The Scapeclown

Imagine something went spectacularly wrong.

Can be anything - maybe your whole circus burned down, and everyone’s going ape nuts. Who’s at fault?

Time to start pointing fingers.

You see that pyrotechnician clown by the fire truck waving flaming sticks. He’s just doing his stuff, no biggie. His gig isn’t exactly the safest, and the dude never really gave the proper “relax, I know what I’m doing, I went to pyro-clown college and got a degree” vibes. But he’s a stand-up fellow. He was always there when you needed to spice things up in the show.

What do you do? You crucify the guy and put a boot up his ass, what else? I mean, he was right there, playing with his fire dildos. The whole reason your circus is a pile of warped canvas and ash is, well, fire!

It just makes so much damn sense! Right?

Right???

So, get this. You’re back in business — minus one clown— and things seem to be getting back on track. Tickets are selling, cash coming in(sort of), and your circus is 100 days fire free. Awesome, you say to your mirror self, confidently. Things are finally looking up.

Except not really.

Truth is, things aren’t great, and your crowd’s booing you more often than not. Your audience is down by half now, and kids are bored to death; they have that look on their faces for when they only got vegetables left on their plates. Oh, and guess what? The little buggers won’t stop asking their parents when that fun-loving, awe-striking clown with the giant lit matches is making a comeback.

Your circus is garbage now. All your other clowns, acrobats, and those noisy motorcycle stunt fuckers are crap. Everything sucks, and now you realize you’re bored as all hell too.

But, hey, you know what you need. You go after the son of a gun, you beg him to return (it’s not that hard, he could use the paycheck), you rehire that flamy idiot that used to be the life of the party, and haul ass back to your old shitshow. Fuck yeah, clown’s back in town!

Fast-forward to the next day, your circus is a pile of smoldering rubble again, and you’re pretty sure you can see charred human bones sticking out among the smoke. Child-sized ones.

“Well, dang it”, you sigh to no one in particular. You glance around and there he is: the culprit of it all. It’s pretty undeniable. I mean, look at that smug face. Yeesh.

Pyro clown’s rolling of eyes says “all right, boss, I’m outta here”, his crooked lips say “you know where to find me when things get mediocre again”. And just like that, he’s gone. For good this time, you promise yourself. That guy’s a train wreck.

Good riddance, eh? Heh. Time to try the whole circus thing four or five more times, then.

But it doesn’t matter, it always sucks. So, obviously you drag your time bomb of a pal right back the first chance you get. And you see the whole thing go up in flames. Every. Single. Time.

Now, I think there’s an old quote about insanity somebody important once said, but I’m not going there.

So, back to the shitstorm.

By the fifth go, you’re the wreck. You just don’t know what to do, that dickhead keeps ruining your gig, man! Can’t he ever learn? It just seems so unfair that that friggin’ old jerk of a clown can put on such a good show and sell all those tickets, but also be a total fuck up.

What is going on, for chrissakes? It’s almost like seeing the whole circus back up and running, and you being back on your feet, makes all those stupid decisions you made previously seem irrelevant. It’s like you have some twisted sense of nostalgia for when things were turning into slag.

Why would you trust that idiot over and over and over?

Why would you think that would be such a good idea, when the complete opposite had been clearly proved?

Then you finally grow some balls and confront him. “Why are you like this?”, you testily ask. “Why you always gotta burn down my thing, man? Geez!”

“I dunno, boss”, he shrugs. “To be honest, you’re the one who keeps hiring me back. I’m just here doing what I always do. I mean, come on. I’m a goddamn clown that plays with fire, what’d you expect?”

And that hits you like a truck. It can come from almost anybody; a complete stranger, your dog groomer, or maybe your therapist. Hell, it might even come from an actual circus clown, you never know.

But one thing’s for sure, it never comes from the people running around on fire inside your accursed burning circus. They’re too busy trying to save as much of your shit as they can, you see? And you never listened to them before anyway, so…

Oh, and the clown isn’t finished.

“Just allow me one last piece of wisdom, boss”, he says before vanishing again, and it just sounds heavy for a guy with smiley make-up. “When next time you feel like running back to me, remember this: I may be a pyrotech first, but I’ll always be a clown last.”

And off he goes. You look at the arrogant little shit and you just feel like clotheslining him from the back, like you did those first four times.

But, hey, maybe this time you don’t do that. Maybe he’s right, and now you finally accept the fact that, all these years as a ringmaster, you’re really just a glorified clown in denial. That the problem was never the pyrotechnician, after all.

And maybe you realize that running a circus was the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.

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