This was written over a week one summer, often during periods of high fatigue and late night delirium. The author accepts all accusations of idiocy and hopes that at least someone enjoyed reading it as much as he did writing it...
I am a writer in kamp klown kollege and I am in the midst of compiling my magnum opus in a chilled cabin filled with orb weavers and deceased recluses. This dissertation takes soul and a half to ream into a living cavalcade of klown kapers and takes no small cars to disappreciate.
This is a test this is a test, the klown said, this is a test, print me, oh yes, yes, oh, print me, print me hard, harder than you have ever have, hard, baby print me, print the fuck out of me, print, yesss, print-t-ttt-t… whew that was a handful, and nothing has been prunted, but the time will come when the laptop cools the failing fans and tips into shipshape tiptop shape, evidently the case of the room not being polar enough.
Sigh. The maté has run low and the hour grows, the tick tock of responsibility and obligation slowly gaining mass on these stooped shoulders, as always should in kamp klown kollege.
Mad grimaces of painted grease faces pass through the dirty windows, the honking of their noses wafting past, evil wigs badly pulled on threatening fall. The sun beats down on the blue shirts who scramble to repair their misconceived scheme of hasty foresight on squelching ground recovering from the beating given by the sky angry earlier over some whim of the wind, a small matter erupting into larger issues for earthbound vessels that suffer false inconvenience, forgetting the beasts who stand under sheets of pluvi to masticate with dull acceptance. Bipedalatic quick wit equals heightened fussckiness?
A mission doomed to failure because of insufficient technological quality of equipment, but endeavour, I must, for I am a klown of the most fickle kaliber, a fucking magnum klown with madskillz of leet variety hung with a fleet of talent exploding with saccharine untruths and truthful lies. The cards tell this klown he is to be dealt with. Tack tack tack, the keyboard said, sssssssss said the kettle, creep creep did the spider on silk legs acrobatic catching caught prey thrashing on threshold of death, a dearth of unbidden sound unheard falling from understanding depths and unkind heights.
Sigh sigh him did he. The children overran the banks, they did, rushing past and over him, burbling in deaf ears. Their tracks are promptly forgotten, but their wake still smells of them and he is tired. For they are energy vampires and their very motion stirs the strength from his breath. Wood crackle beam under foot warm. Ahh, open door. The sundered art scholorate determines to enact by theft of overriding boundaries of authority position, unacceptable the option of bygones be bygones.
The Kamp Kops perpetuated their crimes with a flash of fallen siren and brought the manslaughter claim to bars before, their badges gleam cruel, transferring that crude denial to the pompous pulpit of krazy judge Judge Klown who proclaimed mockingly with chests siliconate puft high blown hot air belching onions and visible chunks of seminola, My court is not klown skool. It is klown ooni-ver-seeeeity! The defendant slumped into rhetoric, knowing very well in klown university guilt is pre-determined, despite the joke battle of his cellular-call hired wordgun Mister K. Kleen Klown in a wage of war valiant trying for the missing punch line. He hung his wrists to the click of steel.
Kaptain Klown went ow as the wasp struggles to escape the penetration of its own barb upon his leg, and Kaptain Klown said, What a black summer, that a bug such a like of this, operating on pure instinct and on the horror of victims, can sneak from deep doorjambs when unawaries are seeking small wind tunnels and attack instant pain. And on the afterthought, he decided his totem bird the owl, is just a scrawny fucking bird under all that pomp.
Sated mafia battles punk the kids and turns them into practiced liars, but it’s all in the name of honest criminality. The fire burns a hole, charwise, on the hill by the pond by the horse by the road by the field in the country in the county in the state in the fucking backwards kvetching klown kult kulture of the ooohhh-neeee-saaaaaa.
Kavalier Klown levered the smoking blokgun onto his shoulder and said, “You ‘n’ me are square, bitch.” to the corpse left behind on the beach riddled with used condoms and neglected messages in bottles, clothes rippling in the wind, the parrot beaks of the sea kulture already nipping at the cooling flesh, tugging it away in shreds, until a long calamarite tendril snakes out of the heaving waters, wrapping around the death grimace and pulls it into the brack under the oily glow of a billboard advertising AF brand jeans, “each jean sporting a meticulously created ragged hole for statement of style and status. The preferred brand of socialites and actors everyround, Azz Fuzz jeans facilitates easy, foolproof access to the place that counts. The honest holes are manufactured with high quality equipment and extensive, dedicated labor. ”
What gumption! Klassy Klown trots her rhinestone studded trellis tresses on the indoor limelit boulevard, dragging the sparkle of her oversized kaboose, clung to by a baker’s dozen of midgets in bowler hats and flannels bouncing under neon green suspenders, manic glee on their painted angry faces. Klassy Klown tchs tchs and swerves her ample entourage and sends them through the roof, as if ejected from the gunpowder womb of a cannon, to the four corners of the emporium!
Ta ta, she frumples for the exit, endearing empty pocketed klowns to rush to her bosom and beg her favor, at which she snorts above her mustachioed sneer.
Glass shatters and razzamatazz the lights shower sparks of laughing tears of electric spray and Klassy Klown shrieks, her baubles aflame, and dashes.
Fire crotch! A klown shrieks.
Call the fire brigade! an disesteemed klown screeches as the bartender konvalescents his drink.
Sirens shattering eardrums into bleed, the century long, mile long fire truck launches itself over a gentle slope and obliterates a party of childklowns skipping to and fro, the official dalmatian dashing along in mad pursuit, slipping the Charleston on klown blood.
The truck turns a bend and destroys the foundation of the recently christened—the wine glistens still among the bottleglass shards– Klown Rehabilitation Academy (When klowning becomes too hard… You are not alone!) and penetrates violently a storefront specializing in extracurricular recreational onus targeting irascible karnal activities, and explodes from its posterior to a screeching halt, tumbling fireklowns in yellow rubber raincoats rapidly mobilizing canvas hoses and pickaxes mid somersault from the firetruck to land lithe on running feet snaking the roaring hoses across the foot long promenade through a two foot by four foot window as Klassy Klown, currently a fireball, exited the building by normal means (meaning the fucking door) to ignite a dynamite factory across the street.
Where’s the fire!? cried the fireklowns, aiming the furious nozzles of their hoses at anyone who dared to voucher an answer. The subsequent explosion sent the troop of well-meaning but misguided guardians of public safety rocketing into the stratosphere, along with the two hundred sixteen occupants of the dance floor, thirteen tuba players gargling vodka, a boy bartender, a girl bartender, a hermaphrodite bartender, the baker’s dozen grabbing at bowler hats, a sobering drunkard agape in horror (and as always, instinctively reaching for one of the bottles that floated at his side) at the dentures clamped on his gonads as the geriatric whore he had hired (saying, my sight’s gone, it sure has) searched the thinning air for her awol masticators, several empty pockets, a sad patron stubbornly perched over a flaming drink on a splintery piece of bar top, a midget with a severe affliction of Little Guy Syndrome laughing as he hurtled by inches past the World’s Tallest Man, and a firetruck with a dalmatian clamped to a tire in pure terror.
The skeleton of Klassy Klown drifted past, an effigy of flame and calcium, and a fireklown remarked, just before reaching the zenith of their ascent, She’s shore big boned.
By dynamite light the president of Klown Kar Korps buried his greased face in his hands and considered his unprecedented rise to power; he had begun by shuffling kona from cubicle to cubicle, bearing the brunt of a series of vicious office pranks, but a legendary incident involving a latte, sixteen machetes, twelve gumdrops, eleven midgets, and a klown kar became the opening gambit of a remarkable career suddenly cut down by the skull of one Miz Klassy Klown.
Introspective inspectors investigating the incident debated among themselves for a possiblity that would elevate the case from accident to murder and blow it wide open, the first exclaiming, you fools wouldn’t know a farce if it bit you on the arse, the last with his penchant for the final word puffing on his pipe and gesturing, I wouldn’t put it past her to engineer a crime this konvulted.