Tally, The Clown From Hell!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Bozo with a hangover!

Submitted: November 30, 2017

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Submitted: November 30, 2017



Oh, the blinding light! Tally the Clown blinked rapidly; hangovers were a bitch! Even though he was hurting badly, he had never once thought that maybe he should quit drinking. That his life sucked was somebody’s fault, but not his own. He got unsteadily to his feet after climbing out of bed, and took two steps toward the coffee pot he needed to crank up so badly, but found himself plummeting towards the red shag carpet of his apartment. His head recoiled upon impact with the floor; sending nausea-inducing waves of pain through his head.


“Son of a bitch!” he screamed, as he tried in vain to regain his feet. He knew he should have taken his floppy, oversized clown shoes off before going to bed, but he must have passed out before he could. He remembered coming home from performing at Wacky Ranger Frank’s Family Circus, the very circus he’d just been fired from, for using ‘inappropriate language in front of the little f*****g kids, and flopping down to watch a rerun of ‘I Love Lucy’ on T.V., too angry and bitter about being s**t-canned to change clothes. Now, as he rolled around on the floor, trying to stand up, and with his head pounding war drums in his brain, Tally, whose real name was Bart Hoover, thought, I must make one pathetic sight; “Kids, have a good laugh at the drunken clown; he’s such a loser, he can’t even stand up!” Good lord! Now he was a drunken, loser clown without employment. How the mighty had fallen! He finally made it to his feet, after cleverly thinking he might have an easier time if he removed the floppy shoes. Now, Tally stood weaving, and clutching a cup of coffee like a non-swimmer clinging to a life preserver. What he needed was a plan.



“Hello, and welcome to Big Jim’s House of Guns,” he said, for the first time of what would be many, hopefully. Bart had finally landed this loser job, as a gun salesman, and for minimum wage, no less; but at least it was a job!



“Tell me, what’s the range of this gun?” asked a sallow-faced man wearing a ‘Life of the Party!’ tee shirt.


Wow, what a party that ought to be! thought Bart. “Well sir, this particular model, The Waste-Oid 500, will drop an intruder at, at, oh, I’m not sure, but a lot, anyway.”


“A lot of what? Feet, yards, what?”


Bart Hoover stared at the guy, and after an uncomfortable few seconds, replied, “Morons like you have no business owning, borrowing, or even touching a gun; a tool that they don’t even know is a weapon, let alone how to use one. Why don’t you go back to your pup tent and light up another doobie, there, Stone Lifer!”


Immediately, the guy started shouting, “I demand to see your manager! I’ve never been treated so rudely, in my life!”


Bart was immediately filled with regret. He shouldn’t have said that. Now he’d lose this job, and as lowly as it was, it was still a job. Now what was he going to do? With dread, he walked haltingly to Roscoe Calisto’s office door (he’d asked Roscoe Calisto who Big Jim was, to which Calisto had replied, “How the hell should I know? It sound’s better than ‘Roscoe’s House of Guns!”) office door. He gingerly knocked, and Roscoe’s voice came charging through the door like a loose bull in a china shop,


“Oh, for Christ’s sake, now what?”


Bart cringed, and, ignoring this was the first time he’d interrupted, said rather weakly, “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Calisto; there’s a customer out here demanding to see you.” Now he’d be getting the sack.


“Son of a bitch; now what did you do?”


Oh s**t; Mr. Calisto wasn’t in a very good mood; in fact, he was in a s****y one. “It seems this customer isn’t very happy.” That was the understatement of the year!


“Oh, all right. Wait in my office; there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, passing by Bart, on his way out to the sales floor. Bart wanted to hear what was said, but maybe it’d be better not to; countdown to unemployment!



“I understand you wanted to see me?” said Calisto.


“Yes, your salesman was very rude to me, and I demand you do something about it!”


Calisto asked, “How exactly was he rude?”


“Oh, he called me a moron, and said I had no business owning a gun, said I should have another doobie, and called me ‘Stone Lifer!”


“Well, that is unacceptable!”


“I know; he should be fired!”


“No, not the fact he was rude to you; what he called you; Stone Lifer? What kind of insulting nickname is that? Stupid cow-brained mother f****r, now there’s an insulting nickname!”


“Well, I’m leaving to take my business elsewhere!”


“See ya; don’t let the door hit you in the a** on the way out!”


And with that, the red-in-the-face customer stormed to the front door, and disappeared along the crowded sidewalk.



Bart Hoover heard the doorknob rattle, and knew his boss, or ex-boss by now, had returned. He rose, and started to say,


“I’m sorry, Mr. Calisto, it was wrong, and I apologize--”


“You’re damn right it was wrong; you call ‘Stone Lifer’ a insulting nickname? The guy was a knob, and I would have expected one of my employees to come up with something better; much better!”


Bart just stared; he must have heard incorrectly. “What?”


“Well, I don’t have enough energy to repeat what I said, but I would like to ask you a question.”


“Okay,” said a by now, totally-confused Bart Hoover.


“I have heard that you used to be a clown? How would you like to stop being a gun salesman, and stand out in the parking lot, dressed as your clown guy...”


“Tally the Clown.”


“Dressed as Tally the Clown, and try to steer customers here?”



And so, Tally the Clown once again tried to make people laugh; especially those potential customers with kids. Kids and guns; he thought, now THERE’S a perfect match!



Tally the Clown was getting pissed; he was out in the parking lot of ‘Big Jim’s House of Guns’, and the sweat was rolling down his clown pants, and making him itch, something fierce. Already, a family of 4 had hurriedly left, when they’d seen him with his hand down his pants, trying to relive the nasty itching. The mother had tried to cover the 2 little kids’ eyes, as they hurried to their car. The father came at him, but with Tally’s first punch had quickly reconsidered his position, and had slunk away, joining the rest of the family at their car, and soon, Tally was watching the car, with the angry, but cowardly, father’s raised middle finger waving at him from his upraised hand, squeal out of the parking lot. This job blew, but for right now, it was all he had.



An hour later, and itching even worse, a car full of drunk b******’s pulled into the lot. Out of the rolled-down car window, he heard,


“Hey clown; why don’t you turn one of them guns you’re hawking on yourself? Believe me, you’d be doing us both a favor!”



Tally replied, “Have another beer, there, ace; it couldn’t hurt your lame-a** fricking put-downs!”


Immediately, the car full of drunk idiots slammed on its brakes, and Tally watched several guys coming at him.



The school bus full of Sunday schoolers singing songs cruised down the city streets on their way back to their church. It had been a wonderful day so far, with the summer sun beating down, and with their bellies full from the picnic on the banks of the river. Joy filled the hearts of each of them, especially Mrs Hooseman, who had planned this very successful outing. Showing the kids that being nice to others was her goal, and so far, it had been a smashing success. As the bus passed other cars, or was itself passed, the kids all waved, and were rewarded with waves in kind.


Yes, a very good day, that has seen people at their best! thought Mrs. Hooseman. Just then, when the bus was passing a gun store, she saw a crowd of men exchanging punches with a clown. As luck would have it, the stoplight turned red, and the bus came to a stop, right across from the gun shop with the fight. With the hot weather, the buses’ windows were rolled down, and the kids, along with Mrs. Hooseman, where treated to,


“Eat me, you bastards!” from the clown, and,


“You clown-bastard!” from someone among the angry group of guys.


The kids and Mrs. Hooseman watched slack-jawed until the light changed, and their bus pulled away from the melee.



Where was he? Tally the Clown drooled blood from his mouth, as he blinked, and tried to remember why he was lying on the cement. Just about then, a man came out of the business in who’s parking lot Tally was lying, and said,


“Tally, I just received a phone call in my office. They called to inform me that a clown was duking it out with several others in our parking lot. I simply can’t have this. I’m afraid my idea was wrong about you steering customers into the store; in fact, it’s the complete opposite. You’re driving people away; I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”


Bart then remembered, and replied hotly, “You’re firing me? Why you c..k...” and he lunged at Roscoe Calisto, grabbing him by the throat, and pin-wheeling him around, sent him flying down to the pavement of the parking lot.



People enjoying a cool beverage after a stifling hot day at work, in the air conditioned coolness of the Crazy Tankard Tavern, were treated to the sight of a clown storming through the door, shouting,


“Give me a fricking beer!” As he was shouting this, he tripped and went down to the cool linoleum of the tavern floor.


“It sure isn’t my fricking day!” Apparently, he’d tripped on his floppy, oversized clown shoes, and plummeted to the floor.



The angry clown sat alone, swilling cold beer, and staring out the window. Now what?



Tally’s oversized clown shoes slapped out a rhythm of desperation that echoed off walls and returned empty-handed to his ears. It was 2 in the morning, and the streets and sidewalks were both empty. Bart staggered blindly ahead, with no destination in mind, and in a alcohol-fueled fog. That he still wore his clown shoes, was completely due to the fact his mind was totally preoccupied with the problem of figuring out his next move. He’d been let go from Wacky Ranger Frank’s Family Circus, and Big Jim’s House of Guns, and now he was one pathetic clown, indeed. He’d started drinking at The Crazy Tankard Tavern, and finished by drinking what tasted like, and may as well been, paint thinner he’d made himself, out of the leftover dregs of several liquor bottles he had at home, and despair.



He came to, blinking in the harsh morning sunlight. Where was he?


“Hey, mister, do something funny!” The voice belonged to an elementary-aged kid, one of several that surrounded Tally. His blurry, bloodshot eyes took in the sight, and he struggled to get to his feet. Empty beer cans fell off him, as he wearily rose.


“Come on, Mr. Clown!” encouraged another in the crowd.


“Screw you, kid; in fact, screw all of you! Get away from me; go home!”


The kids looked at the sorry excuse for a clown, and walked away in a group, but not before Tally heard,


“Man, he’s not very funny!”, and, “Suck it, clown mother f****r!” from the group of retreating kids.


Man, if he had talked like that when he was younger? Just where he’d acquired beer was a mystery to him; as far as he knew, he was completely broke. Maybe he didn’t want to know! He watched as liquid spears of the beer left in the empty cans ran in mini-rivers into the gutter. Fitting, because that pretty much summed up his life; in the gutter. Now what?



He had been unemployed for weeks now, and was reduced to sleeping on park benches, because he’s long ago lost his apartment. Landlords frowned on deadbeat tenants who didn’t pay their rent, on time, or ever. Summer had given way to fall, and soon he could give his Frosty the Clown impression. He sure wished he had some different clothes, but his landlord had locked him out of his apartment one night he had a show for the kids, and when he’d returned, the locks had been changed, and there was a note on his door:


“To Bart Hoover; you’ll get your possessions back when you pay ALL of the back rent!”


The hell with that; there wasn’t much that he’d wanted, but his clothes might have been nice! Oh well. When he’d awoken this morning, he’d been surrounded by down and out people, one of whom had stolen his shoes! After ranting and raving for about an hour, and trying to think about what he could use for footwear, a dude had waddled by, with the awkward gait that Bart knew well, and Bart had recognized him from his audience upon waking, and yelled for him to return the shoes. The guy replied,


“Fine; take your damn shoes; I don’t see how you clowns walk in them, anyway,” and he’d flopped down and untied the floppy shoes, handed them back to Bart, and walked away, both limping and cursing.



Bart slapped his way into the convenience store with a help wanted sign in the window. Up to the counter he went, getting incredulous looks from the other customers, as well as the middle-aged man behind the cash register.


“Hey clown, what can I do ya for?” and then he erupted in laughter. “Hey clown! Hey clown!” Eh, ha, ha, ha!”


Man, the guy should have gotten his own act together; his obvious comedic talent was just wasted here! Bart thought. “Yeah, the sign in the window says help wanted. Is the job still available?”


“For a clown like you? Eh, ha, ha. A clown like you!”


Eh, ha, ha, fricking ha! “Yes, is it?”


“Well, you’ll have to speak to my manager, but as far as I know, yeah.”


You mean, with brains like you’re sporting, you’re not the manager? thought Bart. “Fine, can I?”


“Can you what?”


S**t! thought Bart. “Speak to your manager?”


“Sure dude; wait here please,” and he left, in search of intelligence. Good luck with that! thought Bart.



After a couple of minutes, that Bart had had a couple of customers where the beef jerky aisle was, and to which he replied rather testily,


“Does it look like I work here?”, a short man with a beard came up, and said to the employee Bart had sent to find him,


“Is this the clown?; eh, ha, ha!”


Bart rolled his eyes; why me, he thought.


“Yeah, this is the clown who wants to work here; eh, ha, ha!”


“Well, let’s see your routine.”




“Well, to be honest, I’ve already hired someone else, but we could use the entertainment; that is if you’re any good!”


“Well, s**t, mister, thanks for nothing!”


“That’s it? Pal, you’re act blows; I mean, “Well s**t, mister”?!”



So, once again, Tally was a clown without a big-top!



© Copyright 2019 Mike S.. All rights reserved.

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