Bonzo (Part 1)

Fred Sanderson took a draw on the cigarette, the nicotine laced smoke glided down his throat, filling his lungs with a familiar warm, tingling sensation. He held that feeling for as long as he could, before exhaling, the smoke hanging in the cold crisp air. Fred sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned his head against the grey wooden panels of suburbia. A four-bedroom identikit house, stuck in the middle of Dullsville, USA. It could be anywhere. Non-descript. Fred started to slowly bang the base of his skull against the wall. THUD. THUD. THUD. The dull ache of flesh and bone meeting the humdrum of middle America felt so satisfying to Fred. It disguised the throbbing headache that was ratting around his skull. He could hear the kids inside, screaming and causing havoc. Fred opened his eyes.

‘You could just go,’ he muttered to no one. ‘Just jump in the car and drive.’

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t abandon them, he couldn’t just vanish, disappear without telling someone. Fred rooted around in his baggy pockets and fished out a red foam ball. He placed it gently on his nose, making sure that the white and yellow face paint wouldn’t get smudged. He adjusted the shocking red wig that was perched on his head and clumsily made his way to the front door, his oversized shoes squeaking as he walked. His hand reached out towards the doorbell. He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder towards his parked 1994 Toyota Corolla.

‘BONZO THE CLOWN: AVAILABLE FOR PARTIES, BAR MIZVAH’S AND BACHELORETTE PARTIES’

Fred stared at the garish pink writing that dominated his rust covered car. He hated his life at this moment. He rang the door bell. He could hear the noise levels inside increase.

‘Bonzo!’

‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Fred. He caught himself just as the door opened. ‘Hey, hey, I hear there’s a birthday boy…’

Fred was struggling with the long, green balloon. That extra shot of whiskey he sank this morning seemed to have knocked him off more than he expected. The hyperactive blonde haired girl standing on his size 17 clown shoe was demanding a puppy. Fred refused to be held to ransom.

‘You’ll get what I give ya kid.’

‘But I want a puppy.’

‘Son of a…’

Fred threw the balloon at the kid. She looked at it with confused expression, before slowly looking at Fred.

‘It’s a green bellied Amazonian python. Chew your face right off.’

Fred pushed past the expectant line of children, eager for their own balloon animal. He need to take the edge off his headache.

Fred stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His bloodshot eyes were circled with black skin, not make-up, skin. He looked like he had been up for five days straight, which wasn’t too far off. It was more like four and a quarter, he was pretty sure he passed out at some point. The children were rushing around outside the bathroom. Their screams piercing his skull, mixing with the throbbing headache. Fred took off his nicotine stained ‘white’ gloves and fumbled around in his baggy clown pockets. He pulled out a small glass vial filled with with white powder. He looked at his bloodshot eyes before focusing on the small glass container of salvation and unscrewing the lid…

SNIIIIFF.

Nothing. There wasn’t that rush of air and chemicals filling his nasal cavities, flooding his brain with the expectant euphoria.

SNIIIIFF.

Still nothing.

‘Goddam son of a bitch sold me baby powder…’

Fred raised his eyes towards the mirror in defeat. The red foam nose that dominated his face was now coated in some of Colombia’s finest. He ripped foam ball from his face, licking the marching powder from it — it tasted of bad decisions and regret. He fucking loved it. The glass vial found its way to below his left nostril.

SNIIIIFF.

There it was, that rush, the fix he needed. Benzoylmethylecgonine ripped through his bloodstream. He could handle the bunch of brats outside the confines of the bathroom, hell, he could take on the fucking world. He was invicible. He was…Bonzo.

The birthday party was starting to feel more like a wake. The children were expecting to be entertained by a clown, who instead had barricaded himself in the downstairs toilet for the last twenty minutes. Little Ethan, the birthday boy, approached the locked toilet. He hesitantly reached out his hand, before softly knocking on door.

‘Bonzo?’

Nothing. He could hear a lot of muttering and sniffing behind the door. He looked at the rest of the expectant birthday party.

‘I think Bonzo is upset. I think…I think he’s…crying.’

Ethan was a compassionate soul and he knew he had to step up and be the 7-year-old his parents expected him to be. He needed to cheer up the ‘upset’ clown. He raised his hand to knock on the door once more.

Ethan didn’t know what happened next. He would be later told, in his hospital bed, that Bonzo Kung-Fu kicked the door open, screaming ‘LET’S FUCKING DO THIS! WOOOOO’, the door catching Ethan square on the face. A zygomatic fracture the doctor called it, a sore cheekbone as his mom put it. There was also the small matter of the stitches at the base of his skull and the slight concussion from where he fell like a tree against the wall. There had been better birthdays.

‘As I said lady, payment is non-refundable,’ Fred stared down Ethan’s mom.

‘My son has been physically and not to mention emotionally scarred.’

‘Well your son shouldn’t be a little pervert and listen in on folks doing coca…a crap.’

Fred turned on his heels and made his way down the steps and across the pristine lawn, his clown shoes squeaking as he went. He picked up a decorative ceramic squirrel.

‘I’m taking this,’ shouted Fred defiantly.

‘I’ll leave a bad review,’ cried Ethan’s mom desperately.

Fred didn’t even break stride, holding up the middle finger of his gloved hand. He yanked open the door of his Corolla, the hinges squeaking and fighting against the rusted paint. He got into the driver’s seat and tossed the squirrel onto the ripped up passenger seat. The keys were still in the ignition — no one was going to steal this piece of shit car. A turn of the key and black smoke exploded from the exhaust pipe, filling suburbia with toxic fumes. Fred drove off in search of a bar.

‘Fucking jackasses.’

Ethan’s mom stood watching on her porch as Dullsville, USA was filled with the sound of cursing and a piece of shit Corolla backfiring.