The clowns were just ex-cons in their 50s-60s who wore clown makeup and were the hype men during the days at wherever we were stopped. They'd draw people out of the hustle and bustle of the mall towards the sad tiger shanty town we'd built in the middle of the mall (it was almost always malls or parking lots).
One big rule Joe Exotic had was NO ALCOHOL. I figure this stemmed from his brother dying via drunk driver. These old clowns had a helluva time with bottleache though, so whenever we'd get settled they would go straight for a liquor store or gas station. Since Joe was cozy in his tour bus, they wouldn't get caught. They didn't get out of costume or even wipe off the facepaint. They just threw on jackets and started walking. A line of 5 or 6 clowns in the snow, wandering towards the nearest bottle of KD. About an hour later I'm back on the balcony smoking and see these guys coming back. They're trudging through the snow, facepaint sloughing off, wearing clown clothes. Each one was carrying a bottle in a brown paper bag. They were walking single file. It is one of the most surreal things I've ever seen. Like some kind of horror movie death march. If I was artistically inclined I'd have already painted that strange tableau on black velvet and hung it in my living room.
Untrustable, February 2nd, 2020
SEND IN THE CLOWNS
The clowns stumble through the snow, single file. Up ahead of them, a strip mall. A parking lot with an island of low-rent businesses. On the corner at the end: WHITE HORSE Liquor and Cigars.A heavily tattooed woman in a heavy coat (The Eyeball Kid) watches them from under the awning of the Vietnamese nail salon at the other end of the strip. She slides a bruised Nokia from her coat pocket and pulls a glove off with her teeth so she can punch a text message into the keypad.
The Clowns file into the liquor store. The man behind the counter is comically large, his polo shirt looks like a wifebeater the way he spills out of it. He glowers at the Clowns as they count wadded bills and change from overcoats hastily slung over the motley.
The Clowns file out, each clutching a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe whiskey flavored neutral grain spirit product in a brown paper bag.
If they made a good impression on the Kid, she offers them a ride back to the hotel in her seagreen Toyota hatchback. They pass a DOUG FUCHS plumbing van pulled over on the highway shoulder, which the Kid eyes in the rear view mirror longer than necessary. She doesn’t say it, but she’s clearly a veteran carnie. If the Clowns further impress her, she warns them to duck when they get out of the car.
If the Clowns didn’t charm the Kid, they have to walk. Back through the path they left through the snow. It’s a little easier this time. The end is in sight.
THE MOTEL
When the Clowns reach the motel, on foot or getting out of the Toyota, there’s a sound like a whip cracking and one of the windows shatters, followed by a gunshot from the direction of the van. The next shot hits a Clown unless they grab cover.Mara the Tiger chooses this time to attack. He was a circus tiger, once. Beneath his handsome coat are wounds from whips and tiger-goads and the tips of electric prods. He can speak intelligibly in a low, rumbling voice, but has trouble with consonants that require pressing the lips together. His attacks are big, heavy, sharp, and can automatically pin a target without using the grapple gridiron.
If the Clowns stick together, they might be able to focus Mara down with unarmed damage and improvised weapons. That’s if they all pass a rank 4 Violence stress test for being attacked by a seven foot long Siberian tiger in a snowstorm. Mara pounces and kills them down one at a time as flee.
If the Clowns made a good impression on the Kid, or try to communicate with Mara, he gives them an ultimatum: open the trailer in the motel parking lot holding the circus tigers, or he’ll kill them.
On the highway shoulder a hundred meters away, Mara’s other disciple Trishula the Gunslinger crouches behind the DOUG FUCHS van with a rifle. She peers through the enormous thermal sight mounted to the weapon and fires at the motel, keeping anyone from running out.
THE MAGE
Inside the van is a cage. In the cage is Galusha, the Cameragurge who made Mara his familiar. You’re supposed to summon a possum or a racoon or something. Nothing bigger than a dog. Mages with bear and lion familiars tend to get eaten. Then the animal starves to death, because the only way a familiar can feed is sucking charges or blood from its master’s third nipple. Mara was smarter. He keeps Galusha locked up in a cage, drinking from the nipple on the palm of the wizard’s left hand.Trishula and The Eyeball Kid do anything that Mara can’t do, like driving cars, talking to normal people and anything that requires hands. They dress him up in outfits for important meetings, silk capes and jewels that he hates but wears to look important. They like Mara a lot better than Galusha, their former boss. The van smells like cat piss, but the tiger doesn’t force them into humiliating situations to get good pictures.
THE GREAT ESCAPE
If the Clowns open the trailer, three tigers spill out. Mara growls at them and the beasts run across the parking lot. Trishula pulls up in the van and awkwardly fires her rifle out the window, keeping the carnies in the motel suppressed while the cats pile into the open side door of the van.If the Clowns didn’t get the ultimatum from Mara, the Kid hops out of the Toyota and runs for the trailer and opens it while the talking tiger hunts the Clowns - or gets chased off by them.
Either way, the light comes on in the tour bus. Joe curses up a storm but keeps his head down as Trishula fires randomly until she empties the magazine. She guns it and escapes the parking lot with a van full of tigers. Mara climbs in back of the Toyota, legs hanging out the rear door as the Eyeball Kid peels out of the parking lot after them.
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