Life’s Joker

by Rachel Lazansky-Weast

The two thin lines of white powder coat the inside of Mac’s nostrils the same color as the rest of his painted face. He lifts his nose from the small hand mirror on his dresser, taking a swig from the bottle of Jack sitting next to his wig. Picking up a packet of red face paint, he dips his brush into the gooey liquid and begins to paint his smile on. The red seeps across his lips and stretches past his cheekbones. Next he smears green paint above his bloodshot eyes and draws arches over the stubble that used to be his eyebrows. He sticks his long pinky nail into his little bag of powder, sniffs hard, and lets out a grunt. The time has come.

* * *

“The time has come, it is quite clear, our antichrist is almost here...” The music ripped through the little boy’s eardrums, drowning out the booming minister’s voice from the pulpit yelling of serpents, damnation, and eternal hellfire. He glanced nervously down the pew at his father. The man’s dark hair poked from his head like barbed wire and his lips were plastered shut. It was only moments earlier that he had screamed in his son’s startled face after walking in on him in the bathroom.

“That is filthy, Macarthur, do you hear me?! It’s a sin! God is always watching you, he knows what you’ve done,” he screamed, spit flying from his angry red mouth.

Mac’s pants were crumpled around his ankles, his small boyish hands hurriedly covering his hard penis in shame.

“I’m s-s-sorry, I didn’t know Dad, really!” he whined, cringing as the knuckles came toward his jaw, throttling his head back and bashing it into the window behind him.

* * *

Mac’s boots pound against the old wooden stairs as he descends down to the basement. The farthest wall is dimly illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The large man lets out a grim laugh as his eyes wander around the various newspaper articles stapled to the wall: TEN KILLED, THIRTY INJURED IN BOMBING! CLOWN KILLER STILL AT LARGE! And further down the wall: FBI NARROWING IN ON KILLER CLOWN’S LOCATION! CLOWN BOMBER SUSPECTED TO LIVE IN CALIFORNIA’S BAY AREA!

Mac shakes his head, chuckling. Those shit-eating detectives think they’ve got it all figured out.

Proceeding to his worktable, Mac pulls out a bent pack of Newports from his back pocket, removes one, examines it, and grudgingly returns it to his pack. He knows better than to smoke around flammables.

He reaches into a toolbox and pulls out a heavy metal egg. His eyes caress the bomb fondly. He has been working on this one for over a month now. All that’s missing is the final touch. Flipping open his butterfly knife, he leans over the table. When he pulls his head up finally, an intricate clown face is carved into the surface of the small bomb.

Mac lets out a sigh. Reaching back into his toolbox, he fumbles around for his stash. His hand hits a small soft bag, and he pulls it out. Dipping the knife into the bag, it comes out with white powder heaped on the tip. Mac can feel his nostrils craving the smooth burn of the coke. He sniffs two scoops and thinks he is God.

* * *

His mother’s sobbing from the kitchen was not what scared Mac. He frantically tried to wipe the lipstick from his lips while he kicked her high heels from his feet. He was just unzipping the back of the turquoise dress when he heard heavy footsteps racing down the hall toward his room. Before he had time to move, the door slammed open and his father stormed in with wild eyes.

“You little shit!” The harsh smell of rum hung on his breath. “You a faggot or something boy? One of those freaks that gets off to wearing women’s clothes?” His fingers were at his belt buckle. The leather slipped from around his waist with a loud CRACK! Mac cowered in front of the towering man standing above him. The belt whipped through the air, striking his exposed back and bruising where it collided with his spine. Letting out a silent cry, Mac’s mouth contorted and he grabbed his knees to hold back the screams.

“I won’t have any gays in my house,” his father yelled. Again and again the belt flashed through the air until his father’s energy was spent. He turned his back and walked from the room, leaving the bleeding and broken body of his son crumpled on the floor.

* * *

The red autumn leaves blow in a fiery trail behind Mac as he walks swiftly down Addison Street. The handle of the black briefcase is slippery between Mac’s excited fingers. The cigarette between his painted lips is almost down to the filter, but he likes the closeness of the heat near his mouth. Stopping in front of the church, he turns and ascends the stone steps. Before entering, he lets the butt fall, crushing it beneath his heavy black boots. This will be an interesting day for St. Joseph’s, he chuckles to himself.

Inside the church is deathly silent. Mac walks to the front of the large hall, briefcase in hand. When he reaches the front pew, he sits and looks around him. The podium in front is just as tall and menacing as when he was little. To his right the altar boy is sweeping the floor. Behind him an old lady sits with her hands clasped. The minister is nowhere in sight. Mac focuses his attention to his lap, where the briefcase sits undisturbed. Silently he pulls open the top.

A small clown face stairs up at him, a face that reflects his own. He cradles the bomb in his hands, and it seems to glint and shimmer, the weight reminding him of the power he carries. Mac glances at his watch, 11:55. Almost noon mass, he smiles. Soon this building will be filled with bodies. He rolls the bomb over and with a safety pin pushes the activation button. The numbers 00:20:00 blink red, 00:19:59, 58, the minutes tick away.

* * *

The air in the house hung silent and moist when Mac entered the front door. The usual signs of life were absent and Mac’s ears strained to hear as he climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. On the top stair, his breath caught in his throat, rising and choking him with a hard pang. The bathroom door was ajar, the shower curtain pulled back. He dashed to the edge of the bathtub and there, on the floor of the tub lay his mother’s motionless form. The glaring red pool beneath her naked body burned his eyes but he could not look away. His brain marveled at the vast amount of blood her body had contained which was now spilled out through her slashed wrists. Her dark hair was splayed around her face, soaked in her own blood. Breath had left her lips and her skin was too pale, almost blue, and icy cold.

Mac could not think, would not allow himself to let in this horrible sight. He wished he were in a dark cave where he could escape in warmth and thoughtlessness. Kicking off his scuffed Converse, he moved carefully over his mother and lay down in the tub beside her. Cool liquid seeped through his jeans and t-shirt but he snuggled as close to her body as he could. He felt the pressure of her breasts against his wet back, reminding him of when she would lay with him until he fell asleep as a toddler. He took her arm and pulled it over his shoulder, wrapping himself in the comfort of her corpse.

* * *

The church is suffocating, each pew packed with families. Mac stands alone, away from the masses, hidden near the confession booth. The faint pulsing tick coming from his coat cannot be heard above the noise of the settling crowd. He peeks under his jacket, 00:09:13. He picks at his long fingernails and taps his heel on the marble floor, the sound rippling off the blue stained glass like water.

The crowd turns quiet as the minister approaches the altar.

“Welcome, sons and daughters of the Lord, our God, on this fine October day. Now, let us pray.”

Tick, tick, tick goes the bomb. Tap, tap, tap bounces Mac’s boot. “Boom, boom, boom,” whispers Mac.

* * *

“Marie! Oh God, Marie, No! What have you done?” His father’s voice was scared and shaken, not carrying its usual gruffness. Mac hesitated before turning around to face his father. He was on his knees in front of the bathtub, shaking his wife’s stiff blood encrusted body.

“You! You’re alive! What happened? What did you do?” His eyes were lasers through the tears. “Get out of there, get out!” Grabbing his thin elbow, he dragged Mac from his mother’s side and onto the cold tile floor. “You did this! You drove her to this!” He screamed.

“No, Dad, I-” the little boy was cut off. His father’s hand was around his throat, throwing him backward into the wall behind him. Plaster crackled beneath his fragile skull. Mac slipped down and sunk to the floor.

“It should’ve been you! You’re worthless, now GET OUT!” His father screamed again. Mac crawled on his hands and knees from the bathroom, leaving his father and mother alone. The last thing he saw before the door slammed in his face was his father raking his own hair from his scalp and crying, “Why God, why didn’t you take him instead?”

* * *

“Daddy, who’s that funny man back there?” points a little girl from the far right pew.

“He looks silly,” laughs the boy next to her. Motherfucker, Mac curses under his breath.

The father is staring hard at Mac’s painted face. Suddenly a flash of recognition crosses his face and he draws in a gasp. “It’s him!” Murmurs and cries of shock resonate throughout the congregation. Before anyone can move Mac is at the door. Grabbing the broom the altar boy had left behind, he snaps it in two over his knee and bars the door shut.

“Nobody leaves!” he yells, pulling the bomb from his coat. Yells and shrieks fill the room, people running toward the altar to get as far from the explosive as they can, but the ticking is getting louder. “Nobody,” he repeats. Now he is walking down the isle toward the crowd, his footsteps echoing the ticking of the bomb, 00:00:56, 55, 54. “Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock,” he repeats. “The time has come, my friends. Your Antichrist is here.” He stops in front of the altar where the priest is still standing motionless. “Tick, tock, tick. Twenty two, twenty one, twenty, nineteen….” A slow smile crosses his face, mimicking his painted lips and exposing his yellowing teeth. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” The final second ticks down. Mac closes his eyes, and waits for the hellfire.