Based on a true story…
He does a line. Bald head down on the wooden porch rail. Snort. Snnnnoooorrrttt. “OH YEAH!” Rage Clown crushes the paper straw of the Pixy Stix in his meaty fist and does the best stomping dance a man shaped like a bowling pin can do. Pink sugar dribbling from his nose he waves a full Pixy at the pig. “You want one piggy?”
Arnold eyes the offered stick as if the clown is waving a turd at him. In the other hand the clown is holding a toilet plunger.
“What I want is my money, clown. Where is it?”
Rage Clown is smacking his cheeks with his palms barely smearing his face paint. Bam! Bam! “Haaa hey, show me the merch!”
The sun is setting over the slouching ranch home casting orange shadows over the dusty driveway.
“In the truck, clown.” Rage Clown waddles over to the dusty red pickup and peers into the bed. Inside are several large brown cardboard boxes. He breaks one open, reaches in and pulls out a small plastic cup with a screw-on lid.
“Dr. Ben Wa’s Certified Urine Analysis Kit. Does this shit work?”
Arnold’s gaze is focused on his pack of smokes, using his force of will to imagine eighteen more sticks inside. “Don’t test my patience, clown. Try it yourself.”
Rage Clown smacks the side of the truck and bellows, “Sports Clown! Get out here! Are you high as fuck or what?”
The screen door bangs open. A lanky clown in a Red Sox jersey, a round bulbous fake nose and one of those brightly colored cone hats carefully staggers down the patio stairs one step at a time, squeaky shoes blurting with each footfall.
“Heh heh, what? Is my nose red? Does it give me away?” He pulls back a frilly sleeve and squints at the watch he doesn’t have. “What day is it?”
“The day we stop worrying about passing these fucking pee tests, pull out your damn shitwang.” Rage Clown tosses the cup at Sports Clown in a lazy under throw. The clown peers woozily at the cup and cranks off the lid, removing the test strips from inside.
“Looks legit.” Without ceremony he whips it out and fills the cup, carefully placing it on the hood of the truck and dipping the tests strips inside the liquid. A quiet moment passes then he inspects the results closely, smiles then throws it over his shoulder. “Heh heh. Clean. Heh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, wuuda about that other stuff?”
“Look in the box, genius!” Barks the pig, rolling his eyes impatiently. He’s a pig with places to be.
Rage Clown digs his paw back in the box and lifts out a package, holds it up to the light and sniffs. “Doctor Ben Wa’s Certified Weed-Free Pee.”
“Fuck my pussy with a robot dog. Here at the Sober House for Clowns, we do things our way.” He lifts the plunger above his head, both hands raised to the sky, feet planted wide. “OUR WAY!” He brandishes the plunger at each of them in turn. “We. Are. Going. To. Have. An. EMPIRE OF PEE!” He jams it under his armpit swagger-stick style and proceeds with the swagger.
“Imagine every goddamn sober clown house. Every one. Across the country. First we sell them drugs.” Sports Clown starts to giggle. “Then,” he punches a fat finger towards the sky “we sell them pee!”
Sports Clown stuffs some Big League Chew into his cheek and lights up a cig. “We’ll be rolling in smokes.”
The sun’s going down. Thunder and lightning in the distance.
Sports Clown drawls, “Sounds like the circus is coming.”