Send In The Clowns (622 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 1 on 6 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Astropath (View user info) at 2006-03-03 10:38:29 EST
The ramp lowered, sucking their breath away, in the tense atmosphere of the cargo hold. Every clown wore a look too grim to be lightened by his make-up. Oversized gloves grasping their static lines, the tension turned to adrenaline as the jumpmaster called "One minute!". There had been nothing since the burning. They'd fought a disciplined retreat, and thus had not been routed, but the groves; the precious groves had gone up like so many pith and zest fuelled Roman candles. Their lush Kentucky bluegrass lawn, pride of seven counties, had withered in the heat of unreasoning hatred. Now there were no citrus trees, no bluegrass. No provisions, and thus, nothing but hearts burning with vengeance. Each clown looked over his equipment, then checked the clown in front of him. The shoes would prove to be a problem, as they often did, but icons could not be compromised. That was a slippery slope that not one of them, L'il Jim included, could afford to step on.
"Stand-by!" The first clown stepped smartly forward and waited for the "Go!" before stepping off the ramp and into space. The night jump wasn't half as bad, with the LSD casting a golden light before his eyes, filtering the blackness of the land below through the smoky, mirrored lenses of his swim goggles. Briefly, he worried about the strap, corroded as it was by chlorine. The chlorine ruined everything. Brash and irreverent, showing up to his birthday party drunk. There had been an awkward moment as the chlorine was smartly buffered by the water it had come to seduce. No one spoke, though we all thought it. This had been a moment of quiet victory, and showed him, showed them all, that fear just wasn't an option. Hell, every piston needed its grease, and you couldn't expect to be the make-up clown at a party, using only brown spray-paint. And now, their beautiful Valencias lay brittle and black, smoke curling gently to the heavens. His painted face screwed up in a look of bitter resolve as he hit the ground. Around him, his fellow clowns landed and began to move to the RV point.
That Dorito taunted the programmer as it had for the past fifteen years. A relic of the Cold War, then man had defected under the cover of night, with the aid of the scar-faced skipper of a Chinese junk. He had spirited the frail chip away, its cheesy, cloying odor a reminder of happier times, simpler times. There had been some trouble in Marseilles; a drunken sailor trying to claim what was not his. The chip now sat in its climate-controlled humidor on his battered desk, the soul of the slain elephant diffusing in eldritch increments through the delicate Pennsylvania blown glass. It was that sadness; that inexplicable melancholy that called to the clowns. A powerful beacon, it's diminutive size and handsome coat of Mexican cheese flavoring masking a heart of gold; a heart that broken when his baby had left. Now it had nothing but the laughable goal of getting through "Ulysses", Buck Mulligan be damned. Not for the last time did the Dorito curse its lack of opposable thumbs, or hands for that matter. It took comfort in its intellect, all cheesy synapses firing with the efficiency one would expect of nacho. Not the crisp, no-nonsense speed of celery, certainly, but not by any means useless. His fingers danced over the keys, losing themselves in the unseen electron dance. There would be no breach of security, no reason for the man upstairs to fire him.
He did not blink as he stared through the foliage. Behind him, the Rottweiler whimpered through the cheesecloth gag. There was some tension as the catapult winch creaked alarmingly, but they all froze, and watched the rattlesnake go on its undulating way. He smiled wryly to himself; greasepaint did something to mask heat and scent, after all. He hadn't believed the corrupt cop, as he had shared forbidden secrets hard-won through years on the beat. He had, however, paid through the red-rubber nose for the information, and he didn't regret a penny. He watched the rattler disappear into the low-slung guard shack, and dropped his hand. The catapult released, sending a whining Rottweiler sailing over the dismal marsh behind him.
Although the wise, and patient Dorito bent all of its considerable intellect to the task, it still could penetrate the mystifying, and altogether Irish, fog of "Ulysses". It was the clever, and cosmic nod to man's linguistic history that got him. The programmer, on the other hand, did not bother himself with such things. He had long ago adopted the programming code as his language of choice. His face flushed as he recalled his ill-fated date. He had been left humiliated in the small Argentinian restaurant; he still fought down the paroxysms of embarrassment when he considered the sauce. The hot sauce. He reached for the phone.
The paper landed with a thud, heavy and portentous with the news of the day. He cursed the ink that stained his fingers, as he stared at the clown's insane smile on the front page. The action had made the news, but it wouldn't bring the grove back. He handed the paper back to the stunted boy. He didn't normally go in for sympathy, but goddamn did the kid love his paper- mache. He walked inside to polish off his steak and onions. Overhead, the Kentucky moon shone cold and uncaring on a cracked, barren ground that had once rippled with lush bluegrass, and fat nightcrawlers, living below the world, on the secrets of man.
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-03-21 15:43:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Imagine the "fight music" from the old Star Trek.
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that was a great review, so you get a +2
Submitted by Astropath (user info) at 2006-03-03 14:33:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
It's cool ! Everyone's doing it ! MOM ! They're laughing at me !
Submitted by Yes (user info) at 2006-03-03 14:25:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Well.
Hmm...
What the fuck was that, now?
Submitted by Astropath (user info) at 2006-03-03 11:13:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Heh....I am so bloody tired right now, that I thought it would be interesting to try to write something; something like a cross between an actual story, and stream-of-consciousness rambling.
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-03-03 11:08:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
I enjoyed the commando clowns (there's a cartoon in the making there methinks) but was left more than a little confused by the Dorito.
Submitted by WildcatMcGee (user info) at 2006-03-03 10:44:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Send In The Clowns
Cold
(13 Ways To Bleed On Stage)
They kept on coming down to this place
Cause I could see it in their eyes
They made the world a fucking disgrace
Made everything burn cold
They kept on coming down to this place
Cause I could see it in their eyes
We took the world to heal the disgrace
Now everything burn fine
I'm talking about the ever changing
Winds of fame
I guess it just got cold in here
It comes full circle
Never ever changed our ways our
Little pill killed summer days
I guess it just got cold in here
It comes full circle
Send in the clowns
Well here come the clowns