The War with the Clowns

by Luc Reid

Sure there was some temporary anxiety when they took over Trenton and Allentown to carve out their independent nation of Clowninnia, but it soon settled down into a national joke, a prank on a revolutionary scale, a riffing topic for late-night talk show hosts. You could be driving up the New Jersey Turnpike near the border and see ten or fifteen of them clustered around a tiny, fuel-efficient car, their neon hair grungy, smoking cigarettes and juggling fish in complex passing patterns. On Radio Clown they talked about freedom from oppressive social norms, freedom from standard shoe sizing, freedom from objectification of women and persecution of minorities, but then commentators with voices like rubber duckies would excitedly broadcast moment-by-moment accounts of unicycle races or team juggling matches or city-wide pie throwing meets. They were quirky, non-threatening, silly–a bunch of clowns.

Sometime in the dark hours of the morning on April 1st, Clowndependence Day as they later called it, I woke up choking and blinded. Panic turned to dread as I realized that what was choking my airways and clogging my eyelids was coconut cream pie. I wiped some of the goo away and saw a freakishly white face with oversized red lips leaning over me, its kinky orange hair forming a nimbus like a flame against the light coming through the window. In the distance I heard screams, explosion, gunfire, manic laughter, bicycle horns.

I lurched out of bed and away from the silent clown who reached for me with soot-blackened kid gloves. I smelled fire. Running for the door, still trying to clear the pie from my face, I slipped on a banana peel, crashing face-first to the carpet. Moments later a four-foot tall tramp clown and a seven-foot-tall grandma clown were tying me up with orange ribbon and gagging me with a giant polka-dot handkerchief. They dragged me down the stairs, pratfalling over each other, and once out on the street they took me by my bound hands and feet and one-two-three-heaved me into the back of a pickup truck, piled in a heap with other bound captives, all of us wriggling and groaning and petrified.

As the truck rumbled to life, I caught a glimpse of fat clown standing in the middle of the street, forlornly waving goodbye. A skinny clown snuck up behind him with exaggerated stealth, a pie balanced neatly on her palm.