The Laughing (2)
Fortunato sat and waited. The waiting room was barren; it seemed as if he was the only visitor to walk foot within it. The room was quite large: he saw two round glass tables occupying the center of the room. Both were stacked high with newspapers (Smile Town Weekly) and several assorted magazines (Clown’s Life, The Funny Pages, The New Pie Thrower, etc.); they were unorganized, scattered, the stacks falling onto the carpeted floor, the newspapers shuffled around. The carpet was light pink, the walls green. Four brown-leather chairs lined the southern end of the desolate room, to the right of the door. An aquarium (occupied with three clownfish and anemones) was situated between the center two chairs. Then there was the reception desk. It was enclosed within a “box” and two sliding-glass windows. It was untidy, with manila folders and their contents scattered throughout; several filing cabinets were open and trashy. A name tag rested in front of a black-leather swivel chair reading the name ALICE. However, Fortunato felt uneasy. Sure, it was cozy and comfortable (extremely messy), cool and desolate, but he noticed the several portraits that lined two of the walls opposite him (he was seated next to the aquarium). The portraits bear the countenances of famous individuals: he saw Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Napoleon Bonaparte, Mao Zedong, Benito Mussolini, and Saddam Hussein—all in dictatorial stances, but each had a red nose upon his gruesome face; he saw W.C. Fields, Emmett Kelley, and Charlie Chaplin—the “clown gods” as they were called by many; he saw Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Hitchcock, and other famous writers (who also donned red noses and white makeup); lastly, he saw various pictures of circus performers and actors. What caught his attention was The Sad, Crying Clown in an Iron Lung—an Auguste enclosed within an iron casket, weeping helplessly. Fortunato sighed as he crossed his arms and legs, staring at the foreboding pictures. The portraits were so sad and depressing to look at, and in laitance terms, evil. It wasn’t the individual within each portrait, but his expression upon his face; they seemed to call upon Fortunato to release them from their eternal prison, forever stuck in each position! Oh how they made him tremble! Fortunato tried to get his mind on other things. The portraits grew louder as they called his name. He bowed his head, pulled his hat over his eyes. He tried to fall asleep. What the hell is taking so long? Where is this bozo? He continued to sit and wait, growing impatient each passing minute. “Fortunato,” the portraits called. “Help us! Release us from our eternal hell! Come closer, Fortunato! Return us to paradise!” The voices were in unison, ghostly, and strangely familiar. He grabbed a magazine and tried to read. He flipped through the pages rapidly; his pink balloon floated lifelessly, tied to the arm of the chair. He looked back and forth between the magazine and the reception desk. Still no living soul. I knew this was a trap! I shouldn’t have listened to that damned, childish clown! Fortunato got up and walked over to the barren desk. He leaned forward and looked around. No soul there, either. “Help us, Fortunato!” The voices grew louder, more sad and depressing. “Help us, please! You are our savior!” Fortuanto leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, tapping his shoe anxiously. The voices grew louder! Louder! Louder! Fortunato paced back and forth. Where is he? Does he even exist? Fortunato continued to pace. The voices continued to grown increasingly louder! Oh the agony of it all! He rushed to the door, and tried to open it. The door was locked. Using all his strength, he tried to pull the door open, even pushing his feet against it for support. The voices grew louder in his ears! He panicked. He fell to the floor. He scattered, stumbling, trying to keep his balance. He grabbed the counter to the reception area, pulled himself up. He saw a bell. He tapped it continuously while the voices grew closer and louder. And, in the midst of all the chaos, Fortunato fell to the carpet, with a pie jammed in his forlorn face. VII Rainbow heard laughing, and it was coming from the foyer. He was laying flat on his stomach, lying on the black carpeted floor. The hall of the foyer was entirely black and white now: the carpet and doors black, the walls white. He heard the laughing come from beneath the steps; it echoed, it seemed, for miles. The laughing sounded wicked, intense, creepy. Rainbow sat up, spread his legs, and blinked, confused. He stared uselessly at his black gloves. What was this strange power he had? Everything to his touch lost its tone and color. He lost all traces of his voice. But how? Was it truly a nightmare? Traces of his tears stained his white face, the eyeliner flowing to his cheeks. He decided to investigate the source of the voices with renewed spirits. He crawled down the carpeted steps, each losing its color as his devilish hands passed over them. He sniffed occasionally, ready as if he were to burst into tears; he crawled like an infant going to his mother. Darkness engulfed him; failing to bring his flashlight, he couldn’t see the bottom. He also failed to notice that he let his precious balloons drift away forever. The laughing, he thought, must have subsided. He could hear it no longer. He continued to crawl through the darkness, aching and lifeless. Rainbow had finally reached the last step—the dark abyss. He forced himself to stand erect. His body ungodly hurt. He blinked a few times to gain focus. He still couldn’t see anything. He stood alone in the darkness, wondering. Was it fate that had done this to him? Was it an act of the gods? Why was he being punished? He wasn’t a bad clown, per se, but he was misunderstood. The darkness was cool; he felt the air brush past his face. He stepped forward a couple of paces, his shoes echoing in the silence. Then the lights flashed on. Rainbow was blinded initially for a couple of seconds, quickly flashing his arms over his face. When his blindness ceased, and his vision focused, his lower jaw dropped open, his eyes widened. The room he stood in was like a basement—the walls and floors made of concrete and metal. He saw corpses of several dead clowns patch the cold floor—a mixture of all three races, lifeless, and rotting before his eyes. What he shocked him, though, was the source of the dreaded laughing. Two “jesters” stood in the middle of the small room, staring blankly at him. They looked exactly like the Pierotts, except with less makeup around the eyes. One of them spoke to Rainbow: “Greetings, Rainbow!” said one. His voice was high-pitched like a witch. “We finally meet! My name is Feste.” He bowed, the bells on his hat ringing. His costume was green and white. “This is my brother, Montresor!” He pointed to him. His brother’s costume was yellow and white. The jesters held their hands together, and fancied a curtsey. Rainbow scratched his head in confusion. “We are responsible for your color relapse, clown,” said Feste. “We have granted you divine powers! For a purpose, however.” “We need you to help us, Rainbow,” remarked Montresor. “There’s something you need to do for us in Smile Town.” Rainbow attempted to lip “What?”, but he couldn’t. He shrugged his shoulders. “That power you have,” continued Feste, “is very special. It will make you seem god-like and awesome!” “Get to the point, my brother.” “I am! Give me a chance to—” “I’ll tell him! Listen, clown, we need you to...” “I will get to the bottom of the point!” “Surely you jest!” “What?” While the jester brothers were engaged in their argument, Rainbow began to grow sinister thoughts on his own. He watched the two brothers fight. Then, suddenly, his frown began to grow back into a smile. He rubbed his hands together. Soon the memory of the mirror and Fortunato resurfaced. He remembered his trap. Yes! His trick he had so longed to forsake. He no longer wanted a life of goofiness or insanity. He had power, and he was going to use it. “Sorry for the interruption!” boasted Feste. “My brother is a wretched excuse for a jester!” Montresor crossed his arms and turned away. “Anyway, as I was saying, your power will silence anything! Anything and everything! Everything you touch will lose its color. Now, you ask: why me, and why this power? Well, my dear Rainbow, I’ll tell you: your power is the power of revenge!” Rainbow’s smile widened; he stretched his hands behind his back. “You have been ridiculed and made-fun-of all your life, haven’t you, Rainbow?” The clown nodded yes. “THEN IT’S TIME TO SCOURGE YOUR ENEMIES!” he boasted. His hands reached for the ceiling, as if he were a magician summoning forth a spell. “Smile Town is a dangerous place! You should know. We want you to dispose of something for us.” Montresor turned to face Rainbow, and spoke. “Yes! Have you heard of the Smile Town Theatre?” Rainbow shook his head no. “We’ll show you. Anyway, tonight there is going to be a production there. There is an actor in tonight’s production that we despise. He has taken fame and glory from us, and we want revenge! We needed a mime to employ us service. Mimes aren’t permitted on the stage, but they can present in the wings. So, we decided to transform a clown into a mime.” “Does that seem logical?” “Shut up, Feste! The plan worked thus far!” “But how are we going to get him passed the guards?” “We’ll figure it out when the moment comes.” Rainbow fell to his ass, “pretending in his mime state”, laughing hysterically; his big shoes kicked and pounded the floor, his mouth wide and open, pointing toward the jesters. Tears flew from his eyes, “So, you think we’re funny, eh?” pouted Feste. “You’ll see some pretty funny stuff when we go to Smile Town Proper.” “Regardless, Rainbow, we need your help,” interrupted Montresor. “Will you help us dispose of our enemy?” Rainbow stopped “laughing”. He stood up, placing his hand upon his chin, thinking hard. Then maybe Rainbow can rid this place of the Tramp! I can have all the lollipops, balloons, and cigars I want! “Well, will you help us?” asked Montresor. Rainbow nodded yes. “Excellent!” said Feste, jumping for joy. “Now, to give you a new name...” “From this day forward, you shall be clept Silenus!” said Montresor. VIII Fortunato wiped the smashed pie from his face. It was a fresh blue-berry pie, and though he was upset that it was jammed into his face, he licked the remains of it scrumptiously. He wiped enough away from his eyes to establish a new view of things around him. He was still in the same waiting room as before, only this time, he was not alone. He saw a clown standing by the door. He was short-stature (about four feet in height), round around the belly. His face and head were completely white, his nose round and red. He was balding on top of his shiny head, the remains of his bright-orange hair covering the temples, sideburns, and neck; his dress shirt was hunter-green, patched with purple polka-dots; he wore brown overalls and humongous blue shoes; his eyes were hypnotic, an ocean blue. He wore white gloves over his thick hands. He stood in front of the doorway, smoking on a cigarette, smiling at the unfortunate hero. “So, you’re Fortunato,” he said. His voice was “scientific”, like the Brain on the chaotic children’s television show. He wobbled over to Fortunato, his thumbs between the straps of the overalls. “Got pied in the face, I see! That’s hilarious!” He placed his hands over his belly and laughed hysterically. Fortunato realized it was the same voice from the recording he received. Fortunato tried to wipe away more of the pie, the blueberries staining his gloves. “Are you Ignacio Garibaldi?” he asked. The clown stopped laughing, frowning at his question. “At your service,” he replied, as he bowed. “It’s about time. We have a lot to talk about.” “Is that so?” Garibaldi put his hands on his hips. “Here, let me help you some with that damn pie! Keep your eyes closed.” He pulled out a seltzer bottle filled with water. He sprayed Fortunato in the face, the bottle emitting a “horn sound” as the water gushed out. Fortunato fell back from the force of the excursion, but regained his balance. “Is that better?” “Yes. Did you pie me in the face, by chance?” Garibaldi shook his head. “Look behind you.” Fortunato turned to the direction of the reception desk. He saw a large, porcelain box in the corner, decorated with swirls, with a spring dangling out of it; the spring had a clown’s head and two “hands” attached to it. “Ha, ha! I got you! You didn’t say the magic word!” it said, as it bounced up and down. Garibaldi tossed the spray bottle aside, crossing his arms. “So, what do you want to know about me? I don’t have the entire day.” Fortunato looked back at Garibaldi. “Alright. First, how do you know me?” “I have my sources.” “How? I haven’t seen you before, even when I took my trips. How do you know me?” “Well, let’s just say there are a couple of loonies here who do know you. They know you very well.” “Who are they?” asked Fortunato. “That’s why I sent you the message.” Garibaldi uncrossed his arms, bowed his head in sorrow. “However, before I tell you about them, you need to know a little about me. Pray, take a seat.” Garibaldi offered a chair to him, and they sat on the leather chairs next to the aquarium. Garibaldi fiddled his fingers as Fortunato crossed his legs and leaned back to listen. “I run a business here, Mr. Fortunato,” continued Garibaldi. “I am a seller of things. I sell all sorts of clown gadgets and costumes. I sell gags and jokes, even magician’s tools. It was my father’s business. I promised him to keep it running.” Garibaldi ceased to cough some. Fortunato leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I came here to Smile Town because all the clowns live here. It’s hard to find them outside this damned place! Besides, I had great sales here. I was making money out to whazoo! All the little children running up to me to play with my toys; their fathers smoking my cigars; their mothers testing my clothing line and makeup! Then, that’s when I met Alice, my secretary. She told me to be careful in this place. She says this place is cursed. And I believe her.” Fortunato’s eyes popped open. “Smile Town is a very dangerous place. It hypnotizes you, and draws you in to its center! This was once a normal city. It was a place where humans thrived and lived in harmony. That is, until they destroyed the local circus. Then all hell broke loose. The clowns swore revenge.” Garibaldi inhaled deeply. Fortunato knew he was tense and wayward. The little clown was breathing heavy, sweating like a pig. He looked toward Fortunato, his hands clasped. “The clowns became evil,” he continued. “They became, literal in sense, a virus. The virus is called The Laughing. The Laughing spread throughout villages and human cities. It infected this town. That’s why there is so much chaos here.” “How is the virus spread?” asked Fortunato. “Good question! The clowns, the host if you will, bite their victims! Yes, bite them! They bite them in the arm, then spray them with laughing gas!” Garibaldi gestured with his hands. “The victims turn into clowns over night. What’s worse is that the victims go from town-to-town and spread the virus. It’s unstoppable!” Fortunato looked at the sad little clown, and wondered. Garibaldi placed his face into his palms, sighing. So, I’m here to be infected with a virus? Fortunato grew chills. He stared at the pictures again. He hated this place. He needed answers. He needed peace. He needed to know what he was wanted for. “So, why am I here?” Garibaldi looked up at him, and smiled. “It seems that the virus only affects happy beings,” he said. “Tramps aren’t happy or jolly. Therefore, you are immune to it. That’s why you are here. To stop it from spreading!” Fortunato looked flabbergasted. “How do I do that?” “Simple. There are two jesters roaming around, causing mischief. Their names are Feste and Montresor. They are near the Smile Town Theatre. They plan to destroy this city soon. They know you. They want you dead. They made me record the message. They supposedly have a vaccination. So, now you know. Any other questions?” Fortunato thought long and hard. Someone had actually asked him for help? He was to be a vaccine for a virus! A deadly virus of catastrophic proportions! Maybe that’s what Ferdy died from. He should have told me. So now I am a savior. I am a god to this town. He lit another cigar, and sighed. “Alright, I’ll help. You must do me a favor, as well.” “Anything!” Garibaldi shook Fortunato’s hands vigorously. “Anything you want, lad! Just name it!” Fortunato chuckled. “Get me a new wardrobe and a box of cigars. On top of that, my own rail line.” “It’s a done deal, Mr. Fortunato!” said Garibaldi, and both clowns shook in their promise. IX Fortunato got up from his chair, and walked toward the door, Garibaldi following. Ignacio Garibaldi was indeed a strange little clown, but he also had his wits about him; he needed help—the entire town needed help. Fortunato didn’t believe his crazy story at first, but then he reluctantly decided to believe. It was truly an improbable mission, but Fortunato wanted adventure—and adventure he was going to get. It was going to be a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He sighed as he opened the wooden door. As soon as he would step through, his life would change; and miraculously, he had gotten his wish. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful maiden. She was tall, thin, and lean. Her dress was pink, covering her shoulders and arms, ending in a “tutu” with white ruffles. Pink panty-hose covered her legs, and her high-heels were also pink. Her exposed skin was white (mainly the neck and face). She resembled an Auguste. Her red nose was smaller, proportioning her face. Her eyes were bright green; her lips were large, widening into a huge grin. Her hair was orange and crisp, wavy, reaching down to her shoulders, tied in a big red bow. She smiled vaguely as she saw Garibaldi, looking past the dreadful Fortunato. “Hello, toots,” said Garibaldi. “Back so early, Alice?” “Mr. Garibaldi,” she said; her voice soft and cute, “you have another visitor.” “Is that so?” asked Garibaldi, putting his hands on his hips. Fortunato grunted, releasing the ashes from his cigar. “Yes. He is really in need of dire help, sir. He has the sickness.” A man crept from behind his gorgeous captor. His was wearing a gray coat, made of felt. His slacks were black, forming perfect cuts and lines. His hair was shiny black, but ruffled. He was panicking; his body shook vigorously, and he was sweating up a storm. His yellow shirt was stained, and his brown loafers were untied. He sat in the fetus position at Alice’s feet, whimpering, looking at Garibaldi. “What the hell is his problem?” said Garibaldi, walking towards the haunted man. “Damn! I haven’t seen one of them in ages! You say he has the sickness?” “Yes,” replied Alice. “He was walking down the crowded street, when he bumped into a Pierott passer-by. The clown was angry, shouted at him, and bit him in the shoulder.” The man’s teeth clattered, his coat blowing in the cool breeze of darkness. Garibaldi inspected the poor man, eyeing him and poking at his shoulder. Fortunato stared, amazed. “Was he sprayed with laughing gas?” “Yes, unfortunately,” replied Alice. “He could become one of us at any moment, sir. He says he is dreadfully scared of us.” Alice bent low. The man stared at her, awed by her beauty; her breasts came close to his face, but he was too delirious to react. “H-h-help m-me,” he stuttered. His body shook even harder. “I f-feel h-h-h-horrible! Am I going to die? Please h-help me!” He grabbed Garibaldi’s shoulders, bowing his head, crying.
Copyright © 2006 Zachary Taylor |