This is based on a true story, in so far as anything can be called true considering that every story is a recollection warped, even ever so slightly, by perspective; and facts are not as objective as one may like to think since things like mood can't be measured by scientific instruments -- a set of calipers to calculate the dimensions of one's personal universe; suffice it to say this is an approximation of real events given the availability of particular details which may, or may not offer the fullest panorama possible, however, they do afford an opportunity for a slice of life, though perhaps roman à clef is more accurate given that some bits of fiction may have been overlain given the secondhand nature of certain anecdotes vital to the illumination of back story fleshing out some of the narrative's players, those being the parties involved with events described hereafter in media res.
"I took that jolly cunt by the ear, and slapped him so hard I hurt my own hand. Pass the greasepaint would you kindly... thank you darling," applying clown makeup he went on, "But fuck-all if I can remember why I did it. There's only bits of the blackout I recollect with certainty. Like you fucking that donkey April Mars."
"I did not."
"You did too, Jimmy, you did too."
"Nope, nope. She sucked my cock a piece, but no stuffing I swear."
Shrugging, Mark used a brush to draw a black diamond on one cheek, "I've no reason to doubt, so I won't, but you know the saying 'in for a penny' and such?"
Jimmy adjusted his oversized bowtie, "Yeah?"
"Course you do, it was rhetorical ya pigfucker. The point being any bit of a sexual doings with a cow is the same. Fuck an ugly duckling in the mouth, why not get some puss as well, eh?"
Jimmy nodded, "I see your point, though at the risk of ridicule, I have to say, she's not ugly."
"She's no cover model."
"Neither is Daphne Greene, and you went for her more than once."
Slamming down his lipstick, Mark turned to face him, half an exaggerated smile in place, "Are you comparing that dugong April Mars to the fine swan that is Daphne Marilyn Greene?"
Jimmy stiffened, "I am."
Shaking his head, and returning to finish the grin, "Well, I can't argue with an irrational man, but if you find the donkey desirable have at it mate."
A soft knock at the door. Mark slipped a bottle of whiskey out of sight in the bathtub. Jimmy opened the door. Mrs. Pembrook poked her head inside.
All warm smiles she asked, "Are you gentlemen almost ready? Folks are getting anxious."
Mark gestured at his face, "As you can see, it'll be another minute, but no more than two."
Mrs. Pembrook nodded, "Excellent. You look wonderful James."
"Thank you Mrs."
The door closed. Jimmy aimed a middle finger at it, the gesture hyperbolized by the enormous puffy gloves he wore. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Even while he frowned the painted grin wouldn't stop beaming.
He sighed, "This better be worth it."
Mark slapped him, friendly backhand across the shoulder, "Course it will. I've been on both sides of the line here. You put on the clown gear, go out, and give the people a show. It's simple. Better than prison, lemme tell ya."
"I don't want to get hurt too bad."
Never seeing a need for sugar coating, "A few cuts maybe, some bruises that'll last a week, but no one's ever broken a bone."
Jimmy grabbed the whiskey. He took a long pull from the bottle. Chugging at least two shots he shivered.
A thin glaze spread across his eyes, "Law of the land, I suppose."
"No supposing, Jimmy. And we must respect the law, to a certain extent, otherwise we're nothing but animals."
This may not be the most opportune moment to intrude on the narrative, however, returning to the matter of truth, mainly as it applies to point of view, I used to know a man who operated under the absolute certainty that he occasionally excreted diminutive, Lilliputian sized people from his rectum, or to put it simpler, he thought he shit out people; but insisted to such an impassioned extent that these events were not delusions, hallucinations, or any of the myriad explanations offered by mental health professionals as well as the average person -- whatever average means psychologically speaking -- that at the very least one is forced to accept that for this man a reality existed wherein he defecated fecal homunculi. We now return to the story, again, in media res.
The Judge slammed the gavel down. Silence descended on the orchard. Mark brushed a bit of ash off his shoulder, grey snow from the surrounding bonfires. Jimmy tried not to the fidget, but the stern expression on the Judge's mask, the glowering made him nervous. He wondered if he knew the person behind the porcelain.
The black robe and white full-bottom wig turned the current Judge -- elected in secret by the town mothers -- into a somber specter. As a child Jimmy used to have nightmares about Judges coming to get him, beating him in his bed with their gavels. He never thought he'd stand before one in real life. He wondered if the dreams would return.
The Judge spoke, voice distorted through a mechanism in the mask, "You have been found guilty, and for your crimes, you have been sentenced to the Fool's Ordeal."
Mark glanced at the clock tower, visible even this far from town. If things picked up a tick he might just make last bells at the pub.
"Do you have anything to say?"
Jimmy looked down at his feet. Shuffling his floppy shoes, he shook his head. Mark considered saying nothing, but then:
"I don't think we did anything wrong, but we got caught, and law is the law. So let's have at it."
"Very well," gavel raised, "Let the sentencing be carried out."
Bang! went the gavel.
The Queen kissed the King, the porcelain lips of their respective masks clinking. They stood, and gestured at the vacant throne of roses.
Mark sighed, "Let's get it done."
"After you," Jimmy said.
The two clowns sat on the wide throne. Mark leaned on an armrest. Thorns speared him, but he ignored them. Now was not the time to look like he could feel pain. The whiskey helped in that charade. He glanced at Jimmy. Poor sod sweating profusely to the point his makeup already ran, white droplets staining the red bowtie.
Figuring the ritual would distract the kid, Mark said, "Show time! I went to a brothel the other day. They had a sign up, 'Beat it. We're closed.'"
The Queen pantomimed laughing. The King shook his head in disgust.
Mark went on, "Feeling a pint might ease my sorrows, I go to the pub. A barmaid, seeing I'm glum, says, 'I got something ought to distract ya. You know a bit of archeology, right?' I sez, 'Yeah.' She reaches up her skirt, pulls out a used tampon, and splats it on my table, 'Tell me what period that's from.'"
Jimmy started to get the feeling Mark enjoyed this. Maybe it was just bravado. He couldn't be sure, but he knew what worried him: this didn't matter to Mark.
Mark carried on for a few more minutes until the King and Queen shook their heads in unified disgust. Crossing their arms they stepped away from the throne. The Queen made a slit-throat gesture. The King nodded in agreement.
The Wolves emerged from the darkness. Dressed in everyday clothes, but wearing wolf masks, townsfolk marched towards the throne of roses. Some rubbed their hands in anticipation.
Mark got up. Jimmy hesitated.
Knowing better, "Get up Jimmy. They'll just come get you."
Jimmy shook his head, "I don't care. Why make it easier?"
"Show you're taking responsibility." Mark walked into the throng. The Wolves punched and kicked as he passed. Some gave him more than one blow. He walked until the beatings caused him to fall.
Reluctantly, Jimmy got to his feet. He entered the Ordeal.
I have one more point to make about truth, mainly the beauteous possibilities inherent in its malleability, perspective acting like a prism separating a single truth into a rainbow of truths, but I can tell by the look on your face, dear Reader, that perhaps it's best to get back to the action in media res.
He heard the ocean, a gentle shooshing of waves rolling lazily onto shore. Then the darkness abruptly filled with a barrage of colors and shapes. They seemed familiar, but his brain wouldn't comprehend any of it -- Jimmy winced -- yet something about the view seemed off. It took a moment to realize one eye remained shut, swollen closed. Though it hurt to move he sat up.
An explosive cheer resounded throughout the room.
Mark shouted, "He's awake!"
Quinton started to sing, and the pub crowd soon joined in:
"And when he landed back, his wife said, 'Tell me Jack,
While you've been in Paree have you always thought of me?'
'Always darling,' murmured he,
'For your love I've been pining night and day.'
And then the gramophone began to play.
"Hold your hand out naughty boy.
Hold your hand out naughty boy."
A few patrons playfully slapping the backs of theirs hands, while they sang:
"Last night in the pale moonlight
I saw you, I saw you
With a nice girl in the Park..."
Mark thrust a pint into Jimmy's hand, "See now, that wasn't so bad?"
"I'll let you know once I've seen my face."
"I took that jolly cunt by the ear, and slapped him so hard I hurt my own hand. Pass the greasepaint would you kindly... thank you darling," applying clown makeup he went on, "But fuck-all if I can remember why I did it. There's only bits of the blackout I recollect with certainty. Like you fucking that donkey April Mars."
"I did not."
"You did too, Jimmy, you did too."
"Nope, nope. She sucked my cock a piece, but no stuffing I swear."
Shrugging, Mark used a brush to draw a black diamond on one cheek, "I've no reason to doubt, so I won't, but you know the saying 'in for a penny' and such?"
Jimmy adjusted his oversized bowtie, "Yeah?"
"Course you do, it was rhetorical ya pigfucker. The point being any bit of a sexual doings with a cow is the same. Fuck an ugly duckling in the mouth, why not get some puss as well, eh?"
Jimmy nodded, "I see your point, though at the risk of ridicule, I have to say, she's not ugly."
"She's no cover model."
"Neither is Daphne Greene, and you went for her more than once."
Slamming down his lipstick, Mark turned to face him, half an exaggerated smile in place, "Are you comparing that dugong April Mars to the fine swan that is Daphne Marilyn Greene?"
Jimmy stiffened, "I am."
Shaking his head, and returning to finish the grin, "Well, I can't argue with an irrational man, but if you find the donkey desirable have at it mate."
A soft knock at the door. Mark slipped a bottle of whiskey out of sight in the bathtub. Jimmy opened the door. Mrs. Pembrook poked her head inside.
All warm smiles she asked, "Are you gentlemen almost ready? Folks are getting anxious."
Mark gestured at his face, "As you can see, it'll be another minute, but no more than two."
Mrs. Pembrook nodded, "Excellent. You look wonderful James."
"Thank you Mrs."
The door closed. Jimmy aimed a middle finger at it, the gesture hyperbolized by the enormous puffy gloves he wore. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Even while he frowned the painted grin wouldn't stop beaming.
He sighed, "This better be worth it."
Mark slapped him, friendly backhand across the shoulder, "Course it will. I've been on both sides of the line here. You put on the clown gear, go out, and give the people a show. It's simple. Better than prison, lemme tell ya."
"I don't want to get hurt too bad."
Never seeing a need for sugar coating, "A few cuts maybe, some bruises that'll last a week, but no one's ever broken a bone."
Jimmy grabbed the whiskey. He took a long pull from the bottle. Chugging at least two shots he shivered.
A thin glaze spread across his eyes, "Law of the land, I suppose."
"No supposing, Jimmy. And we must respect the law, to a certain extent, otherwise we're nothing but animals."
This may not be the most opportune moment to intrude on the narrative, however, returning to the matter of truth, mainly as it applies to point of view, I used to know a man who operated under the absolute certainty that he occasionally excreted diminutive, Lilliputian sized people from his rectum, or to put it simpler, he thought he shit out people; but insisted to such an impassioned extent that these events were not delusions, hallucinations, or any of the myriad explanations offered by mental health professionals as well as the average person -- whatever average means psychologically speaking -- that at the very least one is forced to accept that for this man a reality existed wherein he defecated fecal homunculi. We now return to the story, again, in media res.
The Judge slammed the gavel down. Silence descended on the orchard. Mark brushed a bit of ash off his shoulder, grey snow from the surrounding bonfires. Jimmy tried not to the fidget, but the stern expression on the Judge's mask, the glowering made him nervous. He wondered if he knew the person behind the porcelain.
The black robe and white full-bottom wig turned the current Judge -- elected in secret by the town mothers -- into a somber specter. As a child Jimmy used to have nightmares about Judges coming to get him, beating him in his bed with their gavels. He never thought he'd stand before one in real life. He wondered if the dreams would return.
The Judge spoke, voice distorted through a mechanism in the mask, "You have been found guilty, and for your crimes, you have been sentenced to the Fool's Ordeal."
Mark glanced at the clock tower, visible even this far from town. If things picked up a tick he might just make last bells at the pub.
"Do you have anything to say?"
Jimmy looked down at his feet. Shuffling his floppy shoes, he shook his head. Mark considered saying nothing, but then:
"I don't think we did anything wrong, but we got caught, and law is the law. So let's have at it."
"Very well," gavel raised, "Let the sentencing be carried out."
Bang! went the gavel.
The Queen kissed the King, the porcelain lips of their respective masks clinking. They stood, and gestured at the vacant throne of roses.
Mark sighed, "Let's get it done."
"After you," Jimmy said.
The two clowns sat on the wide throne. Mark leaned on an armrest. Thorns speared him, but he ignored them. Now was not the time to look like he could feel pain. The whiskey helped in that charade. He glanced at Jimmy. Poor sod sweating profusely to the point his makeup already ran, white droplets staining the red bowtie.
Figuring the ritual would distract the kid, Mark said, "Show time! I went to a brothel the other day. They had a sign up, 'Beat it. We're closed.'"
The Queen pantomimed laughing. The King shook his head in disgust.
Mark went on, "Feeling a pint might ease my sorrows, I go to the pub. A barmaid, seeing I'm glum, says, 'I got something ought to distract ya. You know a bit of archeology, right?' I sez, 'Yeah.' She reaches up her skirt, pulls out a used tampon, and splats it on my table, 'Tell me what period that's from.'"
Jimmy started to get the feeling Mark enjoyed this. Maybe it was just bravado. He couldn't be sure, but he knew what worried him: this didn't matter to Mark.
Mark carried on for a few more minutes until the King and Queen shook their heads in unified disgust. Crossing their arms they stepped away from the throne. The Queen made a slit-throat gesture. The King nodded in agreement.
The Wolves emerged from the darkness. Dressed in everyday clothes, but wearing wolf masks, townsfolk marched towards the throne of roses. Some rubbed their hands in anticipation.
Mark got up. Jimmy hesitated.
Knowing better, "Get up Jimmy. They'll just come get you."
Jimmy shook his head, "I don't care. Why make it easier?"
"Show you're taking responsibility." Mark walked into the throng. The Wolves punched and kicked as he passed. Some gave him more than one blow. He walked until the beatings caused him to fall.
Reluctantly, Jimmy got to his feet. He entered the Ordeal.
I have one more point to make about truth, mainly the beauteous possibilities inherent in its malleability, perspective acting like a prism separating a single truth into a rainbow of truths, but I can tell by the look on your face, dear Reader, that perhaps it's best to get back to the action in media res.
He heard the ocean, a gentle shooshing of waves rolling lazily onto shore. Then the darkness abruptly filled with a barrage of colors and shapes. They seemed familiar, but his brain wouldn't comprehend any of it -- Jimmy winced -- yet something about the view seemed off. It took a moment to realize one eye remained shut, swollen closed. Though it hurt to move he sat up.
An explosive cheer resounded throughout the room.
Mark shouted, "He's awake!"
Quinton started to sing, and the pub crowd soon joined in:
"And when he landed back, his wife said, 'Tell me Jack,
While you've been in Paree have you always thought of me?'
'Always darling,' murmured he,
'For your love I've been pining night and day.'
And then the gramophone began to play.
"Hold your hand out naughty boy.
Hold your hand out naughty boy."
A few patrons playfully slapping the backs of theirs hands, while they sang:
"Last night in the pale moonlight
I saw you, I saw you
With a nice girl in the Park..."
Mark thrust a pint into Jimmy's hand, "See now, that wasn't so bad?"
"I'll let you know once I've seen my face."
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