"Or maybe this face paint's no good?"
Gonko snatched the tub, sniffed it. "Seems like the real deal. One way to find out."
They both looked at the unconscious figure at their feet. Rufshod shifted uneasily. "But boss, we didn't audition him! What if he ain't got any clown inside him?"
Gonko called through the doorway, "Say, Jamie, would you call this trick pal of yours a funny guy? He ever makes good with the giggles or what?"
"Dean? No offense, but what the hell does that have to do with anything? He needs an ambulance, and I need a really good explanation for them."
"We're gonna perform some circus medicine, works real tidy. Called a humorectomy. What say, he makes you laugh much or what?"
"Sometimes, I guess."
Gonko shrugged. "There," he said. "Emergency audition passed." He crouched down. "If he don't work out as a clown, we'll need grunt workers in the new show anyway."
As Gonko smeared white greasy face paint across Dean's face, the bleeding slowed, then ceased. The bruises seemed to deflate just a touch. Dean groaned.
"All right, so now this chump lives, and Jamie knows we're good guys. Ruf, there's a blubbering girly trick in the room next
door. If she's pretty, it's night-night time and the whole abducted-by-clowns gag."
Rufshod darted out. There was the thud of a door kicked open followed by a brief scream.
•
Meanwhile in the living room Jamie was confirming for his own amazed eyes that magic was real. Something in that face paint made him feel nearly invincible. When he jumped, he floated up to the roof and gently landed back down, just like being in water. "Wow," he said.
Doopy and Goshy's eyes silently followed his motion up, down, up, down.
"Superheroes," Jamie said, tasting the words. "Just like a comic book. So what do we do? Stop robberies? Help old ladies cross the street? Battle archvillains with lame, shitty names?" Doopy and Goshy just watched him. "Guys?" said Jamie.
A hissing angry sound spurted out of Goshy. His lips peeled back from flat white teeth. His eyes doubled in size with an audible pop. One ear slipped loose, connected only by the thin thread of snotty gristle on which it swayed. He waddled at Jamie stiff-legged. Jamie could only stare as the fat clown stomach-butted him backward into the kitchen bench and breathed reeking swampy air over him. "Ungh, hnng, hnng, unghh!" came an urgent high-pitched whine. Jamie cringed down into a ball, more scared now than when they'd menaced him with axes and crowbars. He could not fathom what had brought on this attack. "Call him off, call him off!"
Doopy finally stirred to action. "Oh hey, gee." He took his brother's shoulder in hand. "Hey now, Goshy, don't be mean, just like I told ya. C'mon now, this ain't JJ, this is Jamie. It's different, Goshy, it's real different."
Being pulled away made Goshy more determined—he pushed in closer, his grunts turned to sharp chopping screams, shrill needle jabs at the ear. Yet it seemed Goshy was the frightened one, even more than Jamie crouched in his fetal ball, shivering. The flower in Goshy's top pocket squirted water at him.
Gonko rushed back out, grabbed the length of tether still around Goshy's throat and wrenched him back. He hauled Jamie to his feet. "Don't worry. That means he digs you. He got a case of the brain custards on our last mission. It ain't his fault. Superheroing is tough."
Goshy lay on his back, hyperventilating while Jamie calmed himself. Everything spun and swam in his head. The outburst was something he could have done without to be sure, but it almost seemed the poor retarded clown had been trying to tell him something. Then he remembered what Dean had done. "The cops—look, there's hospital people and maybe police on their way here. I don't know when, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. My roommate called them. They think I'm crazy and they're going to interview me."
"Then we gotta bail," Gonko said, "or else it could get real messy here. Doops, grab the new chump real gentle. And don't you worry, JJ, he's on the mend."
Doopy bustled off to fetch Dean, who he carried in a show of strength belying his stature. Rufshod emerged with Jodi slung over his shoulder, her face obscured by a curtain of auburn hair.
"What are you doing with her?" Jamie said, alarmed.
"No time, chumbo," said Gonko. "They're both in great danger."
"Say, that part's true, Gonko. Because—"
Gonko shut Doopy up with a look. "We gotta take your trick buddies to our secret superhero hideout. We'll explain later." Gonko grasped Jamie by the shoulders. "Trust me. You ain't got a choice in this. Grab that clown outfit in your bedroom, and put it on. A better life is ahead. Chuckles and hot dogs for all. Fight the good fight; ride the cackle train. Whatcha say, Jamie?"
With an apprehensive look at Goshy—who now rolled from side to side on the carpet, silently weeping—the words ain't got a choice echoed in his mind. They were taking Dean and Jodi anyway, and he knew he couldn't stop them. If he stayed, he'd be explaining impossible things and disappearances to authorities, which would not end well. The carpet was stained with Dean's blood.
Play along, something deep within him cautioned. Play along, whatever else happens you'll get the answers as to what really happened to you. And you better at least pretend to believe what they say, until such time as you can actually truly believe it . . .
So he fetched his clown outfit, and put it on quickly. Mingling with his doubts came a new burst of giddy humor, fun but slightly sickening, like a carnival ride. "Let's go then," he said.
***
4. BELOW
George had been too busy getting the ship in order to bother himself with the clowns' comings and goings. Pleasingly, new staff freak-outs and psychotic breaks (as their old selves rebelled one last time against what they were now a part of) had tapered off and the place was looking show-ready. Much as he detested them on a personal level, more coldly viewed, the clowns were useful tools for the business. They had been in the show longer than most, and should George need some heads busted, Gonko was at least smarter about it than the lumberjacks. They'd not be performing any time soon, not until George received some serious sucking up, but they were fun to torment.
Speaking of torment . . .
When the phone in George's trailer rang just yesterday, the icy voice said, "three days." Before the dial tone could cut in George had cried, "Wait! There's someone down there with you who I need for the show."
A long watchful silence followed. Slowly: "I am not . . . down . . . there."
George broke out in goose bumps and shivers. He'd not expected a response, had at best hoped to be heard before he, she, it, hung up. Quickly he went on, "I need more performers. My brother Kurt. I wanna make him part of the act. Got it all figured out. I know he was in some trouble with the high ups, but can I have him? I assure you he won't enjoy it."
Then the dial tone cut in. Not a yes, but not (as far as he knew) a refusal either.
Now he stood atop his goon, whose glassy eyes stared dead ahead while drool splashed off the goon's chin. They stood in the Funhouse basement with four strong lumberjacks, who had spent the past week building a carefully designed cage of iron and wood. It was welded into a cocoon of circular ribs, which could be tightened by twisting thick iron screws. Even on the night of his rampage Kurt would have been unable to break out of this contraption; now he'd be starved and weak, just as Gonko had been when he'd risen from the depths.
A long thick chain dangled down the tunnel below the Funhouse. Four strong lumberjacks stood holding the end, ready to pull. Like fishermen they waited for a tug on the line before they began. They had been waiting for two hours. George hopped down from the goon's saddle, and held a megaphone to his lips. "Kurt! Grab the chain. Can you hear me, Kurt? You're coming up. I'm rescuing you."