Sunshine and rainbows. Bright colors and happy smiling families. A gilded overcoat of mirth that belied something grim and foreboding beneath the surface. Akin to an egg with a bloody half developed fetus inside, the horrors within would stun and disgust the oblivious and perhaps woefully ignorant masses if only they knew.

If only they knew….

“Ewww gross!” Matty cried, spitting pieces of popcorn onto the thankfully empty seat in front of him.

“I’m serious!” Kristoffer Arroyo replied, shooting his young ward an imploring look.

“I don’t wanna hear about bloody fetus eggs and shit! Especially not while I’m eating.” Matty gestured towards their surroundings. “Besides, it’s just A CIRCUS!”

They were indeed at the circus. Beneath the big top in fact, and seemingly just before a show was about to start judging by the people filing onto the bleachers around them and the crew scrambling about the three rings below them.

“Exactly, it’s a CIRCUS. You don’t know the circus like I do. I was on the crew of a circus back in the ‘50’s.”

“Really? You never told me that.”

Kris shook his head. “It’s not a fun story. Circuses are cesspools behind the scenes. I’m telling you! Abused animals forced to put on a show. Making fun of people with disabilities as part of some disgusting “freak show” act. And the clowns! My God…the clowns….”

“Okay, well first of all modern circuses don’t use animals anymore and freak shows haven’t been a thing in decades dude.” Matty dumped some more popcorn into his mouth, and spoke again between mighty chews. “And what’s wrong with clowns?!”

“John Wayne Gacy was a clown!”

“Okay, so what?! That’s one!”

“Not just one! The clowns I had to work with back then were all drug addicted reprobates and perverts.”

Matty waved to someone in the near distance, seemingly paying Kris no mind. Kris, noticing, screwed up his face at the vampire boy.

“Are you even listening?!”

“I just spotted Dickie!” Then, cupping a hand against his mouth, “DICKIE! OVER HERE!”

The shot cut across the bleachers to reveal former Universal Champion and overall XWF megastar Dickie Watson picking his way through the throngs of people. He doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be there, but nonetheless nods in Matty’s direction and makes his way over towards them. Upon arrival, he gestures at them with a small wave and a stilted one syllable greeting of, “Sup.”

“Kris was just telling me about how all clowns are perverts.”

“They are!”

Dickie took a seat next to Kris. “I wouldn’t know. Don’t know any of them personally.”

“You don’t need to know them personally. In fact, I would strongly advise against it.”

“Yeah….well….” Dickie sighed. “Kris, what exactly are we doing here?”

“Field research.”

“Which doesn’t even make sense! Dickie, tell him!”

“Tell him….?”

Matty rolled his eyes. “The clowns you guys are facing are from their own clown planet or some shit. So they’re probably not even human clowns. If you wanted to do real field research we would be watching Killer Klowns From Outer Space instead of going to the circus.”

“Oh, they’re human alright. Dirty, filthy, ne’er do wells, but humans nonetheless.”

“You sound like you have something personal against clowns.” Dickie noted.

“He said he worked at the circus in the ‘50’s and that all the clowns were dirt bags.”

“Oh. Right. The ageless vampire thing.”

Both Kris and Matty took note of Dickie’s tone, looked at each other, and then back at Dickie.

“So you’re another doubting Thomas then?” Kris scowled. “Look man, I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You said it with your whole tone. And face.”

“This is just my face.”

“It was very judgmental.”

Dickie stared at him for a few seconds – if anyone had learned the process of Dickie Watson’s Brain at any point in time, there is always the first question of “Why the fuck am I here?”. It was hard to imagine, for the two of them, that after War Games last year, and after Kris had a spectacular win over the former Universal Champion, that they would end up on the same side of a wrestling ring.

“Does he do this every time someone doesn’t immediately accept he was apparently wandering the Earth in the days of Eisenhower?” Dickie asked Matty, eyes still on Kris.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Matty shrugged and shoveled another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Dickie leaned back against the bleachers, allowing himself to look at the circus rings below. Performers and crew members moved between them in brightly colored costumes while heinous music that sounded like bassoons and brass pipes dying played over speakers, every inch of the place carefully engineered to make people forget – for a short time – that they’d paid an obscene amount of money to sit and watch adults risk orthopedic surgery for applause.

Sounds like a wrestling ring.

“So this is field research.” Dickie repeated.

“Yep.”

“For the clowns.”

“Yes,” Kris confirmed.

“The ones that are aliens, keep shifting themselves to new names and, for my clarifying purposes, get bored as quickly as a tweaker who hasn’t had their hit of cocaine.”

There was a pause. Kris’ jaw tightened, “Supposedly.”

“Where are we drawing the line in my previous statement? Aliens, clowns, or cocaine?”

“The alien part.”

“Right,” Dickie nodded slowly. “Glad we’ve established that interplanetary travel is where your suspension of disbelief finally shits itself.”

“I’m saying they’re human.”

“You’re an immortal vampire.”

“That’s different.”

“Okay, Lestat.” Dickie turned his attention back towards the rings. “So let me make sure I’ve got this, yeah? You dragged me to a circus to conduct field research on two clowns who may or may not be aliens, because your personal experience with circus clowns seventy years ago has led you to believe there’s some kind of transferable skill set.”

“Not completely transferable, but…” Kris titled his head a little, watching one of the performers honk their horn, and then get on a bicycle. “Understanding your enemy is useful, isn’t it?”

“My enemy is named Raised by Wolves Clown.”

“And Raised by Clowns Wolf,” Matty added helpfully, not looking away from the performers now.

Dickie’s face tightened into the most nonplussed expression known to mankind. “Yes, thank you, Matty. I’d successfully forgotten the second one for almost thirty seconds.”

“You really haven’t watched any of their stuff yet?”

“I watched enough,” Dickie nodded.

“What does that mean?” Matty asked, turning his head to look at Dickie again.

“It means I opened the match card, read their names, closed the match card, and went for a long walk and considered going for milk and peacing out like dear ol’ Dad.”

“Hey you guys keep forming a lasting friendship. I gotta take a whiz.” Matty got up and dropped his popcorn into Kris’ lap as he inched past them.

“Can I have some?” Kris inquired, holding up the bag.

“No. And Dickie it's your job to make sure he doesn't steal any. I'll be right back!”

Dickie watched Matty go before speaking again. “Seems like a fun kid.”

“He's a handful. But then again I guess any vampire who is forever twelve years old would be.” He paused. “I care about him a lot. My parents were pretty shitty to me so I guess part of me is just trying to rectify that. Be a better father figure. Although I fucked up with Matty a lot early on.”

“We're all just learning as we go. Mistakes will be made.” Dickie replied, his tone somewhat distant as he ponders for a moment whether he's talking to Kris or himself.

“Yeah. Suppose so.” Kris looked to Dickie. “We good?”

Dickie nodded slightly. “I’m not gonna pretend to completely understand you or what you’re about, but yeah, for the purposes of this match, we’re good.”

“Wanna talk some shit?” Kris inquires, gesturing at the camera.

“Yes PLEASE.”

Kris clears his throat a bit theatrically before commencing.

“Guys….it’s time. Well past time, in fact. Time for the fun and games to end. Although I never found you fun nor….gamey? No…no….that implies I would have eaten a clown and goddammit I am a vampire with STANDARDS and a FUNCTIONING PALETTE.

Anyway!

It’s time for this clown show to cease. Because like all good comedy shtick of yore….the BX3’s, the Darren Dangerous’, the Dick Powers’, the Jim Caedus’ (come on, you can’t tell me those chronic manic episodes weren’t a total joke), the gags must eventually end, fade away, and cede the stage to the FUCKING ADULTS.

That’s me and Dickie.

Don’t get me wrong. You guys held the tag team championships for a bit. Better than a lot of comedy acts ever got. But you had to know it was all downhill after that. After all, none of you ever, EVER would have been in the conversation for a shot at the Xtreme, or God forbid, the Universal Championship. You peaked.

Peaked Clown! Which begat Irrelevancy Clown, which begat Unemployment Clown, which begat Homeless Clown. There, I just came up with your next four angles. Royalties better be in the mail.

Kidding aside (and really, that’s the whole theme we’re going with here), you guys are coming face to face with the real deal. Dickie Watson. Former Universal Champion. War Games Winner. Possessor of impossibly great hair. And me. I did stuff too.

But for as great as we are, we’re both looking for a shot in the arm. Dickie is fresh off a sabbatical and in need of a win. I’m somehow at number 19 (fucking 19?!!) in the ELO rankings because apparently batting .750 merits being ranked lower than the entire Anarchy mid card. Side bar, if ANYONE out there can make sense of this shit for me there’s a crisp fiver in it for ya. Oh, and maybe eternal life. If you’re, ya know, into that kinda thing. ELO, avoid me in the hallways. Because I’m totally gonna set aside my redemption arc for the day just to pants you.

Point is, hell’s gonna freeze over before we lose to shtick like you guys.

But that’s not all!

Because now’s the part where I hand the baton to trash talk supreme.

Dickie?” 

“Thanks, thanks, thanks. Hello, hi. Tidbit of info if you’ve never heard me say it:

I’ve never liked clowns.

No. Really. I’ve never liked clowns, and it’s not that irrational fear bullshit either. There are people that have that fuckin’ Pennywise fear because of Stephen King, and then you have the people who cry about the godawful, exaggerated face paint scaring their children, or too many nightmares in which they multiply out of the Prius that just rolled up at the Toyota Center. It’s more that I’ve never really understood the appeal, ‘cause if you have to paint a smile on your face before people find you entertaining, that feels less like comedy and more like a cry for help before suicide becomes the next gimmick of the day.

Imagine you’re me, right? Imagine you’re sittin’ and you’ve made some poor errors for the last few months when the going gets tough, so you take a sabbatical. You drink froo-froo drinks that have pineapples in them on a Monday because you can, and then when you’re ready, you shake the dust off, start looking at the standings and literally try to figure out where you fit into this place again, and what gets put in front of me?

Fucking clowns.

Not metaphorical clowns. This isn’t half of the edgelord bullshit, chucklefuck lawls some of you do because your banter peaked in grade six. That would be too easy, right? Half the fuckin’ industry is populated by people who should be wearing oversized shoes and getting hit in the face with that shit pie Minny Jackson for Hilly from The Help–”

“…the fuck kind of Sabbatical were you on?”

“I watched a lot of movies.”

“…carry on.”

“There’re just so many people in this fuckin’ industry that lack the self-awareness and have to be reminded. But that’s not the case that we have, is it? It’s fucking actual clowns.

Do you realize how difficult you make this for me? Kris can stand here and wax poetic about the inevitable death of comedy, the sudden decline of your careers – but were they ever off to the races to begin with? – the bullshit of your next fucking adjective salad moniker trial thrown into everything and God bless him for it. Somebody has to care enough to learn your names.

Raised by Wolves Clown. Raised by Clowns Wolf.

I’ve been tryin’.

I really, really have.

But every time I sit down and think about what I’m supposed to say about you, I keep coming back to fact that you’re fucking clowns. It’s a fundamental problem, and I know I’m supposed to find some clever fucking thing to say, but this is scraping the literal bottom of the barrel so much that when I saw this match, I may have had a stroke because I smelled burnt toast.

There is literally nowhere for me to go. I can’t expose you – you’re very exposed. I can’t embarrass you, because you’ve done a fuckin’ phenomenal job that yourselves and you dress like that voluntarily. I can’t threaten to make you look ridiculous because you’re going to do that on your own.

Congrats. Hats off. You’ve stumbled upon the perfect defensive strategy against Dickie Watson: make yourself so inherently fuckin’ absurd that I run out of insults.

I can’t begin to fathom what this is going to look like when you come out. The reinvention of human pageantry in full bloom. To me, Raised by Wolves Clown sounds like you got abandoned in the woods as an infant and came back twenty years later with mange, rabies, and an alarming commitment to looking like Ronald McDonald after six months of living off squirrels.

And Raised by Clowns Wolf? I’m imagining a Temu-ass husky head that has a button in the ear that makes that caterwauling howl, dressed like the Big Bad Wolf broke into Grandma’s wardrobe and found the fucking party aisle.

And the worst part of all of this? None of it matters.

Underneath the paint, and the names, and the whatever Spenchers clearance bin fever dream you two have committed yourselves to, you’ve still managed to win tag belts. It annoys me. It does. Because all of it would be easier if you were shit, ya know? If you were just two idiots who wandered in off the street wearing face paint and wrestling gear because whoever runs this cluster right now lost a fuckin’ bet, this would be simple. Kris and I would show up, not know how to work with each other, beat the piss out of you, go home, and I’d never think about this match again.

But you’ve held championships. Beaten teams. Made people underestimate you, for a short time as it is, and then made them want to commit sudoku backstage. So unfortunately, against every instinct I have a functionin’ adult, I have to take clowns seriously.

And I resent you for that more than anything. I know how it is to look at somethin’ ridiculously and assume there’s nothin’ underneath it. I know how useful it is when people’ve already decided they know who you are before the bell rings. Every fuckin’ week, that’s what every single one of you do to me. I get it. I’ve lived the entire fuckin’ last seven years of my life listenin’ to dipsticks like you tell me who and what I’ma be.

And then I turn around and someone says, oi, hey, dub-tee-eff, how’d he get to the top of the charts, or the top of the company, or get a fucking belt?

I’m not gonna underestimate you. You’re accomplished, but you’re clowns. Both of those things can be true at the same time. But that’s where we run into another problem, hey. You have the benefit of being underestimated. You don’t have that with us. Kris already hates you on some deeply personal, possibly century-old level I’m not interested in unpacking, and I’ve spent enough time starin’ at this match to know exactly what happens if we treat you like a joke.

So we won’t.

This time.

I’m not coming back from sabbatical to be someone else’s poor punchline. I’ve done enough fuckin’ around for one year. I’ve made enough bad choices, lost enough momentum, given myself enough reasons to sit somewhere tropical with a drink that has an unnecessary amount of fruit attached to it, and ask myself what the fuck I’m doing.

Eventually you get tired of asking. You just come back.You look at the bullshit you’ve let crash down around you and you figure out how to salvage that without losing to a fucking grease paint, husky-screaming, little-red-riding-hood trash bin pair of competitors who exist purely because some disassociated twat thought this was a good idea.

We’ve got shit to do, places to go, mountains to reclimb and escalate.

Be happy you got me back when I found my fuckin’ voice again, yeah? Makes losing a little less bitter.”

Kris whistles appreciatively. “That was some fire bro. Burn the greasepaint right off their faces.”

“Felt good.”

“I bet! One final point though, if I may. Now, I’m sure there’s plenty of folks backstage thinking Dickie and I aren’t gonna be able to coexist. Our history is not great, after all, what with War Games and that one time I somehow managed to beat the man. But let me be clear.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

Did you catch that? I’ll say it again.

I managed to coexist with Michael Graves.

You wanna talk about odd bedfellows? That shit didn’t get any odder. In fact, teaming with Dickie is gonna be like a Sunday drive compared to teaming with Michael. No offense to Gravy, of course. Though I’m not gonna miss all that fake smoke he uses to bamf in and out of scenes. That crap just HAS to be carcinogenic.

The fact is, put aside my lore, put aside who and what I am, you strip me down to the bare bones when it comes to that ring and this company I am a consummate goddamn professional. Barring just Kieran King, and to that I’ll say….have you MET that man? And even then we got to the finals of War Games!

Put me with anybody, I’ll get it done. Put me with a former Universal Champion and War Games winner I’ll get it doubly done. Put us up against literal clowns and shit’s as done as one of those ketchup encrusted steaks that Donald Trump likes to eat. That ones for you, Alex.

Clowns, this match isn’t going to be the three ring circus you want it to be. No. It’s going to be a cold, precision crafted bit of wrestling excellence designed to pick both Dickie and I’s career up and propel us to new heights. You poor bastards just happen to be in the way.

Honk, honk motherfuckers. Hope the next clown car you guys bring with you is an ambulance.”

Kris then looked around and scrunched his nose up.

“Matty’s still not back? Huh. I’m gonna go check on him.”

“I’ll tag along. I gotta hit up the bathroom myself.”

Together, they headed back out of the large tent and towards a row of port o potties stationed outside. Kris started knocking on each of them in turn, calling out to Matty.

“Matty! Hey bud, did you fall in?”

But there was no response. Just then, a squirrel darted over towards them and started racing around Kris’ feet! Dickie’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Do you usually have that effect on wildlife?”

“No. But Matty does. He can communicate with animals.”

Dickie quirked an eyebrow. “Say that again?”

“Just roll with it. I think this thing is trying to get my attention and I think Matty might be in trouble. Come with me.”

Dickie followed Kris who followed the anxious squirrel until it arrived at a trailer set apart from the attraction tents. The squirrel stopped and continued its dance in front of the trailer. Kris looked up at the door, narrowing his eyes.

“Something’s not right.”

Kris wasted no time tossing open the door to the trailer, with Dickie not far behind. Once inside and accustomed to the dim lighting, Kris let out a surprised gasp and Dickie blurted out a curse. Because inside was a man half dressed as a clown, with greaspaint haphazardly smeared on his face, clutching Matty and holding a knife to the vampire boy’s throat.

“I’m sorry Kris! He threatened me with a knife and made me come in here!”

Kris scowled deeply. “Listen asshole, if you’ve hurt him….”

“No! You listen to me!” the clown barked. “I didn’t want any of this. Any of it!”

“Any of what, man, what are you talking about?”

“He’s a vampire, Kris!”

“Whoa, let’s all just calm down. Let the kid go and we can all talk about this.”

The clown tensed, and in turn so did Dickie and Kris. “I got turned a month ago. I never asked for this! Jesus Christ….” the clown sputtered. “I tried to drink my little girl’s blood. I’ve never been so hungry….”

Kris put his hands up placatingly. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But we didn’t turn you. We don’t even know you.”

“No, you don’t. But I know you. Or of you. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re legit, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Then you probably know how to turn me back!”

Kris shook his head. “Look man, I’m sorry but that’s not possible. But I can help you! I know people who can get you blood so you don’t have to drain it from people.”

“I don’t want to drink fucking blood!” the clown hollered.

Dickie shot a glance at Kris. “What’s the play here?”

“Okay….okay! I lied, alright? You can drink MY blood and it’ll cure you. Just let the kid go.”

“Kris, no!”

“About goddamn time.” The clown shoved Matty to the side and advanced on Kris, knife at the ready. And that’s when Dickie Watson sprang into action! Scooping a pan off a nearby hot plate, he chucked it at the clown’s face with precision accuracy! It popped the attacker in the mouth, shattering some teeth. Kris and Dickie then leapt on him, restraining him and pulling the knife away before Kris slugged him on the jaw, knocking him out!

Dickie sat back on his haunches on the floor. “Jesus, is your existence always like this?”

“I think I’m starting to come around on the whole “clowns are bad” thing.” Matty spoke as he tried to steady his breathing. Then, stabbing a finger at the downed clown he continued, “I’m gonna bleed this jerk dry!”

“I don’t think Dickie wants to see that.”

“Yeah, let’s not and say we did.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m at least leaving this whole circus a very shitty review on Yelp!”

Kris got up and offered Dickie a hand, which he took. “I can’t thank you enough, Dickie. You’re stellar in a clutch.”

Dickie shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I couldn’t exactly stand idly by and let my tag partner get killed by a psychotic clown.” Then, after a beat. “Do you think we can leave now?”

“Matty?”

“Yeah, we can definitely leave. I need a change of shorts. I think I peed a little.”

Kris chuckled. “Gross.”

“Hey, you try getting attacked by a vampire clown!”

“Good God, what are your lives?” Dickie muttered as he held the door open for the duo to finally and thankfully depart.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder.” Kris breathed.