A Kitchen Sink Drama

The cafe was almost deserted. A real cafe, all coffee stains on cheap plastic table covers and burly builders in vests. If I were to make it the setting somewhere, it would be some sort of kitchen-sink realism piece. You know, if my life were a film or somesuch shit. But as I say, the cafe was nearly empty. The burly builders had left some time ago, vests on, small t-shirts rising up over their fat.
 I settled back into my seat, shredding the napkin I was holding absent-mindedly, looking at the figures in front of me, watching a drama play out.

 "Why don't you just come home? Your mother... She's worried sick, she's barely eating. Look how frail she is! Look at what you're doing to her!"
 His moustache bristled, his words spraying out in between hisses of steam, sprays of moisture clinging to the air between the figures.

 "Father!" cut in mother, "Leave the boy be. We said we weren't going to do this anymore!"
 "Aye." Replied father, "Your mother's right lad, this fighting ain't getting us anywhere. My not come home son, we can talk this over."
 "No!" Replied son. "It's not the life for me, going back and forth all day, round and round, treading the same path like some sort of... Boat! Trapped in a whirlpool!"

 I watched, waiting to see if anyone would point out that isn't how whirlpools work, but no-one did. I guess you have to live with that some times. But the drama continued:

 "Son! You can't be serious about what you said! You can't make a new life here, London is no place for the likes of us. There aren't any tracks! The rent son... You'll need a big place, how can you afford it? And coal... Where do you get the coal lad?"
 "I make ends meet father!" The boy shouted, "I knew you wouldn't understand! Goodbye to you both!"
 With that, he swung from his seat onto the floor, and steamed from the room. I watched his parents for a few moments, mother engine-first on the table, father settled back with steam pouring from his chimney.


 There's nothing sadder than a run away train...

Ah, doorbell. My dear old friend, how I've missed you.

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I walked down the hallway. It was the logical thing to do, if I wanted to open my front door. And I did, because the doorbell had just wrung. Secretly, I hoped it was early Carol singers. Bad ones, whom I could mock.
 Outside, to my disappointment, were two men. They were smart and carrying fliers, and I began to reach for the emergency shotgun I keep in the umbrella stand. You know, in case of religious callers? But then they began to speak, and my hand stopped.
 "Hello Sir, we're here today representing the RSPCE. Did you know, sir, that there are over 3,000 Elves working in illegal sweatshops in this country?"
 I paused. I didn't know that, and I damn well told them so.
 "Well sir, how about this? Did you know that many of these Elves are paid only pennies a day? Or that these working conditions don't follow the guidelines for the health and safety of mythical creatures, leading to high rates of illness and permanent disability?"
No, I replied. I did not know such a thing. And again, I made sure they knew.
 "Well, thank you for your time Sir. Here" and they handed me some pamphlets, "Take a look at these. If you can donate just £4.7 million a month, we can ensure every Elf gets to spend this Christmas with his family, rather than making toys 24 hours a day."

 I took the pamphlets, and retreated in side. I read them, agreeing they made a lot of sense, and then set about freeing the Elves I kept in my basement. From now on, I'm only using child labour!

The clowns are dead, ok?

Yea, I know, I probably went too far. They were all, "Honk! Honk!" and throwing pies, and wearing big shoes and trousers and shit. And I killed them all. I'm sorry, I over-reacted. But I had no idea where the whole thing was going. So I killed the clowns, and I fed them to Clown-Eating Pigs. Yes, those are a real thing.
 Was I going anywhere with this?

Clowning around

I'd hoped for an easy Clown Mafia related task to pay off my debt. You know, sorting out the make-up on Clown Sonny's face before his mother saw him, or standing outside a hospital with one hand in my coat as if I had a concealed pie or something. But no, I had been dragged straight into a war with a local Mime family, who apparently controlled all the slapstick crime in the East side. No-one ever explained what exactly had an east side controlled by mimes, but I assumed it was the faintly ridiculous city I found myself in.

 Starting out low, I carried out small tasks to harm the rival families. Not being part of the family, I quickly gained access to the corrupt police chief in the Mimes' pay, hiding a whoopie cushion under his seat and pouring a vase of water over his head.

Suddenly, things took a rather unfortunate and unhilarious turn. The ClownDon sent Luca Brasier - his bra-wearing enforcer - to find out the Mime's plans. The next day, his over-sized shoes arrived in our office, a fish cemented into each. It was an old Clowning message apparently. Luca's over-sized trousers were filled with yellow cement, and his body dropped into a river. There, he would have to create balloon animals to amuse passing fish, who would bring him oxygen in return, until his balloons ran out and he drowned.

When you get down to it, clowns are bloody vicious bastards really...

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I'm not really scared of clowns.

No, I certainly don't have a phobia. But I'm distrustful of them, certainly. Maybe it's like being racist, I don't care. But then again, I do hate black people as well.

 No, not really.

Anyway, back to the clowns. I'm not terrified by them, but the make-up, the giant shoes, the over-sized trousers. What have they got to hide? Why are their faces masked and their body sizes hidden? The reason was obvious, of course. Criminals. A massive network of criminals.

 It all started in a field, as many things do. The lives of field-based animals, for instance, usually start in fields. But I wasn't emerging from a sheep's vagina, not this weekend. No, I was here with my house, which had recently been deposited in a deluge of watery proportions. Some cows had talked to me, but offered no real solutions to my predicament - how to get my house back to its original location. Kevin, the talking snail, had disappeared two days ago. I think a hawk may have grabbed him, but that's another story. But I couldn't stay in a field, it would confuse the postman.

 So, I began to look into solutions to the problem. My electricity, obviously, was out, and I seemed to have lost my wallet in the excitement, so calling and paying for help were out of the question. It was then, seeming like a miracle, that a car pulled up nearby.It was tiny, a two-seater, I would have estimated. Swinging open the door, the occupant slowly unfolded. A clown, over 6 foot, slowly stretching out his body, his knees first stretching, his body rising to a straightness of rake-like nature, standing at 90-degree angle to the earth.
 He straightened a bow-tie, water spraying sadly from the middle, and patted at an over-sized wig. A briefcase was withdrawn from his trouser-line, springing open in his hand, spraying custard over his shoes. Sadly, he picked up papers and placed them back in the case, looking down to check they were in place. Ominously, unavoidably, a spring rose up, striking like a tiger, catapulting a pie into his face. He wiped the pie from his giant glasses and approached me.

 "Good-day Sir" He began, pausing to squeak his nose with a silent acceptance. "You look like you need some help."
 I looked at him. He bore a look of sad dejection, his fate accepted, his slapstick life unavoidable.
 "Yea." I replied. "But I've got no money. What can you do anyway?"
He smiled. Not a real smile, of course, that part of his life was long over. A fake smile, hastily painted onto his face with makeup.
 "It is no problem. But one day, I will come to you. And I will ask you a favour."

With that, he clicked his fingers. From his car, clown after clown began to emerge. Giant clowns, their clothes stretched too tightly over their barrel-chests and bulging arms. They surrounded my house, lifting it from the base, and crab-walking East, towards my home. The Clown Don led me to his car, offering me a seat beside his driver, folding himself into a tiny boot I couldn't fit a hamster in.

We drove home. I now owed a debt to the Clown Mafia, of course, but no worries. I'm sure there won't be any repercussions...

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Want to see a picture of Spideman molesting a dolphin that I stole?

Image via WikipediaYea? I know you do, you sick bastards. Head over to Weeding out the Idiots then. Or Iced Tea and Sarcasm, where I saw this originally. In fact, it would probably be for the best if you went to both. And brought me cake.

Thanks!

In which I float and am cowed at.

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Outside, it was still raining. My house, badly built and with floats instead of foundations, had gently lifted itself onto the rising flood waters outside, caressed their gentle waves, and deposited itself in the middle of a field of cows. Kevin, being a snail, had set off to forage for supplies, and I had stayed to make sure no bovines stole the house. Such is the natural order.

 "Mooo. I say, old fellow. Moo."

I turned slowly to look at the cow standing near me. A bowler hat rested on his head at a rakish angle, black make-up around one eye, all in white. He looked like Alex, minus the droogs, but he talked slowly and with purpose, like Gregory Peck.
 "I wonder, friend. Could you perhaps..."
 "Look." I cut in. "I've already got one anthropomorphic animal in my life right now, I don't need another. Are you going to commit violent crimes towards me?"
 "No." The cow replied. He hung his head in shame, and I did likewise. After a few minutes, we began to back off, not meeting the other's eye. I retreated into my hallway, and hid behind the umbrella stand. I felt safe there.

Kitchen. I'm in one. There, you've got your setting. What else do you want, blood?

Kevin. If he was really little.

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It's wet outside. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking some tea, I reflected on that. You may think it's boring, but they were my thoughts, and you have no claim over them. If you're so upset, why not fuck off, back to your fascist thought factories, you scum.
 "Anyway, now I've insulted my readers, I can move on at last." I quipped smugly.
 "Yes. That is often the way" Kevin the snail replied.
I wondered, briefly, why he was now living in my house. I wasn't surprised though - whenever I meet any character with certain odd traits, they seem to move into my house. I guess its the same for everyone, yes?
 "Do you have anything profound to say?" I asked Kevin over my refreshing peppermint tea.
 "No." He replied. "I'm feeling a little under the weather, to be honest."
I nodded.

Kevin was right, of course. High above him, the weather continued to do its thing. I was despondent though - between us, we had nothing intelligent to say. And that severely damaged my ability to be pretentious.