Sad Clown
Purging
Thunder hammered around the warehouses, and Rob's arms ached. It was just gone 4:32AM when he sent the last of his seven unicycles over the edge. He'd had enough. Enough of waking up in an ally behind a theatre with a stiff hat imprinted into his face. Enough of vacuuming away the wig hair that had accumulated in his carpet. Enough of the fucking juggling balls. He threw a box full of those over the side too; the spinning colours stung his eyes before dulling down into the general refuge below.
He silently thanked Big Jo for having the idea of keeping a rubbish tip open all night. There are some things people just don't want the world to see. There was a woman in her sixties here, throwing out boxes and boxes of Busted albums. Tears of shame lined her face, and she didn't look sideways towards Robert. Even as she left, Robert was still hurling balls of multicoloured wigs over the side.
He was in a furour, he scooped boxes of this filth out of his car and threw it as far out as he could. His breath was rasping, his teeth gritted, his eyes alternating between closed and wide open. He ran back to his car, grabbed a stack of pie bases, and began to sprint back, but tripped on a red nose. His face and hands stung with the impact of the concrete. Half made cream pies strewn all around, he sobbed. Is this what he'd become?
Most people in the communist state of Big Jo agreed that drugs were becoming a big problem. The most disruptive being lownz. Engineered by a neuro-economist looking for the solution to self-esteem, this was a drug with a number of bizarre and disturbing effects. Among the physical affects were lengthening of the feet, a constant grin, and a distinct curling of the hair. Studies of its effects on the mind were many and varied, but many concluded that its effects were a feeling of great joy, a lust for active expression of this, and -- hence the name -- a generally clowny persona. One interesting point is that the drug had to be 'activated' by a suitable costume. Most users chose polkadots, a frizzy yellow wig, lengthened shoes and a squeaky red nose.
Rob composed himself, it was going to take him until dawn to finish at this rate. He wasn't the strongest of individuals, and the objects tended to be difficult to manage. He stared at his lowning van, it was covered with wavy paintings of unicycles, and grins, and noses. He looked away.
Having made his choice, he climbed into the driving seat. He almost fastened his seatbelt, but then thought better of it. He lined up the van with the 'large refuse' opening, breathed deeply, and then pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Fumbling through the gears as he speeded towards the gap, he suddenly remembered his bag was in here too. Without taking his eyes away from front, he looped his arm through the handles and threw himself out of the open door.
An instant after he felt a wall shove against his heavily bruised side, there was a tremendous sound as his van kamikazed into a wall of washing machines and refrigerators. Rob crawled around to the edge of the gap to witness his -- if nothing else -- symbolic act. As the last memories of the engine's internal combustion gave out, he noticed the signs of dawn arriving. He ought to be getting home.
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