl and spoon, and he sipped at the broth. The aroma of chicken was overwhelming, as if the straw of the coop had been part of the broth's bouquet.

"Now, I'm going to flip three cards for you. Don't say anything, just think about the subject. Just feel how you feel about it, and think what you like," the Queen of Poultry said as she placed the deck face down in front of Uncle. "Choose any three cards, place them any way you like, face down."

He cut the deck into three piles, and placed the three in an equilateral triangle, a point towards himself, a side towards the Queen of Poultry.

She flipped the first card. "The Egg"

She flipped the second card. "The Roost"

She flipped the third card. "The Abattoir."

"Well, there you have it. Good luck." She reached for the cards.

"What? No, wait. You can't just take them. I don't know what they mean," Uncle plead. "Please, help me find my nephew."

"Oh, nephew. Well, I'll give you the short version, 'cause somewhere in my heart, there's a memory of compassion. The Egg is your nephew. Young, and inexperienced, yet universally eloquent and simple. The Roost is home, the familiar, the comfortable, stable circle of places and people. That's you, I guess. The Abattoir, is a slaughterhouse. It signifies violent, unholy death, one caused by indifference. That's it. the rest is up to you. I don't know what it means."

A moment later, he discovered himself outside her stall, no closer to his destination.

Inside the tent, Traught had found a seat. He scanned the crowd for his Uncle, but never found him. The huge tent, which looked larger from inside than outside, filled to the rim. Traught's legs fidgeted alternately. The Father of the family next to him kept throwing dirty looks at him, but Traught remained oblivious.

The lights went out, and a lone circle of light illuminated Not Jack in red tails standing tall, crop in hand. Not Jack said, "Dear ladies, and dear gentlemen, permit us to entertain you, and shock you with the great mysteries we reveal. Behold the cavalcade!"

The spotlight moved from the too small car, its maniacal driver wrapped in a straightjacket rolling his eyes maniacally., He took a corner too quickly, skidded, caught an edge, and flipped over. The driver broke through the windscreen, and crawled out, into the spotlight.

The driver, an Imp as much as an Evil Clown, rubbed his headwith one taloned hand, and held his barbed tail in the other. At the sounds of curses and oaths, the Imp scurried away and vanished into the shadows.

Traught quivered with scintillating excitement.

Next, a Court Jester crawled through the windshield frame, rubbing her head with one hand, and holding her cap in the other. She waved her hat to the Marks, and stepped out of the light and vanished into the darkness.

Next, a Joker, two-dimensional, by all appearances, as if peeled off of a playing card, white face defined by minimal black lines fluttered out of the car. It bore a tear across the broad white space near his head.. The Joker fluttered out of the light vanished into the darkness.

Next, a Magician, top hat accordioned flat, black mask, and a wand, raised herself and tipped her crumpled hat to the Marks.. The Magician vanished into the darkness.

Next, a Fortune Teller, face concealed behind a torn veil held together with one hand, crawled out of the car. She held her deck in one hand, but it was short three cards. She had cuts on her leg that leaked crimson. Twinkles of glass shards caught the light from her leg. She limped out of the light and vanished into the darkness.

Next, a Birthday Girl, crawled out, crying, twin streams of blood and mucus pouring out of her nose. She held a string attached to a deflated balloon. She held something visceral in her other hand, and it glistened with anatomical foreboding. The Birthday Girl crawled out of the light and vanished into the darkness.

Next, the trickle of Clowns wearing broken, shattered, bent, battered or rent Evil Clown masks rose out of the car, in a slow, limping procession. One by one, they hobbled out of the light, the last carrying what looked to be a child, or a doll and vanished into the darkness.

The Marks weren't sure whether this was part of the show, or whether they'd witnessed an accident. The silence followed the last Clown out of the car. Then speculative murmur built in the silence, and this tumultuous babble, and expression of nervous uncertainty, grew to a cheer. The crowd had decided, that either way, it was going to pay tribute.

"Ah, my dear attendees," boomed the warm voice of RingMaster Not Jack. "Be not afraid for those hapless survivors of near-calamity. They are but the beginning of the show, and we'll show you what's a metaphor."

The spotlight went dead, and the show really began.

What now blog-servers, what now? What lurks in the darkness, awaiting our cheese-satiated First Mark, tremulous Traught, and a teeming mass of Marks? If any had an inkling, they didn't let on, and likely would have wet themselves had they known. What now?

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 8

In which the First Mark discovers the depths of Paddlesworth's Endless Fondu

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - the Main Attraction
by Mat the Hooplah, sick scryer of Saint Seer of Tallow, disgorger of strong spirits

Alas, dear blog-servers, we come to the end of an innocence, of sorts, in this twist of the story's tail. Traught, the vanished eleven-year-old has yet to reappear, and his Uncle has faded further and further into despondency with each step he took, swept forward in the peristaltic motion of the crowd. Within the labyrinthine stalls of the Midway, the crowd meandered towards the inevitable conclusion...

And still no sign of Patch. Pell hasn't yet emerged from her office. It faced the other side of the building. Regardless, she was not to be found, yet her vehicle, her cherished chariot remained stranded, unable to move past the throng of Circus-goers.

The First Mark, first past the gate, had visited many of the attractions of the Midway: she had an Alchemical reading of her "singular components" and "essential saltes," She won five of nine games of Riddles and Sticks, and walked away with a Booby prize:

a blue-footed Booby.

The Booby, which the First Mark had taken to calling Flapper, accompanied her to the remainder of her stops: Plattersworth's Endless Cheese Fondu. And in that, there is a tale.

Plattersworth's, or the Fondu Foundry, or Cheese to Please, had row upon row of Marks, from the start of the day until the very last moment before it closed down. Plattersworth, a round-bellied, snickering Fool, stirred the cheese bubbling thickly in the huge cauldron at the centre of the stand. The round counter with stools created a circumference of twelve feet.

Each customer was given a heel of bread at a time, and a ten foot Clown pole with two tiny barbed tines at the far end of it. The rules were simple: if you took your place, you paid your fee and got to eat of the Endless Fondu. If you lost your bread, you lost your seat. Simple.

Except did I mention the the foot fondu forks?

Plattersworth bellowed in her deep voice at the Marks tussling for position. "Sit down you! You- yeah, you, get back there and wait your turn or I won't feed any of you and let you turn to cannibalism for a few laughs! Ha!" She stirred the pot.

Traught's Uncle, having covered about a third of the distance in stuttered listless trudges, caught sight of his car through the crowd. No sign of Traught, but someone had broken the back window. He cursed under his breath at this unfortunate turn, compounding the previous, much larger one. He kept his place in line. Any damage done can't be undone. Besides, Traught's more important than the car.

It's the waiting that's so painful.

He trudged ever forward, holding the dream of reunion close to heart.

The First Mark had managed two heels of bread, and signaled Plattersworth for another. "What? You need more, do ya? Think so? Well, I've got to stir the cheese, don't ya know, otherwise it burns on the bottom and nobody's gonna wanna eat that with three heels of bread, now, are they?"

"Don't care if you have to do what you have to do, dearest Plattersworth. If this fondue has an end, I won't let it be because you weren't giving me my bread. Now, heel to hand, please."

Plattersworth grudgingly complied, dropped it into the First Mark's outstretched palm, and returned to her stirring. THe First Mark tore up the heel into five equal chunks, the smallest number that Plattersworth allowed, and she was sharp.

The First Mark impaled the bread on the barbed tines at the end of the long wooden handle, and she extended it towards the bubbling cauldron.

"Careful, now!" yelled Plattersworth, who was hoping to startle someone into losing their lunch. No luck thus far.
Each loss had been due to the stickiness of the cheese, the ineffectual barbs on the forks, and the ten feet of distance.

The First Mark signaled for another hell. "What, a fourth already? Did you just eat-"

"I did. Another, please." The First Mark felt satisfied. It wasn't just the warm cheese and warming bread in her belly She was satisfying something else. Plattersworth handed her a fifth heel, and turned to witness a lone cube of bread tumble off the fork of a newcomer. First try and they didn't even make the cauldron.

"Sorry lad. Alright, who's next?!" Plattersworth's bellowing set up a fierce if quick struggle between two of the first in line, coming around the stool from opposite sides, and colliding in tenacious confrontation. They both dug n their outside legs to brace themselves against each other. "That's no way to settle this!" yelled Plattersworth at the pair. "Slap fight!"

WIthout missing a beat, the two slapped each other's faces until both their cheeks were red and swollen. The rest of the Marks stood back in amazment at the ferocity of the battle of the palms. Another fork emerge without its charge.

"There, you two! There's a seat over there for one of you..." Plattersworth paused, waiting for one to take the initiative. They eyed each other suspiciously, leaning slowly towards another escalation of violence. "You, sit over there. You, stay put. Fine, here are your sticks."

Plattersworth returned to the churn.

"Plattersworth, can I have a sixth heel?" asked the First Mark.

"What? You can't be serious!" Plaatersworth was beginning to think that her astonishment might become sincere if this was to keep going. "Oh, you are serious. Very well, here's another heel."

"Thank you."

"I hope you choke on it!"

The First Mark didn't choke on the sixth heel. Or the seventh. Or even the eighth. The ninth.

"Plattersworth, may I have a twenty-third heel of bread?"

"Impossible! If you finish this one-" Plattersworth paused in mid-sentence to watch the Marks escort, well, passing back over their heads while picking pockets, another defeated fondu hopeful. "You can't finish this one. that would be a record."

"What? Don't tell me that."

"I won't say another word about it. If you succeed, I will promise you something very special."

"What?"

"It's better if it's a surprise. I hope you do well." Plattersworth fell silent.

"Wha- ugh." The First Mark carefully broke her heel into five pieces, as she had done with all the previous ones, This one had had a huge pocket of air when it was baked, so there was only a thin layer of brittle crust and very little to grab the fork.

She couldn't ask for another until she'd eaten this. She'd seen the treatment of those who complained. A hot glob of cheese catapulted with Paddlesworth's big, wooden spatula.

The First Mark threaded the first shell of crust onto her fork, and eased it across the distance to rest at the cauldron's rim.

Now, what do you suppose the First Mark will do at this juncture? What strange gift is Paddlesworth willing to offer, and what folly would come from accepting it. One must beware of gifts from Fools., their thoughtless good-intentions could get you killed.

And in the background, the growing restlessness of the crowd. Something's brooding in the air, clouds girding themselves in shadow to the West. Will anyone ever make it to the Big Top itself? Let's hope not, dear blog-server, for all our sakes.

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 7

In which the gates are opened to all comers

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - The Way of the Mid
by Mat the Hooplah, treasure trover of the illisicrets of Saint Seer of Tallow, pipeline of deceased

Finally, dear blog-servers, here you find an interesting mix of the tragic out of what is traditionally comedic. A child gone missing in the midst of a menacing mass of Circus-goers, his frantic Uncle searching through the mass in vain.

A store's manager still missing since the small hours of the morning, when last seen, falling into the mesmeric charm of an Evil Harlequin's guise.

And the scuffling at the box office gate, where the First Mark, arrived by whimsy, now withheld her position with bullish ferocity. All manner of person tried to charm, coerce, nudge, skirt, distract, intimidate, shove, or shame her out of her spot, yet she held ever fast.

The First Mark saw a figure enter the box office, and such was her angle of perspective that none of the others had seen it. She now had an advantage. She readied herself for a crush from behind, and leaned more heavily on the shelf in front of the only box office window. A delirious man approached, shoving through the crowd desperately.

"I don't care who you are, get the hell away from here. Now. I mean it!" She angled herself towards him, keeping a peripheral eye's view on her flank. "Git!"

"You don't understand. I've lost my nephew. I've looked all over, and I haven't found him. I just want you to pass this note to the security guards in passing." he held a note in his left hand.

The box office wicket slammed open, and within sat the Box Oficer, a Monkey who operated the till and rolls of tickets with feet, hands and tail, while regarding the window casually, eyes down. "Yes, how many, please?"

"Please," the note was within her reach.

"One," she slid her currency, a token of her time and labour, to the Box Officer wih her right hand, and took the slip of paper from the man in her left. Probably a phone number, thought the First Mark, who received her ticket, emblazoned with a embossed, golden number one, and strode into the Concourse.

"Next," intoned the Box Officer, beginning a repetitious cycle of action upon transaction into the small hours of the next morning, when the Circus would close and move on.

Uncle watched his note disappear within, in the hands of the First Mark. He had noted her face, that he might confirm that she'd done as he'd asked once he got in. If I get in. the line must have doubled since I last saw the end of it.

Uncle scurried back along the length of the line, skimming over each face yet again, many of them already becoming familiar. He passed clusters of friends in heated conversations about, "fire" and "cannon" and "tigers" which did nothing to calm his nerves.

He passed the surly people who had refused to hold his place. One stared at him through empty eyes, another stared right through him, the others ignored him altogether. The one who had spoken stumbled midsentence, stalled at the word "balk-"

Uncle continued on, spying faces he hadn't yet seen, keeping one eye open for his nephew, the other to keep from tripping. The crowd spilled through the lanes of the parking lot. He contiuned following it around a second, then a third turn around the cars, filling the lanes from side-to-side.

Astounding. How did it fill up this quickly? He jogged between parked cars, passing by his own, on the off chance that Traught had returned there to wait.

He hadn't.

The crowd wound round row upon row of parked cards, imprisoning them in its coils. Uncle joined it at its tail-end, which grew again, as more people joined immediately after him. He tried to greet them, but they refused, one and all, to make eye contact with him.

Within what seemed like minutes of finding a place in line, the entire lot was locked, tightened like a knot. Nothing could move in or out, and frustrated shoppers and Circus-hopefuls alike honked their displeasure in monotonous bleats of the cuckhold's horns, and circled around to find parking at adjacent lots, streets, schools or funeral homes.

Within the lot, not a single vehicle moved. The line, Uncle knew, moved, some distance ahead, well over half the distance where I was refused a place in line, and again, he would follow the river of people, this time within, still holding hope of finding his nephew within the Circus Midway.

But as he watched the line grow behind him, curling back towards the big box mall in tightening spirals, he realised the immensity of this gathering. He looked up at the red flag whipping in the winds lashes.

Something downright peculiar about this. 'One day only' he'd said. That's really odd for some reason. But look at this crowd. It doesn't add up. Not at all. Why didn't I hear about it? I read the papers, there must have been something. How did Traught know about it?

Meanwhile, well ahead, the First Mark strolled the concourse, unsure where to begin. She considered each in turn. Along Fortune Teller's row, there were Card Readers, Scryers of Tea Leaves, Entrails, Holy Texts, Palmists, I-Ching Casters, Psychics and an Alchemist.

Along MadCap Alley, the Tea Party, Croquet, Triple-Cranko, Trumps and Wonders, Riddles and Sticks, Horseflyshoes and Plattersworth's Endless Cheese Fondu.

Along the Hall of Mirrors, Magic and Magick, ineffable and quickly forgotten. No Mark ever left knowing what they'd witnessed, or remembering aught but a vague satisfaction at the money well spent.

Along the Bazaar of Distant Districts, fabrics, artifacts, vases, a collection of artistic miscellany. The First Mark took note of a finely woven tapestry or rug? She gazed at the image more closely. It depicted daemonic clowns dancing around a giant flame resembling the BigTop.

"What's this? This is a bit dark for children, don't you think?" the First Mark asked.

"Perhaps. I wouldn't ever disagree with you," continued the unctuous voice of the sales woman, the Barter Queen, "yet that is ever for adults to contemplate, not children. Children have yet to learn such dark symbols, as there thoughts and feelings are still becoming inured to the barbs and sharp edges of the world."

"Of course." The First Mark continued browsing throug the rugs each bore dark images, often of beings in theatrical makeup, or masks, in straightjackets, wigs, costumes and makeup, around them black lightning rose upwards!

Gumbo Row afforded food of all types, recognizeable, more and less depending, with names like: Clown Gravy, Cotton Candy on a Pixie Dipping Stick, Taffy, Caramels, Fudge, Hard Candies, All-Day Suckers, Snow Cones and on and on.

The First Mark made it through the Avenue of Temptations, which boasted Barkers, vying for attention, calling to her and all the Marks that followed in bold attempts to entice their patronage. Offers include potions and poultices, love and lust, games of chance and opportunity.

The First Mark eschewed them all, and approached the flap of the tent.

"Step right up ladies and gents, don't be shy, the greatest show on the Whole Wide Worlds is about to open! Prepare yourself for the marvellous and the magnificent, the mundane made magical. The Wheel truly turns in our favour this day! Come one, come all. Come, enter."

And the First Mark, as ever, was the first to enter.

What will become of the fated First Mark? Will she survive the mysterious madness within, or will she escape by some miraculous deus ex machina? What has befallen Traught, and will his Uncle ever survive the loss?

What more's yet to come?

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 6

In which Traught and his Uncle discover that the Circus is something to get excited about

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - The Sixth Sheik's Sixth Sheep's Sick
by Mat the Hooplah, chronolographicographer of Saint Seer of Tallow's surfing of hell's endless channels

--once again, we return to the innocence of babes, the child barely into his second decade, eagerly racing towards an ineffable spectacle that will leave him... altered, if that isn't too much foreshadowing, for there comes dark shadows with this tale, beyond the mysterious disappearnace of the inquisitive Patch, and the obliviousness of his parone, Pell. Be aware--

The Sun illuminated the low fog, the waves of light caromed through water particles, washing out distant details of the morning. A complicated, chaotic assembly of poles, woven across the vast parking lot like an asymmetrical spider's web, the Big Top at its centre, the patient, black and white at the centre. Hands drew tarps across the skeleton, pulling a tight skein over it.

Before the first Mark had arrived, the box office had been placed at the gateway into the Concourse, the Midway and the Sideshow, all of which were included in the price of admission to the Three-Ring Big Top Circus. No mention of Not Jack on the marquee.

The first Mark arrived at the gate. She read the sign posted in the box office window, which read, "Box Office Opens at 9AM sharp, and not one second sooner. See you then." She considered getting something to eat. The wait would be a couple of hours yet.

The first Mark noticed cars pulling into the lot, come to a stop in scattered spaces close to the box office, disgorging their drivers and passengers like soldiers hitting the beach, ready to die for their cause. They wanted in line.

The First Mark stayed put, and defended her place. Those that crowded around here were not pleased. Explitives were used. The First Mark stood her ground, and released a tirade of filth and profanity that blushed the bluster of the belligerent gate-crasher-wannabees.

And as simply as that, the Circus drew in a crowd whose sprawl would encompass the big, box mall, and all the vehicles in the pall of its morning shadow to the North West. Without any stir from within, from Hand, Harlequin, or Patch.

As the Sun crested the buildings on the horizon, and blazing off of the reflective windows of buildings adjacent to the parking lot, blinding the Marks in line. They flinched to avoid facing South East, from which the Sun shone directly, only to catch the reflection from the North, where the big box mall's shadow would otherwise have lay unopposed.

The line of Marks grew and grew and grew, as the morning ticked by minute by minute, the Sun crossing the sky, shifting shadows behind everything he sees. The line grew wider, becoming a tightly-knotted cluster of Marks vying for first. They didn't let the First Mark's tenacious grip to her title intimidate them. Although it cost them, in position, and pride.

The First Mark had swift ankles, which she used to glide other people's feet offline, and in another direction. She could do so with great subtlety, when called for, however, her immediate situation called for something more brutish, and less tactfully. The profane shouting match had been proof of that.

Joining the line, far far away from the First Mark, yet still proximate enough to allow for the hope of a pair of reasonable seats, were Taught and his Uncle. Taught's Uncle had secured him with a seatbelt, tightly, not so much for protection in the case of a collision, but to keep him restrained. His level of fidgitry precluded disastrously destructive mishaps.

Taught had sprung free from the car as if released from an oubliette after a life time of punitive oblivion, and making up for time spent not moving. He bounded across the parking lot, catching his hip on one, spinning off of it, then caroming off another to spin back into a lane, where he resumed bounding.

Kid's as good as dead. What the hell?! "Taught! Watch where you're going! I'll catch up, you find us a good place in line!"

"OK! I sure will," with that, Taught darted off, catching his elbow on a car mirror and knocking it off its adjustment. His Uncle followed at his own, lazy pace. "Hurry up though!"

Uncle took his time getting across the remaining few rows of cars. Something felt strange to him, and he looked up from his morning stupor to assess the situation. He spied the transformed sprawl, taking inventory of its features:

Big Top? Check. Concourse? Check. Parking lot full of cars? Check. Big box sore? Check. Uncle couldn't quite tell. He approached the crowd lining up, and his stomach fell. Uh-oh, something wrong here. He looked up and down the line for Taught, who had just been ahead of him.

Uncle realised that the line was longer than he'd expected, and he followed it towards its end, eyeing each face for that of his nephew. Several heartbeats later, he felt the first pangs of concern at not having seen Taught yet. The faces in the crowd unsettled him, although he couldn't quite pinpoint what its source might be. Something sinister.

Uncle continued his pursuit, carefully eyeing the assembled along the length of the line all the way to its ends where newcomers and hopefuls joined as he arrived. Wha-? He's not here? How- He can't have disappeared!

Uncle relied on his anachronistic notions of civic co-operation when he asked the fellow who looked to be about his age and disposition if he would hold the spot in line for him.

"What? Hell, no!" was the reply, with murmurs of righteous assent bubbling up around him.

"Never mind. Gotta find my kid," Uncle said, mumbling to himself under his breath.

"What? Lost your date already? Maybe your goat got a better offer! Ha!" Guffaws and Hyucks followed Uncle on his return trip down the line. He hesitated calling out Taught's name, as this would attract undue attention, and might warn others to the presence of a missing child.

Uncle's concerned scrutiny of each face was enough for anyone who might be looking for a lost child.

A few people were, although not there own.

And even they, too, would regret having come to the Big Top under the Stars, as it was sometimes known.

What indeed is this strange flapping flag attracting to itself? Belligerent competition for p0sition? What dark influence does this enigmatic midway have over those who gather under the undulating, red triangular standard atop its highest point? What malfeasance may have befallen Traught? What wonders within, one wonders?

But scant more patience, dearest, dearest blog-server, and the secrets kept by inveigled narrative shall indeed be unveigled.

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 5

In which evil things happen to good people, and evil things happen to evil people, and good things don't really happen, or otherwise, what kind of story would you have?

from: Not Jack: Book 1 - Those who laugh last...
by Mat the Hooplah, linguistic condensation collector for Saint Seer of Tallow, spirit's gutterduct

--As we last saw, dearest blog-servers, the titular relevance is not always apparent. Such are the evils of the Clowns as they prepared their dire machinations for the unsuspecting Marks, who even in the early morning darkness are stirring with anticipation, preparing for their ineffable pilgrimmage. Read on, and protect both your aqueous and vitrious humours from what's to come--

Pell looked through the spaces between the smears of grease on the window towards the mall. No sign of Patch. Coast is clear. Wonder if I can make a clean getaway?

"Will there be anything else?" asked the waitress, wired and fleet of foot for someone up this early.

"No. Just the check," said Pell as she reached for her moneyclip.

"Sure, but it's not a check. It's a bill. Don't know where you've been eating, but sounds like a good deal to me." She tore the receipt, left it on the table, and left at a dismissive, lethargic pace.

Can't imagine she expects a tip. Pell left one anyway, exactly fourteen percent. She played poker in her spare time, and marvelled at how money could be used to communicate so much, without uttering a word. Exactly one percent less than the accepted gratuity indicated that Pell was willing to go to some trouble to calculate the amount to the fraction of a penny, and leave it, including the fraction of a cent owing.

Pell kept slivers of pennies in her change purse for just such occasions. She left the diner, returned to her vehicle, and drove across the parking lot to her reserved space. Still no sign of Patch, which meant that he's either given up, called someone else, or run away to join the damned Circus, which would be the best of all possible options for him, really.

She locked the vehicle's doors, set the alarm, and entered the building by scanning her security badge across a scarlet patch on the wall. She vanished within.

Unfortunately for Pell, she didn't pay any attention to the Circus behind her. Had she taken but a moment to look, she would have seen that the snaking skeleton of pipes that a handful of Hands had been affixing together, and covered most of the parking lot, closing foot by foot over the path she'd just driven to her parking space.

Will she ever learn?

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 4

In which the show must go on.

from: Not Jack; Book 1 - Tentacular Spectacular
by Mat the Hooplah, transubstiator for Saint Seer of Tallow's spiritualistical regurgitations

--and so on with the tale. The apex of the Circus tent a flag, flapping in long red, rivulets in the snappy, gusting morning zephyr, as if announcing the location for a great convergence, in the middle of the black oceanic sprawl. And so it was--

Aususular Hands scurried about in the early morning darkness, setting up poles in a chaotic, jumbled structure radiating out from the Big Top at its centre. Patch couldn't tell what the Hands were constructing, it was only skeletal as far as he could see, and they avoided his approach. He never got a good look at any of them.

Patch circled the tent, looking for a trailer or office, or someone who may be able to point him towards the administrative authority of the caravan. Each remained occluded in the morning gloom. He came back to his starting point, and he hadn't found an entrance to the Tent itself. Curious.

To be certain, Patch circled the tent once more, checking each seam carefully. He detected no means of egress. To his sharp eye for detail, the entire surface of the tent was one, continuous piece of fabric. Incredible! He crouched down to grab an edge between his fingers, so compelling was the material.

"Hel-lo. Can you be hel-ped?" A quavering voice inquired, unless it enquired. Hard to be sure.

Patch jumped out of his skin (not literally mind you, plenty of time for that later). He turned and looked at the person who had spoken. A Harlequin! An evil Harlequin at that. Patch turned his eye, attentive as ever to detail, to the figure.

The Costume was an intricate checkerwork pattern interweaving white and black in quilted details. The hat, collar, shirt, girdle, leggings and boots captured Patch's eye, and he found his mind's eye drawn into it, always at the very threshhold of recognizing something in the evasive chiaroscuro.

"Helpless then? Or hopeless?" The Evil Harlequin seemed sincerely intrigued, as if he'd just caught a previously unencountered species of guppy. "Yes? No? Are you flipping or flopping? Sweeping? Mopping? Chirping or Chopping? Come come, now, how now brown cow?"

Patch heard the sing-song but was unable to decypher the cryptic cadence. Like a plutonium rod, his eyes burned for the Harlequin's colourless costume, and so was his mission consumed in it.

So much for the power of authority! What grave deceipt awaits our gullible manager? No doubt he will be given an appropriate welcome by the RingMaster. Read on in our next installment, gentle blog-servers, and prepare yourself for dark twists and sinister turns as the tale slithers its narritivistic tendrils into the depths of occluded shadow.

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 3

In which the Big Top's presence creates a sensation

from: Not Jack: Book 1 - No More Clowning Around
by Mat the Hooplah, interlopreter for Saint Seer of Tallow, ingestilocutor divine

--our tale continues, with a bipolar eleven-year-old jumping bean with the unlikely name of Traught coercing his Uncle to take him to the singular specaticle of the Three-Ring Big Top, Not Jack's Circus of infamy, as we shall see. Dare to read on? Be warned that once read, you cannot unimagine it--

The Marks turned up to the Three-Ring Big Top in droves in every town where it pitched its tent. Everybody likes a Clown, after all.

The posters that had gone up overnight, advertising the Circus for the very same evening, announced the Greatest Show in the Whole Wide Worlds, one night only. At the bottom of the poster, an unusual paragraph, detailing the Circus' strict ethical code regarding its treatment of animals.

It read: "The Three-Ring Big Top Circus, Inc. does not believe in the capture, imprisonment or training of animals against their wills. Although the Circus does boast a vast menagerie of beasts both wonderful, terrifying and fantastickal, let it be known that each of these dragons and tygers have arrived in our company by choice, and are free to leave at their discretion. They are equals in our company, all children of Comedy and Tragedy, and we bid you welcome them with your all your resounding hearts!"

The Big Top itself had appeared in the empty parking lot that sprawled like an asphalt ocean, a bobbing flotsam and jetsam of box stores clustered in the centre of its vast abyss. The Tent itself took up a total of twenty-three parking spaces, more if you counted the guide wires, and the parts of the tent that overlapped the lanes.

The box-store mall manager, Patch, stood steadfastly akimbo, watching the early dawn Sun bounce off of the thick white stripes, billowing in the chill Autumnal breeze. He didn't like the looks of the tent. He had heard nothing about the Circus, and considering the level of importance he accounted himself, that was impossible.

Patch's mood improved when he spotted the property manager, Pell, eased her dauntingly huge vehicle, that must have embodied the idea of "off-road" somewhere in its luxurious, lavish interior. Perhaps not.

Pell slammed the door, turning her attention straight to Patch's obsequious grin. If I only could have talked him out of the report, I could still be sleeping. Jackass! You'll get yours! "Morning, Mr Patch."

"Morni-"

"Yes, yes. What is it? You don't like the Circus? What, afraid of Clowns?" She wasn't going to have any of his crap this morning. Somewhere through the hazy dawn, a cup of atrociously bad coffee awaited her, and she anticipated it with growing thirst.

"Clowns? What? I like the Circus OK, but-" he paused for but a fraction of a second, yet it was enough for her to interject,

"OK? You don't sound like you like it. What's wrong? They set up on your parking space? Out with it!"

"Who are they? I mean, do they have a permit? Have they got permission to be here?" He felt his confidence returning, he was going to force her to act in her capacity. She noticed the smug undertones to his questions.

"Well, tell you what, you go check their paperwork, and if they don't have any, I'll have a talk with whoever's in charge. In the meanwhile, I'm going over to that greasy spoon, and I'm going to drown my lethargy in black, caffeinated goodness. OK? Great, see you in an hour." She turned her back on Patch, and returned to her vehicle.

She drove off, leaving Patch standing in the billowing puffs of exhaust in her wake. He tightened his jaw, and stalked across the empty asphalt to the tent.

Patch was ready for confrontation, from fast-talkers, and carnies. He'd heard every pitch and excuse over the years, and prided himself on his powers of discernment. He wasn't ready for anything, which would have served him better, as we shall soon see.

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 2

In which the saga of the dark Three-Ring Circus under RingMaster of Ceremonies Not Jack continues, and woe to those within. As ye shall see, this tale is not for the feint of heart.


Excerpted from: Not Jack: Book 1 - Clowns Prank Among Us

by Mat the Hooplah, tanscrivener for Saint Seer of Tallow ingestor of nether-spirits.


---we join the continuing story as the Three-Ring Big Top was sealed, darkened, full of agitated Marks and mysterious Evil Clowns hiding in shadow. This combination elicited most diabolical shrieks and screams from within. The intensity with which these screams were delivered could not be mistaken for anything but sincere, unrestrained terror--


"The Circus is coming! The Circus is coming!" an exuberant cry of uncontained delight echoed its echoes off of the empty white walls.

"Hey! Stop running around like a loonatic," was the best stab anyone was willing to take at standing within the path of an eleven-year-old Force of Nature. The loonatic running around continued, unabated, for another quarter-hour. Finally, Traught finally slowed his pace, yet without diminishing any of the intensity of his excitement.

"Yeah, but, the Circus is coming! And I get to go!" Traught's cheeks bulged like red jaw-breakers, so wide-spread and spreading still was his grin. He swumg a thumb at his chest. "Me!"

"That's great, Traught," his Uncle continued, after a pause indicated that he was on his own. Shoulda kept my mouth shut. "Who's taking you?"

"Why, you are Uncle!" Traught's expression risked faltering for a fleeting second, however, such was his resolve that it only resulted in the flicker of an eyebrow hair, which his Uncle had noticed, having learned Traught's intricate signals over the course of eleven years of inexplicable tantrums and blood-curdling screams.

"I am? I am! Of course. Which show do you wish to attend?" here, Traught's Uncle was hoping t o buy some time. He wasn't sure he wanted to take Traugt to the Circus. There would be fudge and cotton candy and... he refused to think on it any longer.

"Which show? What are ya, nuts?! There's only one show! It's today. Today. TODAY!" Traught resumed dancing, pounding the floor, shaking the floor under Uncle's feet.

"Enough!!! What time's the show?"

"Uncle! You forgot! You forgot your promise!" Traught was still jumping, like a pogo stick.

"Uh," damn kid, "that's not it, Traughtsky. I'm just getting, uh," ah, to hell with it, "I just don't want to be late," true enough, "we can't miss the Clowns, now, can we?" not so true, that one. Kinda hate damn Clowns. Repugnant.

"Uncle, you promised to take me to the Circus today, and it's time to go right now!" back to full-on jumping, Traught wasn't waiting for any answer other than immediate departure.

"Well, Traught," uh-oh, how to break this, "I don't remember-" Uncle stopped in his verbal tracks. Traught had paused in mid-jump, and had landed, as stiff as a board, on the hardwood floor. His facial expression frozen in a paroxysm of crestfallen innocent trust. "-uh, that is, I can't find the tickets."

"Tickets? What? You are a loon Uncle! You buy 'em there." Traught bounced out the door.

"He- I- He- I. Oh, never mind," Uncle grabbed his jacket and keys, and left to take Traught to the Circus.

"Good-Bye, Uncle," sneered one of the others in the room, "hope you have an Exquisite time."

Uncle closed the door silently, then turned to the boy, "So, Traught, what Circus is this? Cirque du Soleil? Shriners? Jim Rose?"

"Uncle, you are a loon. It's the Three-Ring Big Top."

"Never heard of it. Oh, wait, is that the one with Pee Wee Herman?"

--to be continued

Evil Clown Fiction: Episode 1

In which PentWhistle reveals the details of the assault upon our cultural anchors with a metaphorical hacksaws. Rusty metaphorical hacksaws.

Patient Blogservers,

Mat the Hooplah, dread chronicler of the glossolalic revelations of Saint Seer of Tallow, has finally submitted the first of his scrivenings since the ascension of Not Jack from the realms of below this past Hallowe'en.

I have been advised that Not Jack, whatever he, she, it they may be, has arisen among us to counter the myopic attention to the infinitesimal details of the minutia of our world's material aspect. Not Jack, and whatever cadre of clever Clowns follow the RingMaster's whip, are immaterial.

It's all in your head.

-PentWhistle

--

Not Jack: Book 1 - Three-Ring Big Top
as scrivened by Mat the Hooplah

Not Jack, wearing an oversized black magician's top hat, and brandishing a crop, previously used in infernal initiations, to direct the crowd into the ten. The Circus had come to town, an unexpected delight for local citizens, considering no one had seen any advanced notice of it.

The Big Top, most aptly named, due to its mountainous presence, and the swirl of black on white patterns, fractals of hypnotic delight drew the eye inward, like the barbs of a carniverous plant, swallowing the Marks in the masses.

"Step right up ladies and gents, don't be shy, the greatest show on Earth has opened, and your in line for opening night! That's right! There's only one opener and it is always the most magical and inspired night of any performance! Clowns, acrobats, tumblers, jugglers, magicians, harlequins and tricksters!"

Not Jack ushered them, and the Marks, dumbfounded at their good fortune of stumbling on the Circus when least expected, and on opening night even.

Not Jack grinned a smile to chill the spines of daemons turned on wheels of fire, from painted cheek to painted cheek, closing the flap behind, and sealing in the Marks.

the show was about to begin...

Marks filled the bleachers to the highest edges of the great flapping walls, still below the towering trapezes. The centre of the space, the stage, the focus of the gathered attention remained in shadow, in darkness, hidden from view.

The lights went out, and a lone circle of light illuminated Not Jack in red tails stood tall, crop in hand. Not Jack said, "Dear ladies, and dear gentlemen, permit us to entertain you, and shock you with the great mysteries we reveal. Behold the cavalcade!"

The spotlight wavered wildly, finally settling on a car, too small for the Clown who drove it, as their Red-wigged head stuck out the open sun-roof. A giant key stuck out of the roof behind the Clown, turning, hitting the driver in the head with every pass. The key turned more and more slowly as the car coasted to a stop in the dead centre of the space, the spotlight still upon it.

The driver opened a small side door, and unfolded a six-and-a-half-foot frame out of the car. Following, an Evil Harlequin, wearing a long-nosed mask, waved to the Marks in scintellating enticement. The Harlequin vanished into the shadows.

Next, a Court Jester, a tumbler, wearing multiple grotesque-comedic facial expressions, smiled a smile for sharks to envy. The Jester vanished into the shadows

Next, a Joker, two-dimensional, by all appearances, as if peeled off of a playing card, white face defined by minimal black lines. The Joker vanished into the shadows.

Next, a Magician, top hat, black mask, white rabbit, and a wand, tipped the hat to the Marks. The Magician vanished into the shadows.

Next, a Fortune Teller, face veiled, shuffling cards in one hand, raising a crystal ball in the other. The Fortune Teller vanished into the shadows.

Next, a Birthday Girl, hidden behind cake makeup, holding a big red balloon in one hand and something ineffable and sticky in the other as she made her way across the spotlight. The Birthday Girl vanished into the shadows.

Next, a river of Clowns, all of whom wore Evil Clown masks, or Evil Clown makeup, their true countenances hidden, poured out of the miniscule vehicle. Any of the Marks who had been keeping count had abandoned it, the clowns moving too swiftly.

What a variety of Evil Clowns: Wicked Clowns, Nasty Clowns, Vile Clowns, Despicable Clowns, Reprehensible Clowns, Dark Clowns, Clowns of Shade and Shadow. The Evil Evil Clowns vanished into the Shadows.

Next, Evil Clown Dolls walking under their own power; Evil Clown Puppets and Marionettes pulled their own strings;

Wonderful illusion thought the Marks.

The Dolls and Puppets vanished into the shadows.

Not Jack snapped the crop as the last Marionette vanished into the shadows.

At that moment, the gasps of wonder had fallen to tense whispering. The spotlight went out, leaving the entire tent in darkness.

Whispers fell to silence.

In the empty lot without, no one was present to witness the screaming.

--to be continued