Whiskey the Clown is an accountant, a manic-depressive, a pedophile, and only part-time on weekends does he do clown gigs.  The clown gigs aren’t for money, mind you; Whiskey is very well off and certainly doesn’t need the cash; they are more of a hobby for him.  It is something he likes to do, like poker or alcoholism for old white men usually involved in politics and other positions of power.  It is also a good way to meet underage girls, one of Whiskey’s many obsessions, although one would be hard put to get him to admit to this.  Whiskey’s life, despite the wealth he has amassed from two decades of accounting and scamming the Internal Revenue Service, is nothing extraordinary.  The mediocrity of his life is a condition of his manic-depression which, on certain extreme occasions, has pushed him to the point where he places the barrel of a loaded sniper rifle against the side of his head and pulls the trigger.  He never dies.  This is a condition of extraordinary bad luck.  37 times Whiskey has shot himself, at point blank range, in the side of the head.  37 times Whiskey has missed his brain completely and instead has consistently hit a poster of Shirley Temple that hangs on a rusty nail in the far corner of his Manhattan apartment.  The 2-dimensional Shirley Temple has 37 gun shot holes in her head.  Both of them still exist.

 

INTERLUDE:  Songs From The Human Soup, I.

Whiskey the Clown is a manic-depressive, he feels, sometimes he can’t, feels too much, too little feels, numb, loss of feeling, feeling coming back again, feeling, it’s back, leaves again, through the cracks in his skin, he has no skin, skin, he has none, it’s back, so is feeling, wants help, needs help, cracks in his skin, doesn’t want help, doesn’t need help, cracks in his skin, can overcome anything, he is God, he is a genius, God and genius, he is, not, he is not a God, he is not a genius, wants to die, see the pearly gates, see the ivory towers, pearly gates and ivory towers, he won’t see them, hell, flames, degenerating, sees them, feels the heat, it is cold, degenerating, falling back, falling, rising, back down again, hell, there are no flames like everyone says there are, little girls and aborted fetuses, the smell of them, he likes, they are everywhere, he can feel them, feel, he can’t feel, doesn’t know what he’s going to do, can’t do anything, sometimes can, do things, can’t do them, incapable, don’t have the facility, the facility to do anything, can’t do it, can’t, pull the trigger, can’t do it, have to, no exits, except one, can’t pull it, can’t, have to try, have to do something, blood turning to jagged crystal, feel it scraping the veins, crystals, can feel them, hurts, let them out, must, must do it, but can’t, do anything, can, can do anything, everything, anytime, anywhere, crystals melting as they get closer to the heart, flow through arteries and get cold again, it’s cold, it’s cold in here, no thermostat, little girls, the smell of them, only thing to warm, nothing else left, little girls and fetuses, the smell of them, nice, warm the heart, warm the blood, they fall away again, disappear to ash, it’s cold again, it’s always cold, thermostat, can’t find it, doesn’t exist, can’t, a disturbing knock on the door, who can it be, don’t let them in, knocks on doors, don’t hear them, will not to, hear them, don’t, shoot whoever comes through, with a sniper rifle, just want to be left alone, alone, he wants to be, with nobody else, do his thing, without interruption, don’t like, interruption, enjoys his privacy, whoever comes through, shoot them, can’t escape alive, must not be allowed to, with a sniper rifle, don’t want to be looked at, not by anyone, just recede, into nothingness, into blackness, into little girls, aborted fetuses, the smell of them, he likes, to recede into them, the pressure of eyeballs builds, crushing him, his brains squeak out his ears, onto linoleum, linoleum, brains squeak onto it, slippery, watch your step, don’t want to slip on brains, privacy, likes the smell of it, the smell of, privacy, likes it, don’t want to be stared at, eyes, he doesn’t like them, built for staring, feeling, coming back again, feels good, feeling, it’s a new day, feeling, great things can happen, want to live again, happy to be alive, living, good to be back, from vacation, it’s good to be back from that dreadful vacation, everybody could come back in now, everything is fine, wonderful, beautiful, marvelous, everything, all marvelous, sunny, no rain, the new day, the day is bright with no rain in the forecast, come on in, the water is just fine… oh and, by the way, have I ever told any of you that I love you?

* * *

Whiskey the Clown is not a man without friends.  Despite a volatile demeanor that creeps into his nature every few days, he is a much-liked person, capable of a messianic charm that most human beings find difficult not to be seduced by.  Lately, however, manic-depression has crippled most of his more social human instincts and has reduced him to what many of his friends call a “recluse.”  Contact with most of his friends has been cut off almost completely, leaving many to speculate as to whether or not their much beloved friend is even still alive.   The only friend he has not completely neglected goes by the name of Bubbles the Aborted Fetus.  Bubbles the Aborted Fetus is a friend from the clown circuit, a stand-up comedian by trade, whose 50s one-liner sensibility and gruesome appearance Whiskey the Clown finds difficult to ignore. 

            Bubbles’ story goes something like this:

His mother, a Ms. Porcelina Rainbow, was a crack addict and degenerate gambler and, as fate would have it, born right smack between the bright neon lights of Las Vegas, Nevada, the one place on earth where addiction was considered a commercial enterprise and cultural landmark.  Reduced by her addictions to a sniveling mongrel of a woman, Porcelina Rainbow was forced into that other great bastion of free market capitalism celebrated in Vegas, prostitution.  It was during her tenure as a prostitute that Porcelina Rainbow met the man that would forever change her and her son’s life, her most adoring client, Reverend Columbine Hyde. 

            Rev. Columbine Hyde was an anti-abortion extremist with political ties that go all the way back to the Nixon administration.  He was personally responsible for the murder of 342 abortion doctors (most of them female) nation wide, and indirectly responsible for the murder of 673.  Noted as a man of remarkable character and conviction, Rev. Columbine Hyde had one weakness that threatened to demolish all the tremendous accomplishments he had managed to achieve during his lifetime, that weakness was his obsession with female prostitutes, and most especially, Porcelina Rainbow.  As Fate would have it, and with the cruel twisted irony with which she seems to infect everything, Rev. Columbine Hyde had kicked off the cycle of life inside the ovaries of Porcelina Rainbow.  However, what fate had not counted on was Rev. Columbine Hyde’s incredible cunning and opportunism, skills he picked up from his spin-master days in the Reagan administration, and his ability to turn even the most depraved situation into a song of serendipity. 

            The premise behind Rev. Columbine Hyde’s idea was this:  Porcelina Rainbow would give birth to the greatest spokesman of the anti-abortionist cause to ever exist.  She would have the abortion.  The remains of the fetus would then be immediately shipped to the offices of a Dr. Harlequin Wigglebottom III, a specialist in reanimation whose research had been generously funded by various anti-abortion groups (his most generous donor being, of course, Rev. Columbine Hyde) for the express purpose of bringing back to life the remains of dead babies all across the continental United States and certain parts of Canada.  The procedure was simple: Dr. Wigglebottom would drown the fetal remains in a solution of holy water, ether, battery acid, and Xanax, then ionize the remains by jolting the water with an unfixed amount of electricity.  The ionization procedure was executed by dropping a live radio into the vat which would play an English translation of the weekly mass given by the Pope on his balcony in Rome.  If the remains didn’t respond within two hours the original Italian version was played.  The rest was just patch and stitch work by the good Doctor and his nurses.  After a couple of weeks to recover from the operation the fetus, now affectionately named Bubbles by his mother, over the objections of Rev. Columbine Hyde who wanted it named something a little more sanctified and that would befit the place in society that it was planned to take, would begin to make public appearances.  Bubbles the Aborted Fetus would be the most compelling advocate for the criminalization of abortion that the baby-killing world had ever known.

            And he was, for several months.  He hit the lecture circuit first to get his gelatinous chops polished before he hit the big time, speaking before the Harvard Pro-Life Caucus, the Women’s Anti-Abortion League, the Yale Club, the Christian Coalition, the Friar’s Club, the Council for Anti-Abortion Legislation, the New Jersey Assembly for Pro-Life Activism and many others, always with Rev. Columbine Hyde close to his jellified side.  Once he was ready, and the finance was all in place, the national campaign was put into motion, starting with a special appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show, which dedicated a whole hour of national broadcast television to his appearance as well as a special meet and greet after the show with the studio audience.  He wrote a book (ghostwritten by Rev. Columbine Hyde,) and did a promotional tour around the country which included spots on the Regis and Kathy Lee Show, Late Night with Jay Leno, numerous speaking appearances, and autograph signings at every major bookstore in the continental United States.  Bubbles the Aborted Fetus was a hit and people were gobbling up his pro-life message like gumballs.  He was at the peak of his popularity and never before had the pro-life agenda been so popular with the American people. However, fate, as it seemed, was not yet through with Rev. Columbine Hyde.   The good Reverend, as the world would soon find out, had found a new obsession:  S & M with the young daughters of powerful Democrat officials, not excluding the daughter of the highest Democrat and elected official of the land, the President of the U.S.A.   More specifically, Rev. Columbine Hyde liked to tie up the Presidential and Senatorial daughters to concrete slabs and whip, beat, and punish their naughty parts until they were bright red like clown noses.  The story first broke with MSNBC on a brisk winter night, a Monday, January 22, 2001, the 28^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade.  Rev. Columbine Hyde, as well as the President and various members of the United States Senate, did not find the brilliant irony funny. 

            The party was over.  Rev. Columbine Hyde psychologically and physically fell apart and ended up living in a one room project apartment in a slum in Harlem, sleeping in his own feces and vomit because he was too depressed to leave his bed and deposit his remains in their proper place.  Six months later he committed suicide with a commemorative plaque honoring him for his dedication and service to the Pro-Life cause, bestowed upon him by the Ohio chapter of the Christian Coalition.  He smashed the plaque several times against his skull until the brain finally succumbed to seizure and profuse hemorrhaging.  The final analysis by the coroner was that severe head trauma had caused a major stroke, exploding the blood vessels in his brain.  Death was the result of asphyxiation from, presumably, drowning in his own blood as the good Reverend lay helpless in the pool that had collected outside his ears.  Porcelina Rainbow died from an overdose on meth-amphetamines while partying with a wealthy client at the Sands Hotel & Casino two years later.  As for Bubbles, he now gigs at bar mitzvahs and birthday parties, earning $11.25 an hour, telling jokes his old friend, Aloysius Tinkle, the head of the Christian Coalition, used to tell him at the weekly cocktail parties Al held at his house on the Coalition’s dime.  He is happy but is slowly developing an addiction to alcohol.

 

INTERLUDE:  Songs From The Human Soup, II.

Whiskey the Clown loves the smell of aborted fetus in the morning, the smell of it, he loves it, the taste of it is good too, loves it, the taste of afterbirth, in the morning, which is the early part of the day, taste of it, in the morning, he loves, blood and popped organs, ripped tissues, he loves it, the smell, the taste, all that jazz, the smell and taste of it, he loves, blood, undifferentiated organs and tissues, a nice biological jelly, rub on toast, hold the orange juice waitress, human soup ladled into an iron biological waste bucket, smell and taste of the iron good, a little bland, the bucket is rusty, he loves the taste and smell, human soup, he loves it, the taste of it, human soup good for growing boys, extra chunky, he loves it, extra chunky he loves, lots of calcium for growing bones, warm human soup good for the soul, it tastes good, smells good, he likes it, he loves it, human soup comes out of blow holes in girls, little and big ones, blow holes, human soup comes out of them, human soup is little girls, and their blow holes, little girls and their blow holes are part of the human soup, aborted fetus tastes good in the morning, better than cheerios in low-fat milk, all girls have blow holes, little girls smell sweeter, human soup, aborted fetus, good for the soul, good for growing boys, and bones, have to debone the human soup first, threat of choking exists, human soup, aborted fetus tastes good, even while you’re choking, it smells good, damn it waitress where’s my orange juice, waitress, drowning in human soup, she is falling apart, bursting from the seams, part of the human soup, drowning in it, drowning herself, suffocating in her own human soup, she is the human soup, everybody, they are all drowning in the human soup, coming apart, at the seams, exploding at the speed of security, the smell of it, they love, they love the smell of human soup, as they drown, love the smell of suffocation, fresh leather of new briefcases, the smell of it, suffocating from the smell, fresh leather of new briefcases part of human soup like brand new digital one of a kind calculators, they work well, bonus offer inside, inside the human soup, human soup resistant, designed not to damage when dropped in human soup, resistant, human soup resistant, won’t damage, human soup corrodes skin like battery acid unless diluted with lots of habits, tasks, things to do, routines, the only contraceptive for human soup, routine is the main ingredient of human soup, routine in a solution of pain misery irony folly, add the imminence of death for flavor, a little paprika, tarragon, obsession, lunacy, love, extra flavor, human soup tastes good right before death, washes away illusions, creates illusions, human soup is liquid illusion, doesn’t swallow easily, sometimes, human soup is hard to get down the throat, feels better once you are drowning, in human soup, feels better to drown in it, sometimes, it tastes good, human soup, the smell of it, he likes, the smell of human soup he loves, sometimes, when he doesn’t hate it he loves it, more often then not, now comes in an assortment of fun filled colors, good for kids, for growing boys and girls, the smell of them, he likes, human soup smells like something completely inane, drowning, drowning in inanity, human soup, human soup does not make any sense, the smell of senselessness, he likes, sometimes, angels fall down and splash in the human soup, wade in it, trying to drown themselves to get back to where they were, out of the human soup, back into heaven, drop a little piece of heaven into the human soup, it drowns it, human soup corrodes pieces of heaven like skin, the barbarians are at the gate trying to possess the human soup, they smell it, taste it, spit it back out, don’t want any part of the human soup, need to get back to heaven, paradise, need to get back there, out of the human soup and back into heaven, wherever that is, need to find it, need to swim out of the human soup and back onto land, the shores of heaven, wherever they are, no clues, where is heaven one of the fallen angels asks, another angel answers just before she drowns in the human soup:  “Anywhere but here.” 

* * *

            One evening, while riding the northbound 1 train on his way home from work, Whiskey the Clown met Satan.  He was disguised as a little girl, alone, sitting across from Whiskey who couldn’t resist making a run at the little sweetheart.  After a couple of minutes of sweaty come-ons and conversational drivel, Satan finally became annoyed enough to reveal his true identity to Whiskey; the conversation went something like this:

WHISKEY:  You’re who?

LITTLE GIRL (used to this reaction but indignant nonetheless):  Satan.  You fucked in the ears or something?

WHISKEY (disbelief):  You’re Satan?

LITTLE GIRL:  That’s what I just said, isn’t it?

WHISKEY:  Yeah but…

LITTLE GIRL:  Impossible, right?   Well, let me tell you what’s impossible, pal.  Trying to catch a cab in midtown, then being forced to take the fuckin’ subway only to be harassed by pedophile accountants.  God forbid that a cute girl like me should be able to ride the New York City subway system without getting stared at or felt up.  You people never fucking learn, do you?

WHISKEY (stunned):  How… How did you know I’m an accountant?

LITTLE GIRL:  You are one dumb fuck, aren’t you?  I’M SATAN!   I know everything about you.  I know your name is Whiskey and that you work over at KPMG as VP of accounts.  I know about all those times where you’ve bribed abortion doctors to allow you to sit in during the procedure and watch as you silently jerk off in the corner.  I know how you moonlight as a clown to pick up underage girls at birthday parties.  I even know about the time when you sodomized your best friend’s cat while you were baby-sitting his little brother.  (Whiskey is too shocked to say anything.)   Yup.  I know all the skeletons in your closet, so best be to get off at the next stop and catch another train, before I get angry.

They sit in silence for a moment.

Whiskey finally musters up the balls to start a conversation.

WHISKEY:  So… If you’re really Satan, why are you hanging around here?

Satan breathes a sigh, knowing that getting rid of a human is like trying to avoid a cold.   He comes to the conclusion that humoring the lunatic beside him is the only way he’s ever going to get rid of him.

LITTLE GIRL:  I’m not “hanging” around here.  I’m on my way home just as you are.

WHISKEY (confused):  What?

LITTLE GIRL (sarcastic):  You know, home.   That place where you eat, sleep, breathe, shit, live.  The place where you feel most comfortable… Home.

WHISKEY (realizes his error):  No, I mean earth.   What are you doing hanging around earth?

LITTLE GIRL:  Ah, I get you now.   Well, where else would I be?

WHISKEY:  Well, um, Hell, I guess.

LITTLE GIRL (smiling):  My dear boy, where do you think I’m sitting?

WHISKEY (confused again):  Um, on a train?

LITTLE GIRL (shaking her head):  You people are so naive.

WHISKEY:  What do you mean?

LITTLE GIRL:  Hate to be the one to break this to you, pal, but we’re sitting right smack in the middle of it.

WHISKEY:  Of what?

LITTLE GIRL:  HELL, you dummy.   You know, the great inferno, the pit of flames, valley of the sinners, Hades, southern New Jersey… Hell.

WHISKEY:  You mean earth is hell? (pauses for a moment, confused but racking his brain for an explanation.)   How is that possible?

LITTLE GIRL:  Don’t ask me.   I’m not the one that makes the rules around here.  (Whiskey is silent for a moment, trying to figure out the implications of what has just been said to him.)  Here’s a tip:   don’t strain your brain thinking about the logic of all this.  I’ve been doing the same thing for all of eternity and I have yet to figure anything out.  All I know is that one day Mr. Serious up there realized that he couldn’t take a joke and since then I’ve been stuck down here, my only company being you assholes, proving maybe that the schmuck isn’t entirely without a sense of humor after all.  (Whiskey is so confused his nose is starting to bleed.  Satan sees this confusion and looks to offer whatever comfort he can.)  Look, buddy, I don’t have the time or patience to explain it all to you.  Frankly speaking, I don’t know the whole story myself.  Let’s just say that the fuckstick upstairs doesn’t respond too well to humor.   You try to lighten up heaven a little bit with a harmless little prank and you end up getting ass fucked by the almighty lightning bolt, cursed forever to spend eternity with the depraved and the righteous alike, not that there is any real difference between the two, you understand.

WHISKEY:  So what does this mean, then? 

LITTLE GIRL:  Who the fuck knows.   Like I said, don’t explode your brain thinking about it too much.  Try to remember that that asshole gave you that too, just to confuse you when he can’t find the time to do it himself.     

(The train stops and Satan stands up, this is his stop.)  Well, I’d love to sit around and talk the semantics of eternity with you, but I gotta go.  Just keep your chin up and try not to worry so much.  All you’ll end up getting from it is gray hair and erectile dysfunctions.  See ya.

Whiskey gets up to catch Satan before he leaves the train, putting his hand on his little shoulder to hold him back for a moment.

WHISKEY:  Hold on a sec.   Just one question I have.

LITTLE GIRL (sigh):  Make it quick.  What is it?

WHISKEY:  Okay.  How do I get into heaven then?

LITTLE GIRL (laughing):  Fuck me man, if I knew do you think I’d be hanging around here?

As Satan leapt off the train and hopped away Whiskey the Clown felt a slight ache of despair in his side, as if he was watching his own daughter leave him and their beautiful home for the chaos and deprivation of city streets, to be raised as a beast amongst beasts.   The moment soon passed and he was smiling again.  A young homeless man was running through the train car yelling unintelligibly something that sounded like: “Testicular homicide with peanuts!  Testicular homicide with peanuts!  Testicular homicide with peanuts!”  What struck Whiskey the Clown so much about this homeless man was the faint echo in his voice that seemed to him like the man genuinely believed there was some deep profound truth in what he was saying, like divine revelation hung on each syllable.  Before the man could reach the next subway car he tripped over some old blind woman’s Seeing-Eye Chihuahua, and landed face first in a puddle of spilled strawberry milkshake, cracking his nose open.  Whiskey the Clown didn’t stop laughing until the sun came up the next morning.