Note to the reader-
If you do not like very, very dark humor,
please stop reading this right now.
This story is especially not suggested for:
-Department store managers
-Anyone named Clown
Any comments would be appreciated.
THERE'S SOMETHING TERRIBLY WRONG WITH CLOWN
My parents, for no reason whatsoever, honored my two-day old baby self with the name Clown. They aren’t big fans of clowns. You won’t find a clown costume in their closet. No one in our family has ever served time in the face-painted corps. They don’t even like the film or book IT. Nope. None of the above. They just thought it would be…well…funny. It would be funny to have a son named Clown. I guess you could say from that day forth I had been set on the path I am currently walking. My name is Clown Barker and I am a raging psychopath.
I work for a department store. It’s decent work. Most days. Some days, not so much. I mean, I’m not insane. I’ve concluded that. It’s my job that is insane. Repetitive motion, you know? Big wall of boxes stuffed (and I do mean stuffed) into a trailer meant to transport about six-hundred cases less than it leaves the distribution center with. Pick up box. Put box on line. Push box. Repeat steps b through d over and over and over again.
Maybe my job made me crazy. Who knows? Maybe the government’s right and its those gal-darn video games. Yes, because Pac Man really had a strong effect on me to act out its plot. I go to dim-lit rooms, swallow pills repeatedly, and get chased by the ghosts of the men I haven’t yet killed, all the while jamming out to techno-trash-pop. What’s that? That’s not what that game is about? Well, fuck me, could’ve fooled me. Note to self- play more Pac-Man.
“You, Clown, are a dude.”
My fellow pick up-put-push partner is Paul. And he is currently trying to explain to me why I am great…or in his hipster words… “a dude”.
“Why do you say that, Paul? All I did was point out that the bad guy from The Count of Monte Cristo
is also now the guy tormenting Tony Stark and how that’s one horrible choice of actor.”
“It was a valid point, bra.”
My name is not bra, you little piece of hipster scum. “Thanks a lot, Paul.” Note to self- murder Paul. Make it look like terrible Instragram accident. Hipsters and the whole iGeneration can go to hell.
I know what you’re thinking: you’re such a hypocrite, Clown. And you’re not wrong. I am very much so a hypocrite. It comes with being a self-admitted psychopath. Scratch that- raging psychopath. I’m literally on Tamerlan watch, teetering on one snide remark from an outburst of Boston Marathon proportions.
Some living-breathing-walking douche in a muscle tee and sunglasses walks into the trailer and checks his phone for about thirty seconds. The trailer is the ultimate secret texting spot, it seems. This human-sized vaginal disinfectant is named Floyd. I hate Floyd.
“You girls not done yet?” he asks, picking up a tiny box from the ground and putting it on the line. “My mother throws faster than y’all.”
Paul smirks at me. I smirk back. I don’t want him to know that the thought of throwing a box at both of them and then using my box cutter to decapitate them just crossed my mind.
I’m like Jekyll and Hyde without all the actual murders and rape and all that. I’ve actually never committed a violent crime in my life. I don’t want to drag attention to myself. It only makes people worry for you. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I'm the salt of the earth. Ask my conscience and he’ll tell you to run for your life. There’s something terrible brewing inside of me and I really don’t know if I can contain myself.
After the hour long battle of man versus box has been fought, I exit the trailer and walk toward the water fountain. On the way to re-hydrate, Kimberly stops me. Kimberly has big tits. There, I said it. I never understood why I felt the need to not imagine these things while talking to women. It’s not like they can read my mind. I don’t care what the movies and songs of the 70s have tried to teach us.
“Hey, Kimberly.” I slowly unzip my pants. The goods are presented. She’s impressed.
“Clown, are you tired?”
“A job’s a job. I like doing the hard work.” That’s right. Suck it. Suck it.
“Well, Leo wants me to work with Katie in the chemical aisle and I was just wondering if you could work my paper section for me.” She stands on her tippy-toes like a six-year-old trying to get two scoops instead of just one.
“Sure. I’ll let Leo know.” Ohhhh yeah. Pearl necklace. End scene.
“Thanks, Clown. You’re the best.”
Most people don’t realize that most fires are actually accidents. They have this imagery built into their heads that some evil man comes and just starts fires. No, not really. Almost nine times out of ten, it’s just some faulty wiring or a leaky gas pipe. Arson’s a true amateurs versus professionals game. Any asshole can light a fire. Real arsonists can burn that bitch to the ground.
That being said, do you know how much paper is on your average paper aisle at your local department store? All combined, you’ve got about seven hundred rolls of paper towels, twelve hundred rolls of toilet paper, and about fifteen hundred paper plates, bowls, cups, and anything else they can make out non-biodegradable paper. You know what I like to call it? Kindling. This whole store is a powder keg and this aisle could be my fuse.
It’d be all:
RANDOM ASSHOLE #1:
Holy shit! Fire! Fire!
RANDOM ASSHOLE #2:
The doors! They won’t open!
That’s because they’re sealed shut. And it all started with this goddamn aisle, you useless fucks.
RANDOM ASSHOLE #2:
Why, Clown, why? Ahhh, the fire! It’s burning me alive!
End scene. Curtain. Applause. Thank you, thank you.
God, I really need professional help.
A much better writer than myself once said that retail would be the best job in the world if it weren’t for the customers. I. Could. Not. Agree. More.
Like today’s shining example of customer…excuse me, they’re guests…”guest” meaning they are guests in our “home” and should be treated as such, although I’d rather commit seppuku than have any of these retards in my actual home…of guest retardation:
“Excuse me, do you work here?” asks a mother wearing one of those ridiculous front-side baby holders.
No way. Not me. I just wear this outrageous red shirt, khakis, and nametag to throw people off. How’d you figure me out? Are you a fucking master detective? “Yes, ma’am. Sure do. How can I help you?”
“Can you point me in the direction of the charcoal lighter fluid?”
I look up and see the huge sign that says ‘Outdoor Living’ and instantly wonder if this woman’s IQ is bigger than her shoe size. “Right this way, ma’am.”
Walking to the charcoal area, I start to daydream again. (Daydreaming is about 95% of what I do all day when I’m not masturbating or sleeping. Now, mix all three of those and that’s what I like to call Victory Lane.) How flammable is charcoal lighter really? I mean, could you… I don’t know…light a woman and her infant child on fire if you needed to? Or do you need to just skip to the beverages that include the word ‘proof’ somewhere on it?
“Here we are right here, ma’am.” I point at the charcoal lighter fluid.
“Which do you suggest?”
I tilt my head. “For what, you dumb bitch? It’s lighter fluid! You pour it on shit and light it on fire. You know what? Let me give you an example.” I grab a bottle and squirt all over…especially that ridiculous holder.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? PLEASE, I HAVE A BABY!”
“Yeah, I’m doing him a favor.” I pull out my Z-piece and ignite it.
“I’d definitely go brand name on this one, ma’am. You can never have too high of quality for your charcoal needs.” I grab a bottle with a smiling white guy on it and hand it to her.
“Thank you so much for your help, mister…” She’s reading my nametag and trying to decide if it’s a joke or not. “young man.”
“Not a problem.”
Sometimes, I get called to the front of the store to do a little cashiering. Truly the one part of my job I enjoy. After all, these idiots are spending the money they make at jobs they don’t like on shit they don’t need so that they can die a little quicker. Thank you, Fight Club, for putting my thoughts on cashiering in context. By the way, great film.
Lunch time is a great indulgence for me. I’m slightly above-weight. Not fat enough that you notice. Not skinny enough that you care. I’m just…American.
Ricky Ray Rector, a personal hero of mine, was also a great thinker of meals. In ’81, Ricky took time out of his busy club-hopping schedule to shoot two people, one a cop. Like most misunderstood businessmen, he was sentenced to the death penalty. Sadly enough, Ricky also tried to pop a cap in himself. He, for the first time ever apparently, missed. Well…kinda. He gave himself a homemade lobotomy. Anyway, make a long story short…on the day of his death, the powers that be asked Ricky what he would like. Being reduced to the state of a child from his self-inflicted head wound, ol’ Ricky asked for some homemade fried chicken, some potatoes, a glass of cherry Kool-Aid, and a slice of pecan pie. He quickly consumed the chicken and the veggies, gulped the Kool-Aid, and then pushed the pie to the side. When asked by a guard why he didn’t eat the pie, Ricky looked at the guard and with the straightest look on his face said, and I quote: “I’m saving it for later.”
God, I love that story. I look down at my TV dinner and realize that this would not cut it for a last meal. I knife into my chicken-fried steak-flavored hunk of preservatives and laugh to myself. ‘Saving it for later.’ Classic.
At the end of the day, I’m actually not nearly as crazy as I want to be. I actually think I should amp it up a little bit. Maybe start of the Bundy way and just maim some cats or raccoons or whatever.
Or I could just do what I’m probably going to do: go on living life each day not acting like I want it to be my last. Or everyone else around me’s last.
Regrettably, there’s not much of a market for murderous psychopaths in today’s world. We are a misunderstood bunch and no one seems to understand that it’s our nature.
Walking out the door, I look at the front door and snap on a switch. One by one, a small bomb goes off in each corner of the store, engulfing the entire store in a heap of flame and misery. Screams of terror and pain are heard throughout. Small children run for their mothers as the bombs blow up all the paper, all the over-stuffed trailers, all the idiots who can’t choose their charcoal lighter fluid…
Maybe one day.