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The Return of Señor ToughGuy: Requiem for a Juggalo

Arnold Ziffel

Señor ToughGuy looks at his knuckles. The fresh bruises will heal, the memories won’t be important. If there are any.

He’s a man who’s mustache has its own mustache.

Outside the sun is setting over the plain, which is as usual, dusty. It doesn’t owe you anything, and it knows it.

Señor ToughGuy taps his ashes onto the “no smoking” placard on the cramped table by the window.

His pants don’t fit, which is why he took them off.

The pig is late.

That red 70’s pickup truck pulls into the parking spot outside. Headlights fade to black.

Someone opens the door to the motel room and stands aside.

Señor ToughGuy lights another unfiltered cigarette. “Pig, you’re late.”

Arnold trots in. The pig shifts his smoke around in his mouth and swallows it.

“Yeah asshole, I’m late but you’ll always be ugly.”

Señor ToughGuy tips his head towards the body of a fat man crumpled on the floor with an ice bucket obscuring his elaborate spray-painted makeup. “Whaddaya want me to do with that guy?”

“Isn’t that your job? Chump went out the way he came in. As a clown.”

“Ass clown is as ass clown does.” Sun’s going down, it’s going to be a long night.

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