Monosyllables spurring out the lobside trickle of face smoosh. Lip swole wrapped in sun-bleached pavement. Like words into canvas as strain. The pack is roundabout the stooper hung across flatly, the puddle of limp rolls eyeball rapids in waves of every encompassing white gloves. The throat dehydrated enough to make strainful pain in breathing. He lets out the growl into concrete hushing mouth, as through the mess of syrup thick with red, saying “No…! Stop… Stop…” He pauses for a moment, his low voice in stupor shrill bass, “Uhhh… Fuck!”
The clowns wrapping around him, hands going up and down him, from his F1 neck pulse shuttle, down to the thick worm glob snuck under the skin as blue wire. The clown with his goat eyes, their slit pupils, is drenched in sweat shine under dark. The clown looks entranced, his lips full and pupils growing… The smell of plastic, makeup, and powder coming from him, the smell mixing with sweat in the air. He moves closer over the man smudged like melted crayon, and closer with his white-caked face, sprinkled in tears coming on… He says in the passionate wet whisper, “It’s been so long…” His voice soft with delicate floats.
The ears ring like a hemorrhage surge of fright, pulling him from failure. The man looks and lets out the curdling scramble of bull cries, screaming out like a child trapped in a man’s body. The clown has a slivering of grin shivering slowly wide and up, his skin flushing full with red behind makeup, his pleasure oozing out of his peanut breath onto the man gagged with dread. The wrath of this love… It’s the wrongness of molestation, and yet, the clown grows closer to his face, caressing him like a shy cat, across his face ripping apart in shudder shakes around a mouth gaping open with tormented noises unrelenting in apish power escaping.
He tries to recoil, he tries to explode his head away, he tries to jerk even a finger, but nothing; unmoving. The dinner that is his condition is served both burning hot and ice-cold, an octopi dish still alive with twitch of headless tendrils, but prey on a silver platter still yet. The body unmoving in its chemical floods in every dot of flesh, feeling one astounding “No.”
The eyes of the clown’s perversion still sickly wide and stretching, his tongue gliding over tears of a man locked inside himself. The way he kisses with wet, warm pecks is in the raping obsession more sensual with every devouring reach of lick glides. The North of his head kissed softly by big red lips painted. The clown even licks at the scalp, embalming the hairline with slobber.
Other clowns stand around, rolling out a white stretcher with blue, red, and yellow dots scattered across it for design. Two other clowns stare with matter-of-fact that acts commonplace, just laughing about the last guy’s kidnapping, as if it were talk about a game. What is this? As if the clown weren’t crying tears of jovial evil. The man becomes defeated, his will frozen with flesh, staring off; disconnected.
Glimpses of a ride through the inside of a box with clowns sitting around. The one perpetrator is holding the man’s hand, rubbing his trembling hand like a wife. “Oh… My beautiful darling!” the clown says to the catatonic man, his face wrenching down with heartbreak. The man glimpses this, and looks down at his body, and finds the arm swarming in blue parasites slugging under his skin, before his head rolls down as he passes out a little more again. Phases of human consciousness find his soul in little moments, before his eyes fall shut into black again.
The man eventually wakes again, and he is bound by wires and leather cuffs holding him down. He is unable to move the mouth in the instant regret of existing, his head unmoving as a boulder, and even unable to hope. The clowns stand over, busy with little surgical blades sliding over his human. The man sees the worst clown, how his mouth is stretched in excitement… He pulls out a long blue thin of worm from under the epidermal firmament of flesh, and he looks up, holding it lengthwise, as the critter hanging from between a finger and thumb dangles in squirms and twists. The clown holds the parasite with the smile of a mother’s love, and he pulls it up to the lip, slurping it like pasta noodle.
The other clowns follow suit in the feast. One even sees another pull out the longest meaty worm noodle yet, and he hatches a crimpling crumple at the eyes and nose. His jealousy possesses him, and he launches at his throat with his fingers in the mechanism of a claw machine after toys. The Adam’s apple is crunched up in hateful haste, before he forces through the air pipe with stiff digits of hand, like a finger pushing through a trampoline that wraps around the depth. Cackles of tiny breath slits are shrinking in the background as his spit flies upwards, his eyes bulging as red pool balls, as if they will pop out his head. The most perverted clown still smiling lustfully at the victim.
The man is repenting to his guilt that drove him to the circumstance here. He is just locked up inside himself… He doesn’t know what the point of this could be.
The one clown perverted looks over at the man, saying, “Imagine this is a joke. Wouldn’t that be funny, Ouroboros?” His smile now like a friend and brother of all time, the grin shitting a smile eating itself like a dumb relative. “Wouldn’t that be funny!” the clown says again, his snorting and snickers cry out in joyous hoot swings.
The immediate burst of laughter escapes the man confined to the stretcher, being able to laugh now, unable to hold the eccentric jazz rhythm of the lungs’ rising and falling chuckles. All the clowns shoot their laughter across the room loudly, dying of joyful pleasure. He laughs even harder, “I hate God!” He looks over at all the clowns, where they all look in knowing of this mutual value. One clown, almost dead, giggles from the ground as through a broken windpipe. As the man strapped down, Ouroboros, laughs, he lets rings in a stifle of lip bite, before saying more, “I fucking hate you, Lucifer!” He cackles more in rolls that can’t escape.
Lucifer jokes the same in round with everyone, “I hate you too, brother!”
“Wait,” Lucifer says, his laughs growing a little suspicious now, “Who the fuck are you guys?” he asks of the other clowns.
“Just words is all, see?” one clown answers, as he points to the outside boundary of their reality, the edge of a papyrus they were all written into. Lucifer and Ouroboros realize they are in the dream of ink and scroll.
“Oh…” Speaks of a Lucifer realizing their forgetfulness.