Hey, remember that really crazy shit that went down in the back room of the carnival? Come on, I know you remember. You killed a fucking clown. Ring any bells yet?
I know “nobody has to know,” but it’s funny to reminisce.
Remember we were all in that one room watching the clown juggle? It was you, me, and six of our friends who decided to get obnoxiously drunk and head over to the circus.
The clown—poor, unsuspecting Mr. Giggles—said, “You kids want some balloon animals?” and I could see your face turn blood red and the fury form deep in your eyes. I don’t know if you were mad because he called us “kids” as a joke, or if you’d had a bad experience with balloon animals, but you got up and said, “What the fuck did you just say to me, clown?” The clown pretended he didn’t hear you and started to make a dog-shaped balloon…as if ignoring the situation would save his life.
It didn’t.
“I SAID, what the motherfuck did you just say, you fucking CLOWN?!”
At that point, you walked up to the stage and got dangerously close to the clown. He was visibly scared, and rightfully so. I mean, he still had a silly look on his face because of the clown paint, but he looked like he had seen a ghost…or his future killer.
Finally, you jumped on the small stage, just feet away from the clown, and you knocked all the balls he was juggling out of his hands with one hit. I fell in love with you when you did that, man.
Then you started bringing the pain by breaking your empty beer bottle over his head. Some of our guy friends laughed at this, but most of the girls realized how crazy shit was getting. They screamed out, “Don’t do it, John!” and you screamed back, “It’s already gone too far!!” saliva and blood spewing out of your mouth. I don’t know why you had blood coming out of your mouth, but I wasn’t going to question it, and it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing happening at the time; you were killing a clown.
“I’ll kill clowns, I don’t give a fuck!” you yelled as you beat him with every prop he had onstage. You even choked him with his own balloon animal, which I have to admit was funny, seeing his head in between the dog’s balloon head and balloon body. That was a tight fit. The way you used his own props against him was creative, and the way you slowly killed that clown in a way that never got boring was almost artistic. If killing clowns was heroic, they’d make a movie about your murder. You wanted that clown dead, and you wanted it right then.
That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You know what you want, and you go after it…when you’re drunk. And you don’t stop until it’s done.
What I didn’t appreciate was how the next day you pretended you didn’t remember what happened. You were all like, “Shut up!” and “No, I didn’t!” in utter disbelief.
Maybe you really didn’t remember; you were really shit-faced when you did it. But so were we, and we still remember it. Maybe you were just a little more churched than us. I mean, I’m sure I wanted that clown dead, but I wasn’t quite to the point of drunkenness where I would actually go through with sending him back to the Clown Hell he came from.
The next day you kept saying, “If a clown is dead, wouldn’t you see a clown on some missing person poster?” But that just reminded me of what you said the night before: “Have you ever seen a clown on a missing person poster? No. Nobody gives a shit about clowns. …What about his parents? Clowns don’t have parents. Clowns do not have parents. Or souls.”
Shit, though, man, the memory must be killing you. I know a guy who never felt right driving his car again after accidentally running over a cat. But you…you took a clown’s life on purpose, in a bloody, remorseless, brutal way. That clown’s screams still haunt me to this day. Those were like no screams I’ve ever heard. You probably still have his blood and makeup on your hands. No matter how many times you shower, wash your hands, or pour bleach on your body, it probably never comes out. You, my friend, must be a complete wreck.
It’s probably taking a toll on your mental health by now, knowing you committed such a colorful crime in front of several witnesses, and that you could get arrested any day if someone says the wrong thing or if ICP ever tracks you down. I guess it’s bound to happen.
You can rest assured I won’t tell anyone, though. Lock my lips and throw away the key.