Circus of the Dead: The Novelization

Copyright © 2024 by Billy Ho Pon and Mark Alan Miller

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Artwork by Billy Ho Pon

Cover Layout by Billy Ho Pon and Sean Duregger

Interior design and formatting by Sean Duregger

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living, dead or undead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Bill Oberst Jr.

1. El Corazon

The Heart

2. La Familia

The Family

3. Club de desayuno

The Breakfast Club

4. El Diablito

The Little Devil

5. El Mano

The Hand

6. De fenómenos de feria

Freak Show

7. Diversión en el circo

Fun at the Circus

8. Envia adentro a los payasos

Send in the Clowns

9. Ganador

Winner

10. La lengua

Tongue

11. El negrito

The Little Black Man

12. La sirena

The Temptress

13. Los niños

The Children

14. Hogar dulce hogar

Home Sweet Home

15. Noticias de última hora

Breaking News

16. Mala pesadilla

Bad Nightmare

17. Amor verdadero

True Love

18. Malas noticias

Bad News

19. Juego encendido

Game On

20. Ir a dar un paseo

Going for a Ride

21. El borracho y la rosa

The Drunk and The Rose

22. Montaje

Montage

23. El arma

The Gun

24. El Murano

The Pig

25. Chupacabras de la escuela secundaria Ector

The Ector High School Chupacabras

26. Noche de película

Movie Night

27. Un último espectáculo

One Last Show

28. Vómito

Puke

29. El muñeco

The Doll

30. La Muerte

The Death

31. El mayor espectáculo del mundo

The Greatest Show on Earth

When Papa Met Doll Boy

A Love Story

1. El vendedor de helado

The Ice-Cream Man

2. La massacre

The Massacre

3. La niñero

The Babysitter

4. El muneco

Doll Boy

Afterword

Billy Bloody Bill Pon

About the Author

Dedicated to Donzell Lee Ankrum II (1971-2024)

No smoking, drinking alcohol, or using profane language while in clown. No lewd or indecent behavior. No acts of criminal behavior. Never intentionally cause emotional or physical harm to anyone.

—The Clown Code

A clown can get away with murder.

— John Wayne Gacy

Clowns cum confetti!

–Billy Bloody Bill Pon

I do not like Papa Corn.

I certainly do not love him, despite the gnawing knowledge deep in my viscera that he would surely profess to love me. Papa loves everybody. Papa loves you. Papa will always love you. He’ll never stop (although you will).

When Papa came to me by way of his cinematic chronicler, Billy Pon, a decade ago, I made a serious mistake. I underestimated him (Papa, not Pon.) In my dismissive way, in my all-knowing naivete, I pegged Papa. Or so I thought.

Well, I said, he’s a scary clown.

Wrong. And wrong in a trifold way:

Papa Corn is not a scary clown, rather,

Papa Corn is a scary man, because,

Papa Corn is a man.

Do you see? Can you comprehend? Do you now begin, with sickening tremulation of heart and gut, to glimpse the naked secret which is the naked horror of He-Who-Drools, of He-With-The-Curly-Forelock? Papa Corn is a man. A man! And here’s the hell of it, the flaming veracity of it: Papa Corn is every man.

As Billy Pon whispered in my ear, as I tried to shout from the rooftops, Papa is what every man would be if there were no restraints.

My God, is that true? Is Papa, in truth, man, mankind, humankind, me, you, us - without restraint? Is what Papa actually does–which is pretty much anything he pleases - what we actually want to do; to eat the whole damned world and smear the screaming juice around our puckered lips, if that’s what it takes, so long as IT GETS WHAT IT WANTS?? Let it not be so! Let Papa be a liar! Let it be only a movie!

Let hell freeze over, I might as well cry. And what’s the use? For our Papa has already imagined that particular possibility in a purring free verse I remember speaking for a scene I’ve never seen: When hell freezes over, I said, I will be there wearing a parka made from your family’s skin.

No! It’s happening. I typed I instead of he but I swear, dear reader, I swear I meant he not me! I meant Papa. I’m not Papa. You’re not Papa beneath your own parka-ready skin! We’re good people! We’re ok. We’re ok. We’re ok.

Aren’t we? AREN’T WE?

Mmmm. Yessss. Let’s peek in the glass darkly, shall we? Mmmm, you’re wet around the muzzle. Is that drool, or are you just excited to see me? I wonder what’s in the cards for you. And me. And you and me. Welcome to the greatest show on earth! Careful where you step.

Papa loves you. Papa will always love you.

Whether you like it or not.

Bill Oberst Jr.

Los Angeles, 2024

https://www.billoberst.com

There’s a deserted oil field west of Odessa, Texas. It’s smattered with lonesome pump-jacks, dismantled derricks, and rusted pipes as far as the eye can see.

You’ll find dozens of what the riggers call dog houses, those platform offices that also served as sheds, breakrooms, and, when necessary, shelter from the unforgiving elements. Painted blue and bleached by the sun, these derelict boxes are perfect for hiding secrets.

It’s a desolate, depressing expanse—but not today. The Big Old Circus rolled in a few days ago, and tonight’s the opening night.

You can feel the electricity in the air, can’t you?

There’s a loud knock at the trailer door.

Clowns, ten minutes! a bearded and disheveled man shouts. Ten minutes, clowns!

Inside the Clown Trailer, an old phonograph plays a crackling Ragtime tune, Doo Wacka Doo by Paul Whiteman & his Orchestra.

A clown sits at his make-up table, illuminated by an antique brass lamp. His workspace is cluttered with jars of lotions, salves, and ointments. Metal cups hold clusters of scissors and brushes; sponges and makeup pads are scattered everywhere. The mirror’s stained and cracked.

A mannequin head holds an old-timey police hat with a walrus-sized mustache tied under its nose.

Papa Corn’s applying the final touches of his unique, signature clown face. It’s a ritual steeped in tradition and reverence that traces back to the days of Phineas Taylor Barnum and James Anthony Bailey. Papa’s a professional, and he takes his job very seriously.

He starts with a thick layer of Stein’s Clown White on the face and neck. He’s not happy until every pore is filled, leaving the skin smooth as alabaster.

Next, he uses a fine brush to apply sharp lines that run like needles from where eyebrows should be down through the eyelids. The same brush accentuates crows’ feet that convey wisdom, but also menace—like teardrop prison tattoos. He accentuates the chin cleft before applying a mixture of black paint and Vaseline to the lips.

There’s another loud knock at the door.

Five minutes, clowns!

Under the Big Top, the lady Ringmaster’s working the crowd into a frenzy.

Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth!

The crowd hoots and hollers and stamps their feet.

Who do you want? she asks.

We want the clowns! the audience responds.

Who do you want? the lady Ringmaster asks again.

We want the clowns!

Keep it going! she commands.

We want the clowns! We want the clowns! We want the clowns…

The only color on Papa’s otherwise monochromatic visage is a tiny blue dot on the tip of the nose. He applies it carefully with his finger, moving in a deliberate counter-clockwise motion. The look complete, Papa sits back to admire his handiwork.

When we cut out her heart, no pulse could be found, he whispers diabolically. It was clogged with pure blood that rejected the clown… yes….

Papa Corn the Clown has made a twin of sorts, a female version of himself. She used to be a single mother from Stanton who surprised her kids with an unexpected trip to the circus. Now, she’s just a cum dumpster for Papa. After he fucks his fill, he’ll pass her along to Noodledome, his most trusted cohort.

Papa spins the chair around so she can see herself in the mirror.

Her eyes may be open, but they won’t blink anymore.

Yes… yes… I know you were going for something ‘less Karen,’ Papa makes air quotes around the words less Karen, "but I though thought this was more you! What do you think?"

Papa’s sincere, without a hint of mockery. But when she doesn’t respond, he answers for her by moving her head up and down and throwing his voice.

Oh, Papa Corn, you did it! This is wonderful! I’m gonna tell all the gals in the bridge club!

Papa replies as himself.

Oh, this old thing? I just did a little here and a little there… your face was the beauty that made my masterpiece complete.

There’s another loud knock at the door.

Clowns! Showtime!

Papa Corn pulls on his dirty white gloves (with the right pinky cut out) as he and his associates head out the door. He pauses at a wall covered in Mexican Loteria card sheets. Papa pulls a black marker out of his jacket pocket and sniffs it before crossing out El Corazon—The Heart.

Before exiting the trailer, Papa takes one last look at his latest masterpiece/victim.

Her chest has been ripped open. She’s holding her own bloody heart on a dish, covered by a glass dome like an heirloom or a tasty treat, your choice. Her torso and legs are coated in dried blood and semen.

Happy Trails, until we fuck again, Papa whispers before passionately kissing her on the lips.

He leaves, slamming the trailer door shut behind him.

A quartet of clowns makes their way towards the Big Top. Inside, anticipation is approaching mayhem as gala music builds toward a crescendo. The audience is screaming and stomping their feet in anticipation.

We want the clowns! We want the clowns…

I still can’t hear you! the coy Ringmaster replies.

The crowd brings it up another notch.

We want the clowns! We want the clowns! We want the clowns…

Never let anyone say El Circo Gigante doesn't give the people what they want!

The applause sound like a freight train loaded with thunder. The energy is orgiastic.

You asked for it! Now you’re gonna get it!

The curtains part.

Send in the clowns!

It’s Friday morning in suburban Waste Texas and Don Johnson’s crawling his exhausted ass out of bed. He worked a ten-hour shift the day before and every day before that for as long as he can remember. Sleep is something he’s seriously lacking lately.

His life’s become a mundane routine. In all practical ways, he’s a zombie; a part-time dad and a part-time husband.

He considers collapsing back into bed, muttering.

Fuck the boss man, fuck the tax man, and fuck both mortgages…

The snooze alarm goes off for the third time. Don slaps it off, accidentally knocking over a framed picture of his beautiful family. He picks it up off the floor and sighs, remembering those summer vacations at the lake, escaping the West Texas heat.

I do it for them, he murmurs to himself, collecting the motivation necessary to shamble off to the shower.

Dressed for work in slacks and a short-sleeve button-up shirt, Don finds his wife Tiffany in the kitchen, where she’s just finished washing dishes.

Good morning, she says while handing Don a cup of coffee.

Don gives Tiffany a kiss and a pat on the bottom before turning his attention to the other loves of his life: his daughters.

Dressed in matching private school uniforms, fourteen-year-old Alyssa and ten-year-old Hillary are finishing up their breakfast of bacon and eggs at the kitchen island.

Don beams, walking over to kiss each one on the top of the head.

They barely acknowledge him.

Hey, Dad, Alyssa manages, without removing her eyes from her iPhone.

Hillary’s listening to gangsta rap through her earbuds and singing out loud:

"There's another girl in the dope man's life. Not quite a bitch, but far from a wife. Just call her Strawberry and everybody know: Strawberry, Strawberry is the neighborhood ho’."

Don rolls his eyes, smiles and removes one of Hillary’s ear buds.

You know, Lil’ Hill, he joshes, music has a profound effect on a young, impressionable mind.

Hi, Daddy, she replies with a smile while reinserting her ear bud.

Then again, I’m on your side. I always say every family needs at least one hard-core gangsta, ya know? Right?

Don, leave her alone, Tiffany interjects. You used to like rap, too, remember?

Oh, I’m all for it! Don insists. "I loved rap music back in the day. I wanted to