Enter The Gladiators

Enter The Gladiators

Bergerac sat alone picking away at the decaying picnic table. Splinters occasionally piercing the soft flesh beneath his finger nails. A solitary tear dripped down his face, taking with it, it's black lacquer brother painted beneath the left eye. The salty drop left a deep valley across the pan stick coating his cheek.

"What a cliché. A sad clown." the lion tamer, jeered as he sauntered across the deserted dining area.

"Leave it Bob." Was only utterance he could manage. Nothing witty nor cutting summoned itself from the depth's of Bergerac's gloom.

Thinking himself alone once more, he slumped back down over the sagging, sad excuse for a table only to feel the bite of Bob's whip sear the podgy flesh of his lower back. Bergerac strained involuntarily into a position that would have given even the contortionist ripples of envy. As the pain nipped through each synapse he winced. Squirming as if performing a strange dance to the tune of the lion tamers short, rotund and balding laughter as it cracked across the field.

As his listened to Bob's stumpy legs chaffing their way to the canteen, Bergerac's assault on the woodwork waned. His tears now searing with the same burning intensity as the lash across his spine.

The rain began to fall, making an attempt to wash the valleys of sandess from Bergerac's face. He made no move to escape the growing black soup of cumulo-nimbus above his matted, dull, red and yellow hair. The gritty scent of sandy mulch mixed with straw and well trodden popcorn was drummed up from the ground. The downpour intensified its assault, streaking greyness down from above, painting the garish surroundings, a dull and hazy monochrome. A slight glow permeated the gloom. A silken laugh punctuated Bergerac's own personal darkness, the source was one and the same, emanating from Genevieve's trailer.

Sighing he tried to reason out if hearing her laughter was joy enough to ignore that fact that it was Bozo wooing those carefree utterances. Thus far his hourly musings on the subject had all come to the same conclusion: it wasn't. Bergerac's temper grew thin as the unmistakeable moans of a very adult pleasure rose from the trailer. His rage boiled beneath his skin and began serge. Furious vibrations escaped with lips, striking out through the crash of the incoming storm.

"He shouldn't ever have been here! He's badly suited to being a children's entertainer, let alone to console my heavenly Genevieve. Bozo, Bozo, BOZO!!!"

Finally with fists clenched and his eyes seething with fury Bergerac stood to declaim his fellow clown to the, now fleeing, clouds.

"Curse the wretch. He's such a..."

"... Fucking cunt!" Spluttered the inhibriated Bozo as he stumbled pig drunk from Genevieve's trailer.

"Mister... big-shot-ring-conductor.... thinks, thinks he can do what he likes! Say what he likes! Better than us lowly clowns!"

Luckily there were no patrons within earshot let alone line of sight. Especially as the half naked Genevieve toppled out after Bozo. She draped her gin saturated body across his shoulder, shrieking with derision.

"You. Are. So right." Genevieve emphasised her words, beating back the eager slur which inhabited so many binge drinker's vocal chords.

" He's got nothing on my." She paused, her eyes welling, threatening to source a mighty rubicon. "Gerry!"

Bergerac rose and made a move to console the widowed trapezist. He was blocked by the bloodshot eyes of his rival. Genevieve's open wailing mouth was swiftly plugged with a quart of gin.

Bergerac's ears had pricked at the mention of Gerry, the circus recently departed ringmaster. Genevieve had taken the death of her husband horrendously and in her current state showed no sign of any kind of recovery. The state of G&G's Circus was not much better; the stalls as barren as a widow's heart, the field as saturated and unserviceable as her liver, and the staff as lead upon the path of self destruction as she.

"Well," sneered Bozo, poison brewing in his fangs. "He might have been here if this cretin hadn't been such a coward!"

Bozo seized Bergerac by his oversized lapels. Holding him in a ogre like grip, he began to shake him. The kinetic energy forced through Bergerac's lame body caused the squeakers in his boots to work overtime as the knocked together.

"Isn't that right you little fucking brotwurst shit head!"

Too petrified too look his attacker in the eye Bergerac cast his gaze downward, cowering like a child. The glint of Bozo's brand new gold Rolex caught his eye. Bought with Gerry's life insurance pay out no doubt. Within the face of the ill gotten watch, Bergerac saw that every taunt was true, his sorry and spineless excuse for a reflection was feebly glancing sideways at him. Bergerac knew he's taken the easy way out, he'd run away.

"... isn't that right you putrid little scab" a sharp snap to his neck, drew Bergerac from his self deprecating musings.

"Bozo I... I didn't realise that... Louis Vutton made clown boots..."

Bergerac said this with every intention of being witty and provocative. However it served only to spur Bozo's foul mouthed tirade to continue with renewed vigour.

As it became clear that this was not just another admissible alcohol induced confabulation, circus folk began to gather. For once in the three months since Gerry's absence, something bearing a resemblance to entertainment was taking place within the grounds of the circus and the excited murmer of the crowd began to build.

"Lay off him Bozo!" Bob yelped, quietening the hubbub.

Bozo's haggered face, framed by a five o'clock shadow turned in a devilish grimace as he spat out his words.

"You're a fine one to talk Bob." Bozo spat, spraying him with a special brew of forty percent proof spittle. "This German prick is the reason we had to shoot half your lions."

"We don't know that Bozo. Someone here needs a moral conscience now Gerry's gone. I for one think it's pretty unfair we blame the poor bugger before we do know exactly what happened."

Dead air hung between the frowns of the crowd.

"I mean, just look at him. Ok? His face is pretty mangled from where we pulled him out of Sheba's jaws. If he was fucking about with my lions, he certainly paid his price."

The crowd hovered at a low murmer, deciding whether or not to leave.

"Actually Bozo, I'm from Fran-"

Bergerac's interjection was cut short by a blunt clout to his skull, landing him face first in the mud. Perhaps it was the high concentration of iron oxide within the soil which caused Bergerac to see red. Or perhaps it was some far off karma-tic force willing him forward. Either way Bergerac roared to the heavens as he ploughed Bozo onto his back, delivering a vertebrae shaking, tooth knocking, crowd stopping comeuppance.

For the briefest of moments at least.

The sudden strike from the underdog renewed the crowd's blood lust. Bergerac's aggression began to wain; he began to feel increasingly out of his depth despite having his enemy flat on his back. The pause gave Bozo an opening to throw off his attacker and begin to kick him in the ribs. The soft leather of the oversized loafers provided a small amount of cushioning upon impact, of which Bergerac's was mildly appreciative.

"These are Louboutin's you prick and don't you EVER forget it!!"

Each impact of Bozo's foot laboured his point. The heckling from the crowd, once loosed, grew in intensity. All their frustrations and depression manifested themselves in a collective mob mentality, hysterically driving itself forward.

It was at times like this Bob's disproportionately loud voice spurned by his little man syndrome was of most use. He was, surprisingly, able to be noticed above the commotion of the rabid crowd as he loosed a deafening yell for silence. Cracking his whip to vacate the area directly surrounding the two clowns Bob managed to force himself between the pair.

"You're a coward! A traitor! You're the reason Gerry is dead and gone!"

Genevieve began to howl. Shrieking she ploughed herself mercilessly into the mud, as if to bury the fragile husk of her body. At the sight of this fresh despair the spinning in Bergerac's head changed from a clockwise to counter-clockwise. Guilt began to bear down upon him.

Bozo dropped his fists and unfurled a nicotine stained finger into gnarled point. He turned calmly to his opponent. 　

"I'm calling you out Bergerac."

The crowd paused, hanging upon the words as they edged out of Bozo's mouth between a thick metallic spray of bloodied spittle and the occasional tooth.

"Big top. Tomorrow. Noon."

Bozo half strutted half staggered his way off to the cigarette machine, Bergerac's strained eyes met with Genevieve, slumped in the mud.

“Genevieve!”

He wept as he dragged his body closer to her. Reaching out his hand, it was if the physical closeness enabled him to feel her sorrow with a greater intensity. The tears were now coming so thick and fast they made a half decent attempt at washing away the grit caking his features.

“Why can't you remember, Bergerac?”

Bozo returned and hoisted her over his shoulder. As he began to carry her back to the trailer, Bozo turned. He aimed a vicious kick in Bergerac's direction, knocking the clown backwards into a pile of lukewarm camel pat.

"Do you think I'm silly?" Genevieve called.

"For what?"

"For thinking it'll be easier once I know?"
And with that the door to the trailer shut.

A few moments later Bozo opened the door and mouthed something to Bergerac. By the frequent snarled formation of the letter “F”, the only facial movement distinguishable from 300 feet away, he could only assume it was an intimidation. The door was then slammed shut.

Bergerac crawled back to his trailer. Hunching himself in the two by three, damp ridden shower cubicle he let his sorrow wash over him. Each gasp he took drew green mould spores from their birthplace to the dark hollows of his lungs causing him to choke and splutter. His energy drained; Bergerac was rocked to sleep by the angry shouts of his colleagues, ironically requesting he keep the noise down. As their half empty beer cans beat a dull lullaby against the static trailer's thin walls, quite suddenly, he fell into the abyss of a sorrowful sleep.

Bergerac approached the big top. As he passed the stage hands, having their pre lunch cigarette, his ears caught a muttered rendition of 'Thunder and Blazes'.

“Da, da, dada – dada, dead-clown-walkin'...”

“Yea alright lads. Not heard that one before.”

The men coughed as they laughed out their last drag.

“Dicks.”

Walking into the main ring to the cheer of his co-workers, Bergrac turned and contemplated running back out. The corridor he had entered from was now blocked by a small elephant.

Casting his eyes around the arena, Bergerac's gaze fell upon Genevieve who was sat, quite alone, atop one of the plinths of the high wire. Her eyes had never left him since his entrance. He raised his hand. She wiggled her fingers in reply. Shadows began to seep from the footlights swelling across the canvas tenting of the arena. Bergerac turned and was caught off guard by a cream pie to the face immediately followed by the impact of a fist.

“You cock!” Bergerac raged. Pulling off his false nose he pelted it at Bozo and caught him in the eye.

“I’ll fucking ‘ave you!” Bozo’s breath reeked of whiskey, rum, cigarettes and beer.

“Alright then you fat, useless piss head. If you think you’re hard enough, then roll up and have a punt.”

“Even with this much of a skin full I will. Fuck. You. Up.”

“Alright then. Big man.”

Bozo shifted from left to right, rage bobbling through his shoulders.

“I heard you’ve got a small di-.”

Bozo charged head down, fists out stretched, screaming. Swiftly Bergerac slipped out of the way. Bozo ploughed head first into the guard rails. Bergreac took advantage his opponent being trapped between two of the rails and began to slam the lower half of a seat, repeatedly, on his head. He didn’t notice Bozo slipping a pork chop into his left pocket. Bergerac rested his arm and began a firm assault of Bozo’s buttocks with his foot.

“What exactly qualifies you as better than me, ey?!

“Because I’m smarter than you think.”

Bozo howled in reply. He clicked a wireless remote he’d concealed in his pocket.

The crowed roared as the boom of cannon fire rang out across the arena. Bergerac turned to see Simon The Wonder Dog hurtling through the air toward him, teeth bared. The dog landed with practiced precision and locked his jaws onto Bergerac’s left thigh.

He and Simon were slammed into the wall of the band stand and held there. The pressure trickled to a halt. Simon shook himself down and jogged off, pork chop in jaw. Soaked, Bergerac caught his breath. Bozo had taken advantage of the distraction Simon had cause. He sat grinning at the controls of the circus’ tank. Three years ago G&G’s Circus had acquired the tank and converted the machine gun into a water cannon. A pneumatic hum began as Bozo charged up for a second blast. Bergerac began to sprint round the ring. Jumping onto the candy floss cart he propelled himself alongside the cannon. Clambering up he managed to dislodge Bozo. Dragging him to the floor he plunged Bozo’s head into the sugar spinning bowl. Bozo yowled as the metal scalded the skin on his nose. Reaching into his back pocket he retrieve an air horn. He let it loose in Bergerac’s ear, who stumbled backwards. Bozo angled a stiff uppercut which sent Bergerac flying over the guard rail and into the stalls. Bergerac peeled himself from the bench, his jaw cracking like the rusty old pistons in the circus organ. He started to climb over the barrier when he was hit again by a the high pressure water blast. Bergerac lay in the dust. Weakly opening his eyes he could see Genevieve up above him in the eaves. She was weeping. He closed his eyes in resignation and waited for the final blow. Bozo approached and knelt down. He wedged his knee on Bergerac’s chest. 

          “I’ve been meaning finish you off. You’ve been playing dumb all this time. But you know don’t you? Even though you’ve kept quiet. You knew I had it in for Gerry. You knew I was going to do it. You knew I was going to kill him. And you just had to try and be a hero.”

Genevive wailed from her plinth high above the ground. She staggered toward the edge.

“What? Fuck. What’s she doing here?” Bozo laughed nervously, “Y’all right babe?”

“She's going to jump!”

The cry came from the audience. Immediately they rose to their feet, respectfully removing their hats.

 “Genevive! No!” Bergerac lifted Bozo’s knee slightly from his chest. “Listen it's me.”

The crowd paused to listen as Bergerac's accent became decidedly less French. “I lied. For so many reasons, love. But please. I didn’t mean for this. Please come down.”

“Gerry?”

“I just needed time to work it out. He was trying to kill me. I needed to. I don’t know. It’s all such a mess.”

Genevieve stopped. Bozo stared in disbelife.

“Gerry is it really..?”

“The lion’s mangled my face. They killed Bergerac. He tried to save me. But I didn’t think you’d want me. Not like this. It’s so bad. I mean, bit of pan stick and no one noticed it was me.”

Hiccupping violently causing her who body to jerk, Genevive lost her balance. Gerry screamed. A sudden rush of power to his spasming forearms enabled him to push Bozo down to the ground. Gerry bolted toward his plummeting wife. A wave of terror swept over him as Genevive's shadow descended across the stage lights. As he turned to look up he stumbled backwards. Gerry's stomach lurched as Genevieve's body jerked to a halt, snapping back mid air against a taught trapeze wire.

A gasp rang out across the crowd. Genevieve's confused wail followed as she was swung back across the arena, upside down, the high wire tangled around her leg. Gerry stood and began to hobble his way towards the trapeze ladder.

“Genevieve, don't worry. I'm so sorry.”

“I might not have finished you off-” Bozo grabbed Gerry's collar with one hand and pressed the cold steel of a throwing knife against his gut with the other.

The rush of blood to her head caused Genevieve to feint, her dead weight loosening a further coil of wire. A taught crack rang out and the entangled trapezeist swung down a further few feet toward the ground.

And all of a sudden Bozo was gone. Or at least his head was. Gerry stood and watched the knife twitch in the hand of the decapitated clown.

The unconscious Genevie’s body came to a halt. Her hair brushing gently across Gerry’s leg. He worked the bloodied cable from her ankle and released her. Cradling her in his arms he walked wordlessly off to the first aid station. 

All had fallen silent. A small sniff and the impact of a toffee apple upon the sandy pathway drew the crowd’s attention. A couple began rushing their children from the main entrance, where they had happened upon the gory scene. After silently and efficiently piling into their vehicle, four people, who would now never have an irrational fear of clowns, drove off into the sunset.