I awoke this morning in a damp, musty basement that reeked of incense, stale sweat, moldy pizza, soiled underpants, cat litter, marijuana, and despair. My head was throbbing, my skin felt like burned ice, and the most horrible hip hop I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing — which is really saying something when you think about it — thumped menacingly in the background.
“What—?” I croaked, eyes shifting as I took stock of my situation. I was lying on a dilapidated air mattress with what appeared to be a large duffel bag full of garbage beside me. The source of the “music” was a boom box on top of a stacked pair of milk crates, and a trashcan fire burned brightly in one corner of the room. Light from the flames illuminated the walls, which were covered with peeling posters showcasing two rather sinister clowns. “Where—?”
“Wha’s that, baby?” said a man with a deep voice. My eyes widened in shock.
“Who said that?” I demanded, leaping from the ground in a fighting stance. I then noticed that I was clad in naught save a pair of tightie-whities, black socks, and a too-small t-shirt featuring the same two clowns from the posters.
“What’s wrong with you?” said the man — only this time, the duffel bag turned over as he spoke, revealing what I think was an extremely disheveled woman in clown makeup. “Do you need a fix?”
“A fix? What’s going on here? Who are you?”
“Violent Kay, homie! Someone crack that dome?”
“I understood every word that came out of your mouth yet have no idea what you said. Let’s cut to the chase: Where am I? What am I doing here?”
“We’s at my crib. Been here a week ryda, showin’ each other much clown love.”
“A week—! Sweet Nixon, I have to get out of here.”
“Outta here? You straight trippin’! Or did you forget I found out we got a little juggalo on the way this morning?”
“Little juggalo? What in god’s name is a little juggalo?”
The duffel bag-man-woman-thing laughed and rubbed its belly. “You done knocked me up, ryda! We’s gonna have a baby!”
I shivered, then sighed gratefully upon finding the stairs. “We most certainly are not,” I said as I made my ascent. “Once I get back to my place, I’ll wire you funds for the abortion. Juggabortion. Whatever.”
As it happened, I truly had been missing in action for about a week. But while he was cleaning clown makeup off my face, my butler Montgomery informed me that I didn’t miss much, so what the hell. A guy has to stop to smell the roses from time to time, does he not? Anyhow, thanks for swinging by — peace out.
Front page photo source: MorgueFile