Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A hot early autumn sun beat down on sandy land, where crops struggled to thrive, roots stubbornly pushing past the surface of hard dirt to grow. Survival didn't come easy on a Grapeseed farm, but persistence was rewarded, and a few sparse crops managed to pepper the land Bobo owned. Every so often, the large man haunted the rows of growing crops with his heavy footsteps, observing and tending to the colorful crops and vines.

Wordlessly, he plucked a bushel of carrots and a few ripe onions, and tossed them into a basket with a grunt. In his other hand, he carried a large shovel, and he continued on, not stopping long to take from the garden. He had another errand to tend to today.

He walked a long distance from the modest farm and it’s large but dilapidated house, where no food grew and no animals roamed. There were no trees to shade him, and no signs of life except for the tall, unkempt blades of grass that reached to his waist. Bobo looked for a place that was isolated: far from human eyes.

And when he found the perfect spot, he stabbed his shovel into the dirt and began digging a hole not very large or deep. The clown reached into his pocket and removed a fistful of human teeth. He dropped them inside the hole, and buried them under a mound of dirt made to look like a natural indent in Earth: the evidence of lives' to be disguised and undiscovered forever.

Teeth. One of the only remains that pigs won't eat, and fire won't burn. Teeth. His, too, would last a long time after he was gone, broken and cracked pieces of his skull that suggested a life of undernourishment and illness...

Not too long from now, he thinks. His old bones hurt from the exertions of the day: the keeping of the large plot of land he tended, and the digging to hide the evidence of his games.

But he works, and he works alone, and when his job was done, Bobo turned around without a hint of emotion in his eyes, and slowly made his way back toward his home.

He recognizes every tree and pock mark in the ground, the land as familar to him as his own skin and bones. Even as his eyes dim with age, he is astute to any detail that’s askew on his property…

And that’s when he sees it: a human-shaped bundle disrupting the perfect order in a field of wheat. The golden stalks were bent and broken under the weight of what appeared to be… a boy.

A living boy, Bobo observes— with some disappointment. It’s chest rises and falls slowly, in peaceful slumber…

And hate filled every pore in Bobo’s body. He hated people, big or small. No living thing deserved to breathe the clean air of his Grapeseed farm except the animals, and this disgusting little intruder was taking what belonged to him, on land that belonged to him.

He prodded the body with his shovel, and it stirred. Dirty, small hands pushed himself up from the grass, and he blinked up at the imposing— horrifying — figure of a man dressed all in blue with the makings of a clown, and a shovel raised threateningly. He rubbed at wide eyes, sure this must be he a nightmarish hallucination.

Bobo rose the shovel in a threat above the little body, and snarled a threat. “Get out of here!”

Startled and dazed, words slowly trickled up from the small voice in the grass. "Wh- where am I?" 

"That ain't none of your business! This is my property, boy! And I don’t take kindly to uninvited guests!”

“' Paw perdy'...?" The boy began to stand, and looked around the field in confusion. 

He was a slow-moving, easy target in the grass… Bobo, silently, considers the merits of killing the boy. Likely, it was a disobedient little snot: a neighborhood kid running amok in the grass to avoid doing his chores back home... and Bobo felt nothing but displeasure for it.

... but a missing kid could send cops or concerned citizens to his doorstep, sniffing around in places Bobo didn’t want them to be... 

He wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with a large arm, and decides: killing it was more trouble (and effort) than it was worth.
The child was probably too stupid to cause any trouble, anyway. Scaring it would do just fine. (And the truth was, he didn't want to have to chase no lively kid alone. Not when he wasn't prepared for it...)

"Get on home!" He bellowed, and the boy scurried backward in the grass away from the man, but did not yet rise to his feet. Bobo bared his teeth in an angry snarl, lifting the metal end of the shovel threateningly. “You want me to hit you?” And that, the boy understood: he gathered to his feet in a hurry with wide eyes, and took off down the dusty path between fields of tall grass, and the sound of his clothes scraping against the leaves followed him the whole way. 

“That’s right— get ! And don’t ever come back here or I’ll beat you blue!” Bobo snapped after him, and his little feet carried him faster. 

He was a fast runner, and he hoped over the occasional rock and errant root with ease...
the blessings of youth!
Bobo could hardly remember a time when it was that easy...

The thought of children sickens him: their incessant whines and cries, the unpleasant sounds and smells, their loud demands for crackers and balloon animals...

They were insufferable, the little brats, and one of the many reasons he'd left the life of a circus clown in favor of a quiet Grapeseed farmhouse...

He’d put out a bloody scarecrow to scare away the birds and neighbors alike, he decided: that should keep them all away.

His work done, he picked up his basket of produce and continued his walk to the house.

… and it wasn’t long before his maw was clenched again, an angry noise bubbling in the back of his throat.

There it was again. 

That boy— standing in the cleaning before the Funhouse, staring up at it… even with his back to the man, it was easy to see the boy was enchanted by the sight of the large farmhouse to which his eyes were glued...

Bobo's fists curled: his footsteps grew heavy, and his voice menacing. "Didn't I tell you to get out of here?"

The boy turned around in a hurry, his shoes crunching barren gravel ground as he did. He stared with big brown eyes that reflected the sun, and unconsciously began to step away, backward. “I— I heard you, mister, but—“

“Don’t back talk me, boy--”

“ I don’t know how to get home! ” He cried out in panic, sensing impending punisgment in Bobo's harsh tone. He knew that tone, and he knew what came next... Pain .

Bobo growled, but decided the boy might be too dim-witted to figure it out on his own. “Your folks have a place around here, don't they boy?”

“Maybe… no… I don’t think so… I've never seen a place like this…”

“You from the city, boy?”

“No… maybe…”

“You don't know nothin', do you?” He sneered.

The boy shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’— my pa always says so.” 

Bobo stared, like he was trying to pierce the boys soul through his body. The boy fidgeted, tugging on an ear and looking around like a path would reveal itself, and Bobo saw nothing but vacant, empty fear in his eyes… at that, a smile morphed the man’s face. It was an ugly, menacing thing on the man, which revealed yellowed teeth with holes of rot. “Is that right…?”
Dumb was just the way he liked his prey. It was harder for them to escape... “Well, boy, I suppose I can make room for ya at the dinner table…”

“Really ?”

“That’s right." Bobo frowned sternly. “But we earn our keep around here. I don’t hand out food for free.” He swung the basket at the boy, demanding that he carry it. 

The boy understood, taking the job without question. He understood this way of life very well. His father never let him do anything for free: every bite of food, every second of punishment-free living was paid for by his work and obedience. He took the task Bobo offered without question. His eyes lit up with hunger when he noticed the contents of the basket, and Bobo noticed, greedily snapping—

"Don't you dare think about it, boy. That's for the stew." Bobo looked at the thing, skinny and weak. Malnourished and bony, his big dark eyes were the only soft thing about him, and they reminded Bobo of the witless cows that roamed the fields… “You can pay me for my kindness by shuttin’ up,” he ordered. He was tired of hearing the pathetic desperation in his voice. It gave him nothing but a headache: no sympathy, just grating annoying.

The boy perked up. The quiet game. He played this game with his dad, a lot! He knew the rules...
But, he wasn’t very good at it, no matter how many times he played… a few minutes passed before he lost the game, his wandering mind having latched onto other thoughts and forgetting about the game entirely: “Have you seen my dad around here, mister?”

“Ain’t nobody else around here, kid.” That’s the way Bobo liked it. (That’s the way he needed it, for his plans to work.)

“ Oh … well, I’ll get in trouble, if I don’t find him…” He muttered, sounding concerned.

“ Nobody’s gonna find you here,” Bobo sneered sharply. (He hoped fear would shut the child up.)

But it doesn't: the boy frowned in concentration, and looked around… mentally trying to retrace his steps. (If he took too long to get home, he’d be punished. He was never allowed to play for long . and definitely not with strangers ...) He ponders over the very last things he remembers: a long, long car ride… and himself, running… running , through fields of overgrown wheat, to escape something… or someone... He squinted, confused by the hazy memories, which felt like they faded from his memory more and more by the second. He looked up at Bobo, the tall man with no eyebrows and sweat on his brow. “How long am I staying for?” He asked.

“You’re not long for this world.”

“... what’s that mean? ”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Will you tell my dad I was good? So I don’t get in trouble?”

“You ain’t gotta worry about getting in trouble no more.” 

“ Really ?! Thanks mister!”

Bobo scoffed. The idiot thinks it’s benevolence, not a warning of his impending death...

Grass swayed in the calm winds, and a cow called in the distance... and even though there his only company was a scary clown, for the first time in a long time, the boy wasn't afraid… “How did I get to here?”

Bobo is tired of the questions. So many questions. normally, he’d have slit their throat to silence by now– “You fell from a balloon. In the sky,” he lies, smoothly, betraying none of his violent thoughts or ill intent.

Finally, a good meal, and fallen right into his lap… it would be a waste to scare it off so quickly...

“I did?” said the boy. Confused, but gullible.

“That’s right,” he lied again. "Greedy," Bobo snapped. "Greedy little children ask for too many balloons, and they float away." Bobo explained, thinking back to days under a circus tent, slave to grubby little children just like this one.

"But I never had a balloon before," the bewildered boy thought aloud.

"That's impossible. Every boy's held a balloon before."

"Not me, mister. My pa never took me to the sir kissed. He hates clowns," he rambled on. "He says they're bad people and I should never talk to one or I'll end up dead and buried under someone's basement,“ the boy matter of factly reported.

"And yet you're talking to me..."

"Yeah… you don't seem that bad t' me, mister." The boy seemed confused by that. If clowns were so bad, why was this one nicer than his pa ever was… ?

Bobo looked back at the boy who trudged behind him, following in his foot steps, watching him almost like a duckling following it’s mother…

Hardly any meat on his bones, Bobo observed.
Hardly any meat in his head, either, he thought.

This one was simple.
Stupid. Probably alone…
And very gullible, easily herded and convinced…

But even a dim-witted dog could be useful. 

They could be trained…

    But would something like that be worth all the trouble… ?

            He isn’t certain: never considered the possibility of companionship, not even for the practicality of sharing the work load…

Dark inquisitiveness fills his tone. “ … Run , boy. Show me how fast you can run.”

“Run? Okay!” He takes off on the wind, acclimated to a life on the run. The boy was good at that: he and his father ran a lot, when the men in blue uniforms interrupted dad’s work. Then he would curse and scream and yell at the boy to go faster— keep up or get left behind… and he hadn’t been left behind yet.

Bobo doesn’t take chase, though he often did: the predator to unwitting prey. Instead, he watches.

He was fast, for a little runt.
Strong, for a starved husk of a boy…

The boy stopped his sprint at the porch, and the sudden halting sent an onion flying from the basket he carried,, where it rolled down the gravel path toward Bobo. The boy chased after it clumsily like a fool: like a clown in a circus show…

Bobo huffed, not wanting to admit to himself he wasn’t unimpressed by the boys quick feet and obedience.

It gawked up at the clown and his huge home in awe. “Is this house yours, mister?”

“Of course it's my house. It belongs to me,” the man proudly spat. “Bobo’s Funhouse.”

“A funhouse? I never been in one of those!” He’d never been in a house, period, especially no fun one. A couple rundown apartments, but these days, mostly motel rooms where he slept on the floor– maybe a chair, if he was lucky. But they were no fun at all: at best, he got to watch old tv shows while his dad was in the shower or left him behind in a locked room that reeked of cigarette smoke...
He spotted a vine on the porch, and approached it with steps that creaked the weary wood under foot. “You grow tomatoes? I love tomatoes! I like bananas too. Do you grow those?”

“This look like the tropics to you, boy?”

“What’s a 'straw pick'?

“You aren’t very bright, are you?” Bobo speaks sharply in annoyance, and the boy cowed: he knew the price for making a grown man mad. It was a fist, or a belt, or a book...

“ Sorry mister. I never went to elle-men-tree school…” He was more quiet and observant as Bobo led him into the house and through rooms full of junk and decay, following a series of rooms that wound through the house in a confusing labryinth. Finally, they reached the kitchen, where a pot simmered on the stove. The boy’s stomach ached with hunger.

"What does your pa call you?"

"Boy," he answered simply.

"Your name , boy," Bobo barked in irritation. "I'm asking your name."

" My name? Well, I don't know it…” When was the last time he heard it…? So long that he can’t remember… so long that it might as well not exist... “I don’t think I got one of those."

He looks at the youth in disbelief. "That’s impossible! Don’t you ever lie to Bobo. Lies make your mouth dirty, and you don’t wanna see what Bobo does to dirty mouthed little liars ,” he scowled. 

“I don’t?”

“Don’t make me find you out!” 

“But— I don’t know my name!” The boy stuttered nervously. “I don’t have a name! Is Bobo your name? I— I could be a—… ” The boy tries to think of a name on the spot, but he had met so few people— he couldn’t recall many names, least of all what his might be.

“You’ll be quiet, that’s what you’ll be,” Bobo cut him off, tired of the chattering youth. " Make yourself useful. Cut the onions. And I don't want to hear no crying." Bobo handed the boy a dull kitchen knife, one that the boy had no clue had long ago, before its edge had flattened with time, been bloodied with the viscera of many human bodies…

The old man watched the nameless boy clumsily follow directions— asking a million questions along the way. He was an insufferable chatterbox who barely knew the difference between left and right, lacking in all the common training a boy his age should have… but, with youth, and naïveté, came a blank slate , where Bobo’s own wisdoms could be inscribed… 

No name, no home, no idea where he came from or how to leave… quick, malleable, capable, and too afraid (or perhaps too stupid ) not to obey... maybe, Bobo thought, an apprentice could be more useful to him living, rather than as an ingredient for his stew...

Chapter Text

He stood on the pier with a bushel of balloons tied in three's: blue, yellow, red…

He had cried a little beforehand, and asked Bobo if they would carry him away, but Bobo admonished him for the stupid question: ‘only if you hold too many, you little fool. so make sure you give them away to everyone you see.’

And Chatterbox did, under the watchful eye of his clown guardian...

Some people refused him, some ignored him, and even those who took the balloons showed little interest in what else he had to say, the strange face-painted little boy…

But then a family of three passed by, and finally his luck looked up: a young couple with a little girl maybe half the boy’s age stopped in front of him to chat, at the behest of their little daughter. ( Chatterbox avoided her eyes: he wasn’t supposed to talk to girls...

Not that he wanted to anyway. Ew— yuck!)

But he offers a balloon to her dad, a cheerful man with a bounce in his step, seeming happy as can be with his little family. “Mister, Mister, over here! Do you want a balloon? Chatterbox has lots of balloons! Too many!”

Startled, the mother looked down at the small boy with concern in her eyes.

“How much do they cost?” The man asked, seeing his daughter’s eyes light up with curiosity at the colorful sight and colorful boy handing out balloons.

“They don’t cost nothing, mister! Bobo says Chatterbox should give balloons to everyone! Everyone he sees!” He unties and eagerly hands over a yellow balloon (keeping as many red for himself as he can), and the man took it with a laugh.

“Well thanks! What’s your name, kid?”

“Chatterbox!” He piped up cheerily, then remembered his instructions: “Bobo is throwing a party at the Funhouse and he wants you to come! It’s free; it won't cost ya nothing!”

“Wow— free, huh? Aren’t you a little young to be in the advertising business?”

“A - per- tizing? Chatterbox doesn’t know what that is!”

“Oh, geez,” laughed the man, and the little girl giggled at the silly boy, too.

The boy's cheeks went as red as his balloon, and felt the red flicks of rage rise in his chest... are they laughing at me?

But Bobo would get angry if he lashed out and scared them away, so the clown swallows his rage and laughed along with them. "Follow me, follow me!" He gestured to the clown standing besides a van, watching them: "Bobo!" He called, proud of his catch.

“I don’t know, I don’t really like clowns,” the mother wavered. “I’m not sure a Funhouse is such a good idea for me.”

“Can he make balloon animals?” The little girl asked, and Chatterbox wasn’t sure if she meant him or Bobo, but he pretends not to hear her because talking to girls is bad. (And gross!)

“Come on, it’s just a boy and his father trying to make an extra buck doing some clown schtick… we should check it out!” The father urged quietly under his breath, and a back and forth ensured. Chatterbox nodded along to wbat the man said, offering a “mhm mhm”, and eventually the man won the argument. (No thanks to the strange little boy, but he didn't know that.)

“Yippee! This way, this way! Chatterbox will show you the way!” The little boy took off in Bobo’s direction, excited that he’d completed the task he was given. 

They all rode home together in Bobo’s big blue van, and the Chatterbox chatters the whole way. Bobo tells them about Funhouse games and prizes, but Chatterbox has never played any games or won any prizes, so he listens with rapt attention and excitement… this was fun! This was new! He couldn't wait to try out Bobo's games!

But to his disappointment, when they arrived, Bobo shooed him away.

“Go feed the pigs,” he grunted when they were alone, and gestured to the front door. 

“But it’s dark!” Chatterbox complained. “And the big ones are scary! They scare Chatterbox!” Sometimes, the way they look at him makes him wonder if they want to tackle him and make him their lunch…

“Do you want to sleep in a pig pen tonight?” Bobo hissed, impatient and angry, and Chatterbox knew the threat was no bluff. He knew from experience.

“Chatterbox is sorry, Bobo! Chatterbox will feed the pigs...” He mumbled, then rushed out the door.

Usually, Bobo wouldn't tolerate mumbling. He hated any improper or imprecise speech. But he lets it go for the night: he was especially impatient.

The party guests were waiting for him somewhere, somewhere Chatterbox didn’t see. That must be why… he didn’t want to keep them waiting. 

The pigs were fed, then the boy trodded home and found no Bobo in sight. He mingled with the stray cats on the back porch for awhile and when Bobo still did not appear, he carefully snuck into the living room and turned on the radio very very low to listen to music— a guilty pleasure he snuck in when he thought Bobo was asleep, or otherwise too occupied to catch him...

He wondered what prizes the little girl won, and he felt jealous that he didn’t get to play. 

Bobo never played any games with him…

All he did was work all day…

He fell asleep with the radio on and got in trouble for it in the morning, but got in worse trouble when he asked where the mom and dad and girl had went. He was punished with soap in his mouth and extra chores-- cleaning out the attic-- for his insolence, but he never got an answer…

The happy family drove home with them that night and he never saw them again...

And just when Chatterbox had nearly forgotten all about the family and the party he wasn’t invited to… Bobo did it all over again. The same bushel of balloons, but a new place to go: a park near an old neighborhood, where he put Chatterbox to work underneath a big shady tree.

Over and over, in all different places, he offered balloons and invited them to a party he’d never himself seen, and drove him with people he'd never see again.

“There’s a petting zoo and a cotton candy cloud and Bobo does a big dance at the end!” He lied. (That’s what he imagined it to be…) “Come and see!”

“Really?” A boy his age asked, and looked up at his grandmother with eager, pleading eyes. I win! the boy thought.

“Bobo trained a tiger and Bobo has the worlds biggest bubble blower!” He lied, the next time, to a teenage couple. They shared a disbelieving look, but curiosity got the best of them, and they followed the little boy to the van. Gotcha! 

“Chatterbox knows magic tracks. Chatterbox can make you disappear,” is his biggest lie yet, but it works! A family of seven squeeze into the van and Chatterbox knows he did good because Bobo gives him the littlest bit of a smile that day. I'm the best at this!

“ Well done, Chatterbox.” Bobo said, and slammed the door after the family crunched into the worn seats, giving the boy a secret smile.

And Chatterbox decides he should lie to people more. 

Maybe someday, if he does well enough, he’ll even get invited to the secret parties…

On a hot early day in July, a boy sits clutching a knife, watching the blood run a river from the hilt to the floor...

He’s seen lots of blood before, but it was usually his own. He's surprised to find that blood is the same color in everyone: 

bright bright red, his favorite color…

“Get up,” Bobo ordered from behind him, and he slowly rose to his feet, only then realizing his breath was coming in and out in loud shallow pants. “Did you hurt yourself.” There isn’t concern in the clown’s voice: just question.

“No,” he breathed in surprise. He  didn’t hurt himself…

He hurt somebody else…

“No ?” Bobo’s tone was a raised, unhappy question. 

“No!” came a higher pitched squeak from the boy, (his 'clown' voice, the only one he was permitted to speak out loud in--) “No, sir!”

“That’s better,” Bobo let it be. “Leave them there for now. She’ll bleed herself out,” he instructed, and gestured for the smaller one to stand. “Come, Chatterbox.”

The boy rose and followed, taking one last look about the bodies behind him. A finger twitched, and a long quiet groan escaped one of them… they weren’t going to be okay, were they…?

He wiped away a bead of sweat from the exertion of the attack, smearing facepaint onto his small hand, and stumbled after the elder clown.

“What did we do that for, Bobo? Bobo said there was a party,” the clown slightly whined, disappointed by the turnout in the basement party. He finally gets invited to one, and it ends so soon? And like that?

Bobo turned on him, his eyes and voice serious. "It is a party,” 

“It is ?”

“A fun one,” he confirmed. "It's a party, and a part of our life... the clown life."

“Oh…” Chatterbox glanced behind him, and as Bobo took the knife from him and tossed it in the sink, he wrestled with a confusing mixture of emotions.

“Well? Didn't you have fun, Chatterbox?”

did you?  he questioned the voice in his head, the one that speaks like he used to, before Bobo. when it was just him and his pa...

  yeah… i did. 

“Y es!” The little clown gleefully answered. “There was so much red! I— Chatterbox loves red!”

Bobo chuckled in satisfaction, and gave a small, rare smile. 

“Good…” Bobo paused by the knife rack in the kitchen, placing a hand on the butcher’s blade, before turning to the boy thoughtfully. “You did well enough,” he gruffly complimented, but it was the most praise the little clown had in years, and he ate it up, eyes lighting up and teeth showing underneath the white  paint he applied each morning.

“I did?”

“ Chatterbox did,” Bobo reminded— venomously chastised— and the boy’s expression fell in apology (and fear). “That’s alright… I think it’s time, Chatterbox.”

“T-time? For what?"

“To choose a face of your own.”

“A... face…?” The fear begins to slowly ebb away, tentatively letting himself feel excitement. “Like Bobo wears?”

“Yes. Your real face. And we can make it… red .”

A chittering of childish, excited delight filled the room— something that would normally annoy and fill bobo with rage, but for this occasion… he’d allow it. 

“No more face paint?!”

“You’re beyond that now,” Bobo congratulated him, in his subtle, unspoken way. He'd given the boy his first kill, and he’d done well... barely shown a lick of remorse: here he was looking like a clapping monkey clock in his kitchen. Bobo isn’t sure if it’s because the boy doesn’t understand what he’s done, or if he really doesn’t care, but both were equally suitable for his purposes.  As long as he kills without remorse— without stopping-- that was fine by him.

“Now run along, boy. There’s a lot of work to be done in the basement, and I don’t want you getting in my way.” 

“Chatterbox can help!” 

“Not yet,” he dismissed. “You’re still too weak ,” he waved the boy off, and disappeared down the stairs again, a heavy knife in hand. 

Chatterbox watched and considered sneaking behind him, and snooping around the corner to see what Bobo had planned for the party guests now… but he was too excited for hide and seek: he didn’t want to sit still. So he rushed out the door and ran to the barn, climbing on top and looking out at the fields with pride and pure joy. Then he jumped down and ran some more, climbing the water tower with ease and whooping with excitement when he jumped from the ladder back onto the ground.

Finally ! He was a real clown! 

Chapter Text

Like a song that plays round and round on the record player, he recognizes the rhythm: the sound of Bobo’s work boots hitting wooden floor, trailing through the hallway of the house until they stop in front of the doorway where the boy slept at night. Even through sleep, he was alert: the steps become louder as they came closer, and the boy wakes up with a start.

He used to be blind and deaf to the telling creaks of the house and the sound of Bobo’s breathing coming closer, but he had learned to never let Bobo sneak up on him. Nothing good happened when he was caught unaware…

The man’s voice cuts through the suspenseful silence. “Up, Chatterbox. We have work to do.”

The boy squinted. What time was it ? 

  Not morning yet: that much he can tell. A plank of wood covers the nearest window to keep out any prying eyes, but in the daytime, light slipped through cracks of uncovered glass on the top and bottom. But when he opens his eyes, it was dark except for dim light from the small oil lantern he was allowed to keep (when he was good.) “ Now, Bobo? But it’s still dark,” the boy complained.

Bobo’s voice darkened at the disobedience. It was only slight and childish, but that was more than enough to arouse Bobo’s anger.  “ Up ,” he repeated— not unlike a man to his dog— and the little clown stirs out of his sleeping bag with barely audible whines of complaint. ( Not too loud . He was afraid Bobo would hear him.)

Bobo worked in the night often, alone in the basement, but he usually left Chatterbox alone during those hours...

Tonight, though, he leads him down the basement stairs.

Suddenly, he stops, when he catches a glimpse of the boy behind him. His head swiveled on his neck, eyes cutting holes in the boy. “ Your mask, ” he snarled.

“ Huh ?”

“Where is it?” He hissed.

Small hands went to cheeks that were sullen by a sparse diet, when they should have been squishy and boyish. His eyes went huge. “Sorry, Bobo! Chatterbox will get it– Chatterbox will go get!” He sprinted down the hallway as fast as his feet would let him, slipping on the wood in his haste, and dove to the sleeping bag to dig through sheets and find where he’d put the mask he’d been given.

He was tired!
  He forgot ! 

Bobo waited, and when Chatterbox returned, he found that Bobo had not moved an inch. Like a solid statue, he stood still looking over his shoulder, waiting for the boy to return. He looked angry. Chatterbox feared he was considering whether the oversight was worth punishing over–

  Not the cage, not the cage–

The boy opened his mouth to apologize, but finally Bobo took steps forward, and opened the basement door instead. “You never enter this basement without your mask, Chatterbox. Understood?”

He nodded, almost happily. Relieved by the mercy. “Yes, Bobo!” 

Bobo walks to a table, and turns on a light overheard ( the boy blinked as the bright lights flickered on, and tries not to jump with fright.)

“You’re not a child anymore. It’s time to earn your keep.
    It’s time you do some real work around here,” Bobo started.

He wasn’t working already? Chatterbox felt like he was always working.

“You’d old enough… proven yourself useful,” Bobo continued, collecting tools from a shelf. He paused. “Useful enough ,” he corrected, not wanting to go too far with his praise, lest the boy get an ego. That could present a real problem, when he was bigger, and stronger, Bobo knew; the stubborn boy was already a big problem when he didn’t want to go in the kennel, and he couldn’t be more than a decade old, and barely tall enough to reach the basement light switch…

But the meager compliment was enough to make Chatterbox beam, proud of being invited into the REAL clowns’ work. “What can Chatterbox do now?!”

“You’ll help me make the stew tonight.”

“ Oh… ” He tried not to sound disappointed.
  But cooking?! 

That was boring work! That’s what Granny Rashguard did!
If this is what it meant to be older and useful, he’d rather stay young and useless on the farm fields…

Bobo glared at the loss of enthusiasm in the little clowns voice, and the boy compliantly fixed his attitude, standing up straight and at attention.

Bobo was growing irritable. The boy was not blatantly insubordinate this night, like he could sometimes be, but he was growing a little bold … and lax …
NOT AFRAID ENOUGH.
The man clenched his fists, but did not act yet.

“Butchering,” he went on. “That’s what you’ll learn. Someday, it will be your job to feed many clowns. The family will grow and be stronger. Isn’t that right?” He asked the question, but he did not expect an answer. It wasn’t a question. It was an order. Follow in his footsteps or lose your feet. Bobo picked up a knife and pointed it at him. “And you’ll thank me for all I’ve done— everything I taught you.”

Chatterbox looked at the work Bobo was presenting to him, and scrunched up his nose under the mask at the chunks of meat laid out on a silver table. 

‘Thank’ him? For extra work? For having to house and take care of other clowns? Why would  he wanna do any of THAT ?

He’s lucky that Bobo is too preoccupied with sharpening his knife to read his thoughts in his posture and his eyes. Sometimes he was afraid Bobo could read his mind …

“Come— I’ll show you where to make the first cut.”

He stepped forward, and dispassionately observed the work. “Chatterbox thought clowns don’t eat the cows or the pigs.” He had learned that the hard way when he lamented missing bacon and eggs around Bobo one day…

“The clown family does not eat cows or pigs,” Bobo confirmed.
 
CHOP .

Blood went everywhere, and Chatterbox grimaced. “... the chickens ?” He asked, trying to distract himself from the sick feeling he was getting in his stomach. 

“We do not eat animals!”

  CHOP.
It was harder and louder this time, and the squelching included the crunch of a bone.

Chatterbox was confused but decided against asking too many questions. The heavy cleaver Bobo was swinging with impressive strength helped the boy come to the decision to be quiet. He stood as still as he could (which was very hard for the boy, who hated stillness) and waited for Bobo to finish so he could go back to sleep…

But when Bobo was done turning the chunk of meat into several smaller pieces, he turned to the boy, and offered him the bloody knife.

“For– for Chatterbox?”

“What do you think I brought you here for– your company ? To make me laugh?” Bobo sneered in disdain at the stupidity of the question. “ Get to work .”

The boy took the knife, and swallowed.

Oh, no…
  He had barely been paying attention…
His mind had wandered, thinking about anything other than the boring, ugly act of chopping meat…

He stood in front of the table, staring down at the task set before him. What was this stuff anyway? “Cut into chunks… for the stew…” Chatterbox said out loud, reminding himself. It was a simple task . It couldn’t be any harder than chopping an onion, or pumpkin…

… except that when the knife meets raw meat, it makes a horrible sound and a mess of bloody meat.

He struggles to make a clean cut, and finally, the sounds of disgust he had been suppressing escape: a gag of displeasure—- and Bobo turns to him with a look in his eyes that was sharper than the knife.

“Is there a problem, Chatterbox?”

“N-no!”

“Does our survival disgust you? Would you rather starve ?”

“No, Bobo!” Truthfully, the stew was one of the better things Bobo made. It was better than the times he’d made onion soup, or served raw turnips…

The knife makes a squelching sound inside of the meat, and Chatterbox grimaces. “Ewww…” He whined– really tried not to, but it was so disgusting! Messy, and getting all over his hands and clothes– he hated it– couldn’t Bobo at least give Chatterbox gloves?!

Bobo growled his disapproval at the boy’s slow work– and done with obvious complaint– and he tried to focus.

Unlike Chatterbox, who took a knife to it like a saw to wood, Bobo had lifted his arm and done it in one swift drop. Maybe he should try that. He lifted the knife– glanced at Bobo once for approval– and when he got no argument, tried Bobo’s method–

But the far less experienced clown did not understand the strong grip required on the hilt of the knife, and it slipped underneath his hand and jumped on the table. As the boy attempted to catch it, he caught the blade, and yelped.

He dropped the knife and hopped on his feet in pain, hissing and placing his palm over the cut that had opened on palm. “Ow! Ow ow ow!”

The stinging, searing pain was forgotten when Bobo’s voice roared out in the basement, sounding terrifyingly loud in the echo-y acoustics of concrete walls. “Useless, imbecile– get out of the way, boy!” Bobo shouted, and pushed him away from the table, where Chatterbox stood behind him and tried to prevent blood from gushing out onto Bobo’s floor and getting it all dirty– he hated when Chatterbox did that. “If I didn't have work to do,” the man grumbled, picking up the knife and quickly finishing the cuts that Chatterbox had left behind for him to do.

Chatterbox could already see the door slamming in on him— the lights glaring in his eyes— he used to fight them— he used to kick and punch and bite to get away but now—

“Chatterbox will be good; Chatterbox can make the stew!” Nevermind that his hand was bleeding more than the ingredients, a thick red broth–

“ No !” Bobo snapped. “You’re not ready,” he declared. “ Shameful ,” he hissed. “Go somewhere else– away from me, boy.” The cold hiss felt louder than the hard hits of his knife chopping in swift cuts.

“Chatterbox will do better!” He hurried to the reach for a second knife, but Bobo stopped him with only a look.

“-- you won’t do anything, Chatterbox. You can’t do anything.” Bobo cruelly rejected, an idea forming as he saw all-too-eager desperation for redemption in the little clown… He smiled slowly.
“I’ll tell you what you can do, Chatterbox… tell the other boy to come here.”

“ T-the boy? Which boy?” 

“The Rashguard boy. The stupid one.”

Donny , Chatterbox knew without having to ask more, knowing exactly which one of the sleeping boys upstairs Bobo wanted.

(They were Donny and Travis– relatives of Granny– and they slept in beds of their own, even though they did not stay as in the Funhouse half as often Chatterbox did. (Only in the summers, or when their grandma babysat them, and the Travis one did not come as often as Donny either way.)

Travis was the older, smarter one, but Chatterbox preferred the ‘stupid’ one, because he was a lot nicer. Donny asked him lots of questions about what it was like to be a clown, and when Bobo wasn’t looking or when Bobo nothing for him to do, Donny would play with him. Bobo preferred if the boys hid or rough housed (and always outside, never in his house), but if it was raining outside or if the old clown was too exhausted to complain, he would occasionally allow them a board game or a indoors game of hide-and-seek in the Funhouse. 

Chatterbox loved hide and seek, but he hated the board game: the Rashguard boys kept bringing over things in boxes that required you to read . And when Chatterbox told them he couldn’t, Travis called him a mean word…

Rough housing was way more fun anyways ! Who wanted to play some stupid ‘game’ in a box…

And when Chatterbox won the fight against the other boys– which he almost always did– Bobo told him it was because the Rashguard boys were weak and spoiled, not like him. ‘ Bobo taught him better’ , and Chatterbox felt proud when he said that.)

“ He won’t disappoint me… like you .”

“Yes, Bobo! Chatterbox will be back with the stupid one!” He left in a hurry, running up the basement stairs and then spiraling up the stairs that led to the second story, his injury completely forgotten.

He shook the boy awake, not realizing he was smearing his own blood and the blood of some unknown meat all over Donny’s bedsheets. “Donny! Stupid boy!” (He didn’t mean it as an insult– he just heard Bobo say it all the time, so he thought it was pretty much a fact.) And when that didn't work, he slapped him.

Donny gasped in surprise and sleepily looked around. “Huh?! Chatterbox?” 

“Bobo wants you in the basement!” The clown boy was practically dragging the other out of his bed, but Donny didn’t resist it.

“ Huh… ? He wants me?”

“Yes! Donny better go quick, or—“

“Okay!” Without question, the boy got out of bed, cheerfully. “Hey, I like your mask! Looks nice and red today.”

The chatterbox said nothing in reply.

He didn’t feel proud of his mask tonight...

    He wanted to rip it off…

“ Chatterbox —?” He hears Donny say his name, and when he does, he doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there: feeling like he was snapped out of an unpleasant dream he had forgotten. 

“ What?! ” He snapped, angry, though he doesn’t really know why.

“How do you get to the basement?” Donny asked. “I’m lost!”

The clown stomped down the stairs with the boy following right behind, and led the way silently.

Donny was excited– he’d never been allowed in the basement before– and chattered the whole way down.

Stupid boy, Chatterbox thought, and this time, it was an insult.

“Chatterbox brings Donny, Bobo!” He grabbed the boy by the collar when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and presented him like a wanted criminal to the police.

Bobo looked at the little clown with disappointment.

With disgust .

“Did I say I wanted you here, Chatterbox?”

“ H… huh ?”

Donny walked in circles in the basement, making exclamations of awe as he looked at all the tools and took in the strange sights and smells.

“ Get out, Chatterbox!” Bobo slammed his fist on the table, rattling the knives and meat, and Donny did not even seem to notice or care– so fascinated by a circus of sharp, rust-and-red-as-blood stained objects scattered about on a table.

The clown scurried about the stairs with a racing heart, but hid around the corner when he reached the top– listening to Bobo and Donny’s voices carry from the basement.

Bobo knew very well the boy was there, and made sure to pour venomous praise over the Rashguard boy, calling him the very best clown that Bobo had ever seen.

Much better than Chatterbox …

I hope he puts you in a cage, Chatterbox thought.


  He didn’t want to be friends with Donny Rashguard anymore.

He stomped off to the small room where his sheets lie on the ground, and threw off his mask, determined to go back to sleep, where he might dream of something better… a playground, or a life riding horses and chasing after sheep…

But he could not sleep: his anger kept him wide awake. The floor felt extra hard that night, and the distant sounds of wildlife district him. “Shut up!” He yelled at a frog out the window.

“No you shut up, clown boy!” Travis yelled back.

“ I —” He tripped over his words and panicked— grateful Bobo was not there to hear him say the dreaded word– “Chatterbox was not talking to you! Chatterbox was talking to the frog!”

“Your mom is a frog!” 

“Chatterbox doesn’t have a mom! Only Bobo!”

“If Bobo is your mom, your mom is really fucking ugly,” the older boy teased.

“ DON’T SWEAR !” The clown was enraged. He threw the sheets off his body and began to leave his makeshift bed– remembering to turn around and grab his mask this time– 

But when he returned to the bedroom where Travis and Donny would sleep, and leered over the red-headed boy with a fist perched over his ugly face– it spoke.

“ Don’t touch me! I’ll tell Granny and she’ll tell Bobo and you’ll get in trouble,” he snottily snitched.

The red head was right, so the clown growled and backed off. “ Chatterbox is taking Donny’s bed !” He decided, as a different form of revenge.

“Go ahead, see if I care: I hate him!”

“Travis is a bad brother!” Chatterbox yelled. Why would someone hate their own brother? He was lucky to have one! He climbed into the sheets (so much cozier than his sleeping bag) and kicked his feet into the blankets, then yelled again in frustration when he discovered a bed full of bread crumbs and candy wrappers

“ Rashguards are disgusting! ” He threw a ball-shaped candy at Travis.

“Shut the hell up, you dumb baby clow–”

“ BOYS !” Granny’s voice sounded out warningly from the master bedroom room, and they both quieted. Chatterbox went deathly still in fright, afraid she would notice he was not where he was supposed to be– in a closed room downstairs in dirty bedsheets, not an actual bed, let alone one that belonged to her grandson… but Granny was usually loopy– she liked a lot of the same drink’s as Chatterbox’s dad– the old one, the one he hadn’t seen in ages– and she seemed not to notice she was talking to only one grandson, and the other a clown. “ You’re as obnoxious as your father was at your age ,” she complained from the other room.

Chatterbox lie in the bed and wondered what grandma's were like...
Or what it's like to have a father whose face you could remember...
Or a bed that was a bed, not a floor...

Even with Travis’ annoying breathing in the background, he found it a little easier to fall asleep, in the boys’ shared bedroom…

Hours later, he woke up to the sound of Donny’s annoying voice, happily chirping in the bedroom. “Travie! Chatterbox! Lookie what I got!”

Chatterbox woke up in a panic– remembering where he was, and that it was most definitely not where he was supposed to be– but Donny assured him that Bobo was hard at work downstairs with his stew-making, so he did not run away.

Besides, he was frozen to the spot with bewilderment, looking at the other boy.

Donny had returned donning a mask, in shades of white and orange and green. It looked sparkling white and freshly cleaned. It barely fit on the boy’s face, and Chatterbox scoffed.

“ Donny looks stupid! ” He spat.

“Yeah, you do,” Travis snorted.

Donny just laughed. “Hey, Chatterbox! Guess what! I’m a clown like you now! Bobo named me GIBLETS ! He said I can help make the stew and that I’m a great little helper! He said I’m really good with a knife and that I’m so good, I can come back to help him every night!”

Chatterbox frowned. “Bobo said that to Donny?”

“ Yeah ! Wait— no… he said that to ‘Giblets’,” Donny corrected, like Bobo had instructed him to. “ That’s me !” He giggled. 

“ Oh… ” Chatterbox seethed. “Giblets is a dumb baby name for a dumb baby clown.” He huffed, pushed Giblets out of the way, and stormed down the stairs to sleep in his own ‘room’.

The next day, he beat Donny at roughhousing over and over, and ran to tell Bobo about his victories, but was only scolded for calling him ‘Donny’ instead of Giblets. And when ‘Giblets’ called himself ‘I’ instead of Giblets, Chatterbox corrected him immediately and without grace, expecting approval from Bobo, for teaching the newest clown the Clown Family rules…

But was viciously berated by the older clown for his presumptiveness and bad manners, and told to go to his room.

Giblets did not have to live by the same rules as Chatterbox.

At night, he asked to help with the stew even though he was tired from his chores, but Bobo dismissed him with a gloved hand. “You’re not needed.”

He gave Donny the gift of an orange bowtie to wear over his shirt. “Every good clown needs a good bowtie,” he explained, showing him how to tie the bow with an eerily cheerful voice that Chatterbox had never heard before. When the elder clown finally looked his way, he wore a weird smile that Chatterbox did not understand.

Giblets wore his bowtie with pride, and followed Bobo around the house like a roach after a free meal, while Travis ignored them, examining some old electronic parts he had dug up from the yard and found much more interesting than the gaggle of clowns.

“Come walk the yard with me— I’ll show you the summer harvest,” Bobo announced, and even Travis was curious about what food Bobo had grown and would be tossing in their stew, but when Chatterbox rushed to the door to meet the others, he was pushed back. “Not you. You… you can feed the pigs their slop. Get out of my face… boy.” 

Stripped of his only name and his place by the elder clowns side, Chatterbox learned how there were other ways to punish a clown besides a cage.

Chapter Text

It was Chatterbox’s idea.

Most ideas were: Travis was too apathetic to offer any idea of how to spend their days, and Giblets was too happy to follow Chatterbox’s lead, feeling no need  to offer up ideas of his own.

And that is how the two little clowns found themselves opening the forbidden door. It creaked slowly, and they peeked around the corner, four hesitant eyes darting from side to side behind their masks. They knew nobody should be inside, but suspicion was ingrained in them: trained into them… 

When Chatterbox was confident there was nobody to catch them misbehaving, he opened the door wide enough for the boys to walk through, and they stepped in with big, fascinated eyes.

Bobo’s room. They had never been allowed inside of it, never seen what the man retreated to when he lay down his head at night. 

Rarely was there a chance for them to find out, because Bobo never left the boys alone to sneak a peek. On a rare occasion he would leave and only Granny would stay behind to supervise them, but her shrill angry voice and her eagerness to tell Bobo about all of his mistakes made Chatterbox hesitant to act out in her presence.

But on this lazy afternoon, Bobo was in the city, and Granny had fallen into a deep, snoring sleep on the couch, with a little glass full of pale yellow liquid next to her, and Golden Girls playing on the TV…

Sometimes, Chatterbox had bad clown thoughts when the adults weren’t paying attention. He thought about putting something in Granny’s drink that would make her sleep longer, and allow the boys to play uninterrupted— at least until Bobo came home and barked orders at them... 

He thought about running out the front door, toward the mountain, and seeing how far he could get before Bobo caught him… (you could never hide from Bobo in the farmlands: it was like he had eyes all over the land, and sensed when there was movement on every patch of it. That's how Chatterbox felt.) But what if he made it to the mountain? Would he be free?
(Did he want to be?)

He thought about finding a gascan and a box of matches, and starting a fire. He thought about that a lot. He didn’t know what he would do next: sit back and watch it burn? Run far away and never look back? Would he put it out— only enjoy a little flame before he decided he’d done enough damage? Or would he let the flames ravage everything: from the basement to the tippy top of the chimney…

… but he doesn’t think he’ll ever find out.

    Because if he did, he’d get the cages again. 

And if he runs away from the house, he wouldn’t have a home no more. And if it burnt to the ground, neither would Giblets. And then what? 

He can’t picture a life outside the Funhouse anymore: barely remembers a time before the masks and games. He’s used to clown days now, and usually finds them quite ordinary— so ordinary they could even dip into boredom. He doesn’t really enjoy the evenings that Bobo hosts his games— he doesn’t like when Bobo makes him help… but at least it was a break from the everyday monotony of tending to the house and the farm and the animals. (And sometimes Bobo even praised him: told him he’d done a good job…)

But today he had an idea : something new to do in the overly familiar, dusty house where the boys had explored every other corner during their games of hide and seek. It was the only room they’d never seen, an undiscovered territory to explore…

But what they had uncovered behind the door was, actually… pretty boring. Chatterbox’s small shoulder slumps “Chatterbox thought it would be better in here ... more colors… more red!” He calls, disappointed in the decor.

“Bobo’s a blue clown, Chatty; of course it isn’t red!” Giblets pointed out.

“Well, if it were Chatterbox’s room, he’d make it red,” he muttered, turning his head to take in each boring wall…

The room was plain, and sparse: white walls, empty except for a large portrait of Bobo and a couple smaller photos of him and his old circus troupe on the walls. (Chatterbox had heard so much about Bobo’s old days, but he didn’t really care: he was no circus clown and never ever wanted to be one of them.) The bed sat on an old wooden frame with chips in its legs, and was covered in a mess of unmade blankets, with masses of junk shoved underneath the bed. There were paint cans on the floor and one of Granny’s winter coats hanging on the wall. 

Giblets stepped into the adjoining bathroom, and ooh’ed. “ Woah ! Fancy shower,” he remarked, looking up at a separate tiled shower that wasn’t connected to the bathtub. He’d never seen one of those.  “Why doesn’t Bobo use it more often?” He questioned, remarking on the man’s lack of preoccupation with hygiene.

Chatterbox didn’t care about the bathroom: he ran straight through the center of the room and toward the balcony doors, tugging on them to pull them open. They were stuck: they didn’t budge at first, and Giblets had to join him to apply enough force to pry the doors open. 

The sunlight hit the wooden beams of the floor and Giblets watched it streak into the bedroom, highlighting the granules of dust that coated everything. It gave the room a overall much less depressing glow. Bobo never let sunlight into the house…

Chatterbox ran outside and walked the length of the wraparound balcony. He peered out through the wooden slats of the banister. “Giblets! Come look!” He called, in awe of the picturesque landscape that spread out in front of him. From here, the highest point of the house, the sun didn’t look so far away. Chiliad stood proud in the distance and strangely inviting: like an adventure beckoning to him. He could see the field of grass where Bobo had found him, and the wind ruffled through it in a pretty pattern…

Giblets joined him on the balcony and tossed a rock from his pocket over the edge. They watched in amazement at how far it fell down. 

“It’s like we’re on top’a the mountain!” 

“Sure is… think fast!” At that, Giblets pretended to push Chatterbox off, and they scuffled and laughed.

Giblets turned away from the view and went back inside as Chatterbox looked on in wonder, and the green and orange clowns’ eyes went huge when he saw something on the wall. He gasped.

“ No… way… ” He pointed at the wall behind Bobo’s bed, and Chatterbox turned around to see what Giblets was staring at.

Above Bobo’s bed, there was a singular wooden shelf, high out of the boys reach. An old pistol lay on its side on the shelf, and above the shelf, a shotgun was slung over two hooks. 

“I can’t believe Bobo has those,” Giblets gasped.  

Chatterbox wasn't that surprised. Didn’t Giblets hear the shots sometimes in the night? He did. But he never knew where Bobo was hiding them. His eyes lit up in the way young boys did when they saw a toy gun or toy cars or, maybe the latest video game, if they came from one of those spoiled city houses. “They look like the ones on tee vee, like clownboys use!” Chatterbox strolled toward the bed to get a closer look.

“Clownboys?” Giblets asked.

“ Yeah ! ‘Howdy pardner— bang bang’!” He imitated, like he saw on the tv set.

“Oooh— you mean cowboys !” Giblets laughed. It sounded plainly ridiculous in Chatterbox’s strange, learned way of speaking: no cowboy or girl in the world would have an accent like that . 

“You better shut that door, morons. If he drives home and sees the bedroom door wide open, he’s gonna know what you did,” Travis’ voice called from the doorway. He hadn’t stepped inside the room, but he observed it from the safe distance. This way, he had plausible deniability of doing anything wrong…

“Oh, yeah! Thanks, Travie.” Giblets listened to his older brother and pulled the balcony doors shut, but Chatterbox ignored the warning: crawling onto the itchy sheets atop Bobo’s bed and standing up tall on them. 

With his new height, he was able to pick up the pistol from the shelf, and he tried to spin it in his hands the way the “cowboys” do. 

Giblets paled, no longer laughing. “Uh… maybe we should put that back, Chatty?” Giblets sounded apprehensive, and scared. 

“Giblets is a scaredy baby!” Chatty mocked, not paying him any mind.

Travis don’t join in with the mockery, for once— surprisingly, since he usually took any chance to poke at his baby brother— “Put that down, you lunatic!”

Chatterbox smirked. He didn’t know what a lunatic was. Didn’t care . Nobody could tell him what to do when he had one of THESE. “ Or what?” He taunted, pointing the gun at Travis. 

Travis ducked out of the doorway, only peeking over the edge. “I’m gonna tell your freak dad!” He gave one last warning. “I’m gonna wake up Granny!” 

“Well Chatterbox is gonna tell Bobo you swore! You keep swearing!” 

“Because Bobo doesn’t tell me what to do!” Travis argued hotly.

Chatterbox laughed. It was funny seeing Travis afraid of him; that never happened. Travis was older, and bigger, and for some reason he wasn’t even afraid of Bobo… probably because for some reason he never had to listen to him. Only Chatterbox did… and maybe Giblets. 

But Giblets didn’t have to listen to Bobo… he just did.

He returned the pistol to its shelf, only to pick up the bigger shotgun this time, examining it with fascination. 

“ Chatty !” Giblets joined his older brother in protest. “Don’t play with those! Bobo says guns are bad ! Clowns never use guns!”

“But Bobo uses guns,” He shot back. “Chatterbox won’t shoot. Chatterbox just wants to see them!” He looked down the barrel, then held it upside and shook it, seeing if any bullets fell out. How did these things work?

“W-what’s in that big box?” Giblets pointed to a cardboard container next to the pistol. 

“Dunno,” his clown brother replied, and jumped on the bed a few times once to try to see the contents over the top lip of the box.  “A bunch of trash!” He declared.. Papers, and pictures, and other junk with words on it. Nothing as interesting as guns . 

“I wanna see!” Giblets piped up, so Chatterbox obliged, though it held little interest to him. He hung the gun back up and took the box off the shelf— jumped off the bed with the box, and set it down on the floor. The boys began to sift through its contents. Even Travis left his post of watching the stairs and listening for signs of movement from his grandma, his curiosity peaked by the mysterious box. 

They dug out old photos: some from the circus, some of random people… they might’ve been Bobo and Granny in a few; it was hard to recognize them. There were a couple of IDs of people they definitely didn’t know, but had seen at Bobo’s parties, and Giblets wondered aloud if Bobo was saving them— for the guests to come back and collect. Maybe they forgot them. 

Giblets took out a large piece of paper that didn’t blend in with any of the others, with letters and numbers and a stamped signature on it. He squinted at the words. “‘Kurr-tiff-i-kate of birth… name: Gagger Grr- Grade-ee?’ Huh ?”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Chatterbox laughed. Giblets sounded like he was speakin’ a whole other language. That’s why reading was stup id! It never made any sense. 

Travis yanked the paper from his brothers’ hand. “Gimme that, moron,” he snapped in his elder brother way. “… it’s about a baby. They give these out when babies are born,” he explained. 

“ Babies can read? ” Chatterbox asked in astonishment 

“No, stupid— it’s for their moms ! … ‘Jagger Grr- ardy. Date of birth: July 4th…“ He continued, showing off his superior reading skills to the younger, incompetent boys.

But Chatterbox froze in place. His hands dropped the paper he was holding.
His heart pounds, and his mouth is dry, and he doesn’t know why. “ Gerardy ,” he corrects, saying it the proper way.

He can't explain why he knows that’s the way you say it. He just knows Travis is saying it wrong, and he doesn’t like hearing it.

The red head looks up from the sheet of paper with an annoyed face. The illiterate, idiot clown was correcting him. “The hell do you know? You can’t even read!”

His fists clenched so hard it hurt. The mask on his face felt itchy, and his skin was clammy, and he felt way too hot— he wanted to tear it off and throw it out the window. His mask, and his skin; both— he thinks— both don’t feel like they fit over his bones; “I’m telling you— it’s Gerardy !” He yelled, and his voice came out sounding wrong . 

Sounding bad , the way he was never supposed to talk—

   The voice he hears in his head sometimes, talking back to him…

“Chatty, calm down,” Giblets whispered in that scared, trembly way he got when Chatty’s temper flared.

Travis was over it: over trying to get along with the idiot clowns and they’re weird stupid rules. “Whatever, freaks.” He tossed the paper aside, and it fluttered away, landing underneath the bed as Travis strolled out of the room, looking for something better to do.

Giblets looked hesitantly at his friend— his other brother— and wanted to give him a hug. But he didn’t dare touch him in this state. “You okay, Chatty?”

His breathing was shallow, and he wanted to scream.

No .

     No, I’m not okay!

The mask on his face felt suffocating at once and the house he called a home felt like a cage.

None of this is okay! How can you think it’s okay?!

He opened his mouth to speak, but was afraid of what voice would come out, so he closed it quickly. He didn’t want Giblets to keep seeing him be bad.

The sound of a car pulling up the driveway makes both of the boys eyes widen. Whatever had set Chatty off was forgotten in less than an instant: he was overtaken by full fledged panic and fear. 

“Giblets!” He called his attention, but he didn't need to: Giblets was alreadly picking up the pictures next to him and throwing them in the box: he heard it, too. Chatterbox sprinted to the bed and replaced the box it on the shelf.

Giblets bounced on his heels in anxiety, gripping the door handle. “No no— turn the box a little! It looked more like—“

Chatty adjusted it.

“The other way! Yeah ! Now it looks like it did before!”

Chatterbox jumped off the bed and ran out of the room, and they shut the door in a hurry. Travis had already retreated, nowhere in sight, and Giblets ran straight to his room: his safe space where he always went to hide. 

But Chatterbox... well, he didn’t know where to go. He had no room, nowhere he felt safe…

He felt safe when Giblets snuck him into his bedroom, but this wasn’t the time for any more sneaking around: when Bobo returned him, he always did his rounds, checking to see what each occupant was doing, and if Bobo found him there he would be enraged…

Not knowing where else to go, Chatterbox dove onto the floor of the living room, near the couch where Granny was passed out on, and pretended he had been watching tv all along. 

When the front door opened, Granny snorted awake, and righted herself to sit up on the couch. She saw Chatterbox on the floor, sitting cross legged and looking way-too-innocent, and the sight of the little clown made her take a big swig of her drink. “What have you been up to, you little rascal?” There was no affection in her voice. 

“N- nothing, Granny!” He insisted, and glued his eyes to the TV, not looking at her. 

Bobo entered with his slow booming steps, and Chatterbox stared at the tv as an infomercial played, like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

“What are you staring at, boy?”

Wrong decision, Chatterbox realized. Not greeting him was impolite. It was insolent! It was ungrateful! “S-sorry, bobo. Hi, Bobo! Welcome home,” he tried again, putting on the most cheerful voice he could muster.

Granny scoffed out loud, and Chatterbox flushed, not knowing what he’d done wrong this time.

“Who gave you permission to watch television?” Bobo asked. 

“Oh—- G- granny was asleep, and Chatterbox— Chatterbox sat down, and…” He stumbled over his words, afraid to say the wrong things. 

“So you took advantage of her to exhaustion— from taking care of you all day— to disobey the house rules?”

“No, Bobo—!”

“ ‘No ?’ So you disagree with me?” Bobo sneered, and Chatterbox felt his stomach drop. “Did he ask for permission to join you, Georgina?”

“Absolutely not,” she pointedly and snobbishly replied. “I would have told him he has chores he best be doing, if he had.”

Why couldn’t she just lie? Chatterbox wondered.

   Would it hurt her to yucking lie?!

“Well…” Bobo stomped his foot “ Get up! What are you waiting for?” 

Chatterbox jumped to his feet and scrambled away to look for something to do— anything that appeared productive. He didn't mind being sent away to do chores, because if he kept busy and out of sight, it should keep Bobo and Granny off his back for awhile.

“Lazy boy,” He heard Granny mutter as he ran off. “Always trying to make Donny and Travie do the work for him!” 

He ducked into the small bathroom downstairs that no-one used (except for punishments), and cleaned the dust and grime from the mirror. 

His mind wandered while he did, at first staring at the mask in the mirror. Stark white plastic skin stared back at him, and he had forgotten much of the details of what it looked like underneath. He hadn’t seen his reflection without the mask in… so long. 

But why would he want to?

   Who cares what was underneath?

This was his face now. 

   And it was a better face than the one underneath…

The one that looked like his mothers,

  but had his fathers eyes…

What an ugly, horrible face that was…

This one was much better.

The sound of the mirror squeaking from being scrubbed as clean as could be breaks him out of his reverie, and he began to comprehend Bobo and Granny’s voices arguing in the background. 

“ You let them walk around my house without watching,” Bobo’s cold voice boomed.

Chatterbox smirked. It was nice to hear someone else getting the brunt of his anger for once. Especially Granny. Granny sucked. 

“Well it wasn’t my boys! Donny’s been in his room and Travie… they’re good boys! They’d never do a thing like that!” He heard her screechy voice fight back. “It’s that other one— Jagger —“ 

“Don’t say that name,” Bobo hissed in fury.

“Oh, shut up, Robert!” Granny cried, exasperated. “Chatterbox… what a stupid name…” She muttered. 

Chatterbox jumped at the sound of his name.
   How did he get dragged into this?!
And who was Robert? 

    Or … 

“— you couldn’t think of something better than ‘Bobo’ ?” She complained, and the slamming and shouting began again.

Grown ups always did this. 

   Didn’t they get tired of fighting all the time?

Didn’t they ever want to have FUN ?!

Chatterbox tiptoed out of the bathroom, trying to hide from their aggressively rising tones as the argument ramped up. He grabbed a broom from the closet and tried to look busy, cleaning. He took it and stood outside of Giblet's room, doing pointless sweeps against the floor that only pushed around dust and dirt. He could hear the sounds of play behind the door. 

“Giblets?” He whispered. Because he was bored… and lonely. 

Giblets barely cracked open his bedroom door, and peeked out. He was still scared of being found out, for what they’d done. His eyes were sad as he looked at the other clown, standing there with a broom.

“Did Giblets hear what they say?” Chatterbox whispered.

“Yeah… and if Travis is a good boy, I’m Frank the cow,” Giblets snorted.

Chatterbox laughed out loud, then covered his mouth, not wanting to be heard by the adults. “ Yeah ! Travie is a cow!” He giggled. “Don’t worry…. Chatterbox won’t tell on you.” He promised. “And he won’t tell on yuckhead Travis— as long as yuckhead doesn’t tell on him either!”

“Thanks, Chatty.”

They smiled, and though neither of them could see it through the masks, they both felt it.

“Giblets?”

“Yeah?”

“Who is ‘ Jagger’... ?”

Giblets paused, looking thoughtful…

But then they heard the sound of Bobo’s footsteps quickly approaching down the hallway, and Giblets slammed the door shut— not selfishly; Chatterbox agreed, motioning for him to do it— for both of their sakes. 

“ Chatterbox ”, his voice boomed. 

Giblets leaned against the door sadly and listened. Chatterbox could see his shoes and shadow on the other side.

“Bobo!” He began to mimic the motion of sweeping again, but it was a poor imitation.

Bobo snatched the broom from his hand, and tossed it to the ground. It clattered in a terrifying loud sound against the wood, and Chatterbox was surprised it didn’t break upon impact. He backed up toward the wall, like a dog caught red-pawed with a stolen hen in its mouth. 

“ The kennel . You go to the kennel— now .”

“But— but! Chatterbox— what did he do?!”

He grabbed the boy by the wrist and dragged him toward the stairwell; he tugged against the man’s giant hands at first, fear gripping him when he realized where they were headed—

Bobo’s room.

  Bobo knew what they had done.

His struggling was useless, and when he realized it, fear and resignation slacked his body. Bobo pushed him by the collar into the open doorway. “Look!” He growled. Chatterbox looked all around but but didn’t know what he was looking for. Bobo pointed his large, mangled lions-paw of a hand at the outline of a shoe print, left in dirt, on his bed. “If you’re going to lie, you best learn to cover your tracks, boy.” He spat, anger scrunching the lines of his mask.

Chatterbox saw his vision go blurry. 

He couldn’t remember the last time Bobo had sounded so angry…

  Maybe when he had kicked and punched and bit to avoid being put back in the kennel…

And that had been a long time ago.

He didn’t do that anymore.

He was a good clown now...

Wasn’t he?

“Chatterbox is sorry,” he whimpered, rubbing his wrist, tugging on his ear.

Bobo spied something he hadn’t noticed before. Underneath his bed, a sheet of paper— cleaner than everything else in the room— stood out. He stomped over, and picked it up. His eyes scanned it, then turned slowly, menacingly— with pure rage— toward the boy.

Chatterbox is going back to the kennel….

    he thought . 

No… he thought again.

   I’m gonna die . 

He’s gonna kill me.

“ Go .” Bobo said, his voice low and the scariest he’d ever heard.

Chatterbox didn’t have to ask where to. He knew.

Run , the voice screamed at him: the one he wasn’t allowed to use. 

   Run ! 

But he doesn’t…

He backs away slowly… almost stumbles down the stairs, afraid to turn his back on the man. 

And then he descends the steps on shaky feet, carrying him almost by instinct to where he was instructed to go. 

He passed Granny on the way, eating a popsicle and looking utterly unaffected by what she’d heard. “Don’t give me those sad eyes, dear. You know what you did.” She fanned herself with her popsicle to ward off the summer heat, since there was no A/C to do it. 

He did.
   He knew what he did .
He always knew when he was doing wrong, but it never stopped him.  Why was he so broken, and wrong?
His idea to break into the room... his stupid, disobedient hands that opened the doors and the box and did the things a good clown should never do…

He crawled into the kennel and sat facing the basement wall. He put his forehead onto his knees and waited.
Waiting, waiting, for the punishment to come...
The punishment he deserved.

Why was he so bad? Why couldn’t he just listen to Bobo? He always had to lie, and to push... Bobo didn't even lock the cage… he didn’t turn the bright lights on him… Bobo was so good, and all Chatterbox ever did was hurt him; destroy his home and his things…

He wiped at tears forming in his eyes, because if Bobo saw them, he would get angrier.

It was quiet and lonely in the basement, but maybe this was what he needed. Silence, to think about how bad he was…

It was silent until the footsteps came down the basement stairs, and Chatterbox squeezed his knees tighter to his chest.

Bobo stood behind the kennel, his shadow a huge imposing figure against the wall. Finally, he spoke.

“What do you know, boy?”

Chatterbox blinked quick, begging for the tears in his eyes to go away before he had to face him. What did Bobo want to hear? “C… Chatterbox doesn’t know,” he whispered.

“You don’t know?”

The silence was long with confusion. 
 What did Bobo want from him?!

“ … Chatterbox knows he’s bad. He did a bad thing… he always does bad things to Bobo,” he said sadly.

The silence was long ago, but this time it’s Bobo thinking.
Analyzing…

“Turn around,” he said, and he sounded calm.

But not a good calm.

An angry, cold calm…

Chatterbox made a scared, affirmative sound in his throat, but did so.

When he did, he saw the shotgun from Bobo’s room pointed at him. 

The little bit of color in his pale skin faded away.

“Why did you touch my gun, Chatterbox?”

“C-Chatterbox just wanted to see it! Chatterbox n- never saw a gun before!"

“Is that right… ? D’ya like guns, boy?”

“ No !” He squeaked. “No, no: Chatterbox doesn’t like them at all! Clowns don’t use guns!” But the protest sounded more like a plea, and a promise. 

“ Good .” Bobo put the gun down, but his eyes on him were just as threatening. “Why do you disobey me, boy?”

“Chatterbox doesn’t know… because I’m bad ,” he guessed. How could ever know? He’s just a stupid boy. He doesn’t know why he got this way; why he can’t be good like Giblets, or fearless like Travis…

“ Why did you go in the room?”

“Chatterbox was tired of being locked out… Chatterbox isn’t allowed in so many rooms…” He whispered, telling the truth. 

The truth did him no favors. Bobo’s teeth gritted, anger and spite filling his veins. “ ‘Not allowed… ?’ Not allowed? I bring you into my home, I feed you from my garden… I give you a job, a purpose , and I break you of the disgusting, shameful child you were before I found you, and you complain that you’re not ‘ allowed’ ? You ungrateful, insolent… ” Bobo spat on the ground, and the boy flinched.

“Chatterbox is sorry, Bobo! Chatterbox wasn’t thinking!”

Bobo didn’t listen to the apology— didn’t care. He spoke over him: “What did you see in the box, boy?”

“The— the box?”

“I know what you did. I know what you were doing. I know everything you do,” he threatened.

Chatterbox understood then— “The box— oh! The box…”
What was he supposed to see...?
Was it a test?
“Chatterbox saw papers… and— and pictures…”

“And what was on them?”

“Words… and pictures…” He closed his eyes, trying to remember…

    First Name: J A G G E R …

        ‘ Grr-ardy,’ Travis had said… 

  No, that’s wrong.  He’d told Travis it was wrong…

“ And what. did. they. say ?” Bobo paused on each word, making it clear he was not tolerating any more half-baked answers from the boy.

His head hurts and he blurts words out in a panic: “ Nothing , Bobo! They didn’t say nothing! Just— jus’ lots of words but Chatterbox don’t know that many words; Chatterbox can’t read! Chatterbox saw pictures, but pictures ain’t nothin’ if you don’t know what they mean,” he insisted, begging the man to stop asking. Stop trying to make him remember … he’s not supposed to remember! “ Chatterbox doesn’t know nothin’!”  

Nothing; I don’t know nothing; That’s what he wants you to say.  
   That’s what what he wants to you be: nothing . 

Invisible… obedient… a perfect little copy of him, in red instead of blue.

“Chatterbox will be a good clown,” he promised, a broken whimper. 

Bobo calmed.
Bobo smiled.

He’s broken , he thinks. 

He doesn’t know a thing. 

“I ain’t gonna shoot you,” he said, his gruff voice showing gentleness. Not affection, but no longer violent. “Because guns are for cowards, not clowns.”

Chatterbox nodded. “Chatterbox understands!”

“No, I don’t think you do … because a defiant little snot like you— you’re probably wondering why I keep a gun, aren’t you, Chatterbox ?”

Yes , he thinks. Why does Bobo get a gun, if Chatterbox can't have one?
“No!” He pipes up, trying to prove he’s a good clown now, not the kind who questions his father. 

Bobo chuckled darkly. “Sure you don’t. I’ll tell you, boy… you know what I keep a gun for, Chatterbox? To put down animals… quick , and painless . When they’re sick, and they’re dying of disease. I keep a gun so they don’t have to suffer.”

Chatterbox watched him with big eyes, absent of tears now. Watching… learning…

A dark smile spread on Bobo’s lips. But you ? You’re beneath an animal to me, boy. I wouldn’t make your death painless. You ain’t worth wasting a bullet on… remember that, Chatterbox.”

“Y-yes, Bobo…”

“I got more mouths to feed than just you and me now, so don’t go making me think you ain’t worth the trouble. Shape up , boy! Didn’t I teach you nothin’ comes for free? I’ve given you long enough to learn; to understand the rules of this house; the clown way…” 

Chatterbox swallowed, his heart hardening.
Bobo was right. All Bobo asks is for him to follow the rules! The rules he’d known for years now. Don’t swear… don’t ask too many questions… just do what you’re told, and do it right…
“ Bobo is right. Chatterbox should be better... like— like Giblets.” 

( — That Jagger one, 

    Granny’s disdainful voice rang in his head— )

She wants to get rid of you.

She wants to send you away —

  Maybe on a balloon again, but who knows where you’ll fall this time… ?

“Chatterbox will be a good clown. Chatterbox won’t make Granny mad at him anymore. He’ll be good!”

“Good… go meet your brother upstairs.”

The boy crawled out of the cage on his hands and knees, gratefully— blissfully grateful— and stood up in front of the tall man in blue, whose form dwarfed his. 

If he were a good clown— really a good clown, the kind that made a father proud— this is where he’d get a hug, or a head pat, probably… 

But that only happened in the shows that Granny watched, and he wasn’t supposed to know that, because he isn’t allowed to watch those.

He isn’t supposed to know anything, and he isn’t supposed to care when he sees Bobo ( taking no more chances) toss the paper that Travis had read to him into the fireplace flames…

He isn’t supposed to feel like a piece of himself crumpled and died in that fire, and he isn’t supposed to wonder why he would feel that way, about some piece of paper he can't read, and doesn't understand…

He watches the roaring flames as they jump high and dance in the pit of fire, and in his mind, he projects an image of the Funhouse inside of the flames. It burns down and becomes nothing but a dry husk of logs and burnt fabric, and the picture of it in his imagination is so vivid and hot that it makes his cheeks red underneath his mask, and his heart burns with it …

But he doesn’t know why, and the answers to his questions become nothing more than specks of ash in the Funhouse fireplace. 

Chapter Text

Chatterbox wasn’t very good at making friends.

And even if he had been, he didn’t have many opportunities.

When he was old enough to be useful, but still young enough to be obedient, Bobo sent him out: suggested odd jobs to make money… but years of isolation in his Funhouse left the boy atypical in socialization: anxious and stuttering, prone to bursts of odd behavior and erratic jumps in personality. He employed a myriad of disguises and voices to hide who he really was: Chatterbox the Clown…

But no matter how much he practiced the act of normalcy in the streets of Grapeseed, he never seemed to master it. People saw right through him: avoided the young man they deemed weird, strange, scary…

Even into the early years of adulthood, there was only one other person in the world besides Giblets he could ever call a friend…

The girl who worked the bar.

It was a dingy dive bar in the underbelly of Grapeseed, where destitute women climbed into strange men’s cars and criminals and addicts met under the cover of darkness, passing hidden objects between their hands. She served him drinks and every couple of hours, she would dance on the lit up stage. She flipped her hair and spun around and people paid her because she was pretty. 

Chatterbox was pretty sure that was how it worked, anyway…

They all whooped and hollared and stared at her, but Chatterbox didn’t really understand or care about it: he just waited for her to come back to the bar, because when she did, they would talk again. 

She always looked much happier behind the bar talking to him than she did when she danced. And when she laughed, it was a girlish giggle: the most innocent thing in the otherwise dark, godless place. 

She was always nice to him; never called him a freak or wore expressions of pain when he spoke to her. She didn’t try to run away… 

She was his only friend, and he didn’t even know her name.

He downs another beer, and smokes another cigarette, and by the time her shift is over, he’s finished half a pack of cigarettes and just as many bottles of beer.

The nice lady comes back to the bar in a pair of black leather pants, and zips up a big jacket over her barely clad upper half. (It didn’t look like it belonged to her: it was a boys coat.)

“Phew!” She breathed out a sigh of exhaustion, and leaned on the bar counter, empty of customers except for Chatterbox and a regular, an old man who clung to the corner of the bar and silently nursed his mug, disinterested in conversation.

“Did you make a lot today?” Chatty asked. 

“Not as much as I need. Tips are a little slow today,” she admitted, but there was peppiness in her tone still. She was always upbeat, even though life never seemed to go her way.

“What happened to you?” Chatterbox asked.

“On stage? Oh, I don’t know… I think they picked bad music today; it threw off my groove,” she guessed. 

“No, no, not the money… I mean that!” Chatterbox points to her shoulder, where a red angry mark had been visible— before she had slung the jacket back over her skin.

She touched her shoulder where he had pointed, realizing slowly what he meant. “Oh… that? You saw that? I got it from, um…” She looked around nervously, like she was worried someone was watching her… then came up with an excuse: “I fell over while I was practicing last night. The pole really hurts!” 

“… why do you lie all the time?” Chatterbox asked, confused.

She was nice, but she sure was weird…

“I don’t!” She lied— again— emphatically.

Chatterbox thought they had a lot in common…

The bar briefly got busy, spiked with business, and she flitted around behind the counter, pouring drinks and chatting up leering customers, one of whom slipped his tip into the opening of her jacket.

She giggled at that, but Chatterbox didn’t think it was a real laugh. Not like when they talked…

The bar slowly emptied out, until it was just them again. Her voice was quiet as she shut down shop and cleaned off the sticky remains of alcohol off the bar counter. She talked about how much she hated Grapeseed, and Chatterbox couldn’t really relate. He couldn’t imagine what else might be better out there… 

But she really hated it, frowning as she talked about her life. She had a boyfriend, but she sounded and looked so down whenever she mentioned him…

“Can you keep a secret, Chatty?”

“Yeah-huh,” he nodded.

Oh, she had no idea…

“Once I get enough money saved up, I’m outta here. You might never see me again.” 

“Oh…” Chatterbox felt sad about that. But her eyes were so bright and excited with the confession, that he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Where will you go?” Was all he said instead

“Shit, I don’t care. Anywhere but here!” 

Chatterbox thinks... 

He’s quiet for awhile. 

But then he speaks.

“I used to live somewhere else. Way, way far away from here.” 

“Really? What was it like? Was it nice? Should I go?”

“…” He tries to picture it: his home before the Funhouse. He remembers cold winters, but the summers were kind of nice. Sprawling empty land and fresh air in your lungs, nothing like the polluted Los Santos smog… big trees and beautiful skies, but the memories are so vague and cloudy. Mostly he just remembers faces, and voices... a cruel, gruff voice, saying words that Bobo would lock him up for days if he ever repeated…

While he’s thinking of what to say, she interrupts, making sudden movements and grabbing her purse from under the bar counter. “Sorry! I gotta go! My ride’s here!” She didn’t have the time to wave or give him a smile, so quickly did she hurry out the door— but not with excitement. Chatterbox’s eyes followed her as she ran…

She always did this, every time she left: she panicked and ran like a trapped animal… but it was like she was running into the trap, not away from it.

He didn’t really understand…

   But then again, maybe he did. 

The bouncer— the only other employee left at this late hour— rushed him out of the bar, and Chatterbox staggered up from the stool and out the same door his friend had exited from. 

She was still there, standing next to a well-maintained car, and a man was there with her. He tugged the leather jacket off of her, and threw it over his own shoulders, grumbling and displeased with her. And seeing him for the first time, Chatterbox understands why her mood always sours when she mentions her boyfriend… 

“I’m sorry—!” 

“What did I tell you about flirting with these fucking degenerate hicks?” 

“I wasn’t—!”

“Sure you weren’t. You staying late to balance the books?” He laughed mockingly. “Bullshit. I knew you weren’t just working the pole. You’re fucking around on me, aren’t you—?” He yanked her by the arm, tossing her into the passenger seat roughly, and she yelped in pain and fear.

Chatterbox’s teeth grit. “Were you raised in a yucking barn?”

The man turned to him, brows furrowed in anger. “What did you say to me?”

“You shouldn’t treat her like that!”

“Is this the guy?” Her boyfriend scoffed, looking him over like he was garbage. “Fucking pathetic.” He slammed the passenger door shut in a rage, shutting her inside. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, bitch.” Chatterbox didn’t know if he was talking to her or him, but either way, it really pissed him off. 

Some neatly dressed city kid all grown up and with a shiny clean car as his toy…

But had he ever had to fight with someone besides a tiny girl who couldn’t defend herself? Did he ever have to fight just to survive?

Chatterbox doubted it. He smirked at the threat. 

“Have you ever killed somebody?” He asked, darkly, and laughed.

The man grimaced. He looked a little creeped out… but mostly angry. “The fuck did you say to me?”

The passenger door flew open, and her voice only added to the tension in the air. “Hey! Leave him alone! He’s just a customer— he would never— I would never—!”

It distracted her boyfriend, and as predicted, the man was more interested in roughing her up than a real challenge: arguing with her and making sure to block her from leaving the car. They disagreed and shouted over each other.

“Let’s just go!” She tugged on the man’s arm.

Finally, he obliged, and they had sped out of the parking lot together. Sluggishly weighted down by the effects of alcohol, Chatterbox only watched as it happened in front of him, but the scene stuck with him: stayed under his skin and made him furious every time he thought about it.

  I should have done something…

      I should have killed him, he thought.

Next time, he decides.

Next time he’ll show him what happens when you mess with a friend of the clown family...

He returned home reeking of booze and bad decisions, and accidentally nicked the fence with Bobo’s truck, causing a few wooden bars of the fence to fall down. Bobo berated him and shamed him, and wouldn’t let him leave the property again until he replaced the whole fence line— not just the ones he’d broken— and topped it off with a fresh new coat of paint, too. 

Months went by until Bobo let Chatterbox drive again.

If had taken a lot to get back in Bobo’s good graces and earn his privledges back; he’d offered to bring back dozens, hundreds of people for the games if Bobo wanted: he’d run all of them; he’d do the less fun dirty work (cleaning the messes and burning the evidence) too ! 

 And finally, the clown gets the chance to return to the bar.

He watched her get dropped off to work like she always did— in the same fancy sports car her boyfriend drove before— but Chatterbox remained in his vehicle.

She’s inside working, but Chatterbox doesn’t go in. (He doesn’t drink anything this time— doesn’t want to risk losing his wits again.) He waits, and waits, and it rains, pouring through the night, until the same car pulls up hours later, and only then does Chatterbox get out. He pulls his mask on and skulks through the darkness, approaching the car, with learned stealthiness. 

The man is doing a line on the dashboard with the car still running, and when he lifts his head to honk the horn— his way of calling her out from the bar— Chatterbox slams into the back of his head, where his head bounces against the steering wheel. The car honks, his neck cracks, and Chatterbox makes sure he’ll never pick his head up again.

And like clockwork, she rushed out of the bar at the sound of the car horn honking: barely dressed and with her bag in hand, quickly locking the door behind her.

The usual car waits for her, but the loud clacking of her tall shoes running through the rain toward the car stops, abruptly, when she sees an unfamiliar sight.

Not her boyfriend, but a tall man standing by the drivers side door, in a clown mask. She fights back the feeling of fear and apprehension rising in her throat.

A prank…

   This was probably a cruel prank her asshole boyfriend set up…

“H-hey! We’re closed!” She calls: tentative, but trying to sound firm and unafraid.

“Chatterbox knows that,” he called back. 

She’s frozen in terror, staring. 

She calls her boyfriends name, begging him to do something, or reveal it was just a game… but he doesn’t reply. 

“He’s gone now…

  You’re free!”

“Wh… what?” She stutters, her voice barely audible through the rain.

“Yeah!” Chatterbox shows her. He pulls the the limp body out of the car, where it fell out into the empty parking lot.

She screams, her purse dropping to the parking lot, too.

“Shhhhh! You’ll get Chatterbox in trouble!” For the first time, Chatterbox comes to her as himself: voice and mask and all.

“Ch… Chatty?! Is that you?! What did you do!”

“Chatterbox got rid of him! You take his car and go! He won’t stop you now.”

“Go… go where? I— I don’t understand…”

“Anywhere! Canapa! Wherever you want to go!”

“I can’t— that’s not…“ she hyperventilated. Confusion turns to horror as she begins to realize this was not a joke— and not a nightmare. A strange guy from the bar— who she hasn’t seen in months— has killed her fiance and now stands before her in a mask and acting even stranger than usual— “Don’t hurt me!” She suddenly shrieks. She turned around to run back inside, but the door was locked—

“Huh? Chatterbox won’t!”

She tried to run but the clown wouldn’t let her—

“Where are you going? Chatterbox did what you wanted!”

“Get off of me!” She screeched.

“Wha— ?!”

He’s confused.

Utterly, crushingly confused, down to his bones and his soul.

   He did everything she wanted.

She wanted to be free, didn’t she… ?

No…

She was confused, not him.

She didn’t understand what he’d done for her! 

He has to explain...

He has to show her. 

“Chatterbox doesn’t want to do it this way…” 

She struggled and tried to escape, but she was outmatched. After all, he was a clown, and this is what Bobo’s clown family does.

She woke in the back of a van, with a man in a clown mask sitting in front of her, watching her. 

And again, she screamed—

Which he cringed at, irritated by the loud unnecessary overreaction.

“It’s me! Chatterbox!” He explained, annoyance mixed with the oblivious innocence of someone who didn’t know better.

“Who… the fuck… WHAT?!”

“Chatterbox!”

“Who are you?! What the fuck is a ‘chatterbox’?! Am I gonna die?!”

“Stop swearing!”

She screamed again, and tried to claw her way out of the van, yelling and causing more harm to herself than her cage. 

Her captor groaned in irritation and grabbed her hands to bind them— for her own sake, more than anything else.

She was stubborn! She didn’t listen…

Is this what Bobo had felt like when he found him?

He understands now, he thinks; why he was placed in the cage…

He took off the clown mask. “It’s me! Your friend!”

“Huh?” She was not comforted whatsoever, tears streaming down her cheeks and throat raw from yelling.

“You… don’t remember Chatterbox?”

“I’ve never met you in my life— you have the wrong girl! Let me go!” She paused. Her head was in excruciating pain. She winced and closed her eyes tight.

She whined in pain, and he glanced at the little bit of dried blood that stuck to the black hair on her temple. “I can’t remember anything…” She whined, doubling over. “Who are you? Where am I?”

… Chatterbox looked at her in confusion. 

Some people acted real weird when you picked them for the games…

The weirdest thing was when they didn’t react at all, living in a state of denial up until the last seconds…

But this was a new one. 

“You don’t remember Chatterbox? You don’t remember… anything?”

She shook her head, then winced with pain. “Where am I…? Who are you? What— what’s my name?”

He frowned. “What do you mean you don’t know your name…”

She wasn’t always this stupid…

   “I don’t know your yucking name!”

“‘Yucking…?’” At that, she giggled. “You sound funny, mister…”

He scowled. 

He had trusted this one not to judge him…

   She seemed like a nice one…

But it didn’t matter now! “Get a grip on yourself! You have to go now!”

“Go…? Go where?”

“Wherever! You told Chatterbox you wanted to go… well, you’re free now!”

She stared blankly, her eyes taking on that glassy, cloudy look that happened when you hit someone too hard.

Oh, yuck…

Bobo always hated Chatterbox’s ideas, and told the clowns they were too stupid to survive without him. Who would lead them— Chatterbox? He laughed. The fool would run them right into ruin; starvation and famine. He could not be trusted to think or act alone: everything must be done by the hands of Bobo.

They’d all be dead, if not for Bobo…

That’s what Bobo said…

And so he was enraged, when one of Chatterbox’s idiotic ideas stumbled into the family room, drunk on violence, and giggling. 

“What did you do to her?” Bobo asked, dark and leery. 

“Nothing, Bobo!”

Bobo narrowed his eyes at the dizzy, dopey girl. She was either drugged, or concussed … but why?

“She needed our help, Bobo! She has no family! But the clown family… we could use her.”

“You want to bring that— that THING into our family…” Bobo looked her over with disgust, and disdain.

“She has nowhere to go! Chatterbox told her— she can go anywhere! But she said she wants to stay with Chatterbox. She’s afraid…” 

Giblets stood by watching the back and forth between the clowns, too scared to speak up against the elder. (But secretly, Giblets agreed with this brother, and hoped the girl could stay. Her voice was soft and kind, and her laugh was pretty and sweet…) 

They argued for what felt like hours, until finally, Bobo become quiet…

Like he was thinking… scheming.

“We named her Giggles,” Chatty whispered, seeing a chance,

  a crack in the solid walls of Bobo’s stubborn, indomitable will…

Bobo looked at her.

   She seemed reticent… and manipulatable.

A complete moron— though whether that was due to head damage or natural born stupidity, he couldn’t say…

Either way, it could work for him…

“What does she know?” He asked.

“Nothing! She doesn’t know nothing, Bobo!”

Nothing… just the way Bobo liked it. 

  This could work…

   Maybe… 

But he couldn’t just let Chatterbox get away with his insolence. Right or not, the boy hadn’t asked for Bobo’s permission; not even his opinion. He’d simply brought the girl— a risk, a liability— here, to his home, his Funhouse.

A bold, and stupid, choice.

And he was tired of Chatterbox being bold and stupid. 

He preferred the cowardly stupidity of Giblets, and, perhaps… this Giggles, who stood by lamely, her eyes darting back and forth from Bobo to Chatterbox as they discussed the fate of her very life and death, and gave no input or interruption whatsoever. 

Bobo growled, slowly. “You … you think you’re strong enough and smart enough to decide who can and can’t become a clown, Chatterbox… ? You think you know what’s good for this family?” Bobo asked with a sneer, clearly disagreeing with the words he spoke.

“N-no”, the young man stammered back, sounding much younger than his years.

He glanced at Giggles, who stood by with a scared (but otherwise vacant) expression. He tried to gather all of his defiance, enough to ignite the bravery inside of him. “But Chatterbox—” He began to argue again…

“Enough! If you’re such a clown… you and I, let’s play a game, Chatterbox.”

“A - a game?”

“Yes… if you win, your clown can stay. She will be your responsibility to teach the clown ways. You will make sure she is one of us. And if she fails— if she betrays us—it will be your head we serve on the table…

  And if you lose, Chatterbox… then you both will pay. You'll go where everyone who loses the game goes.”

“To heaven?” Giblets questioned, worried.

“In the pot,” Bobo confirmed.

And Chatterbox froze.

   THAT game— ?! “Bobo wants Chatterbox to play the Funhouse Game?! But— but clowns don’t play the game! This is the Funhouse! Clowns run the games!”

“Don’t tell me what clowns do! Clowns don’t defy me!” Bobo roared, and it was clear it was settled: that was that, his mind was made up, and nothing would be changing it. 

“You think you’re big enough to act on your own, don’t you, Chatterbox? Then you should be strong enough to win.”

Chatterbox stood in stunned silence…

He knew Bobo would be angry…

   But he hadn’t thought he would be angry enough to want to see him die.

What if he lost?

Would Bobo even miss him… ?

    Would Bobo even care… ?

“Yeah… yeah, he’s totally right! You’ll win, Chatty!” Giblets cheerful voice was oblivious to Bobo's much darker meaning. “You’re a clown, Chatty; the best clown I know! You’ll beat all them!” 

“Yeah!” Giggles cheered, even more oblivious than the first. 

Chatterbox felt sick as Bobo eyes bore into him, challenging him…

And then he felt furious. 

Tired of being doubted all the time, 

  And told what he could and couldn’t do.

Tired of being under Bobo’s hypocritical, unjust rule…

Bobo knew he was right! He was mad because Chatterbox had done something right, and he couldn’t stand it! So threatened by him that he’d be willing to throw him to the wolves, watching as they tore him apart…

How could the leader of his own family be so yucking cold?!

“Giggles will watch. Giggles will assist me with the games in your place … what do you say? Will you play the game? Or would you rather be a coward, and take care of the problem yourself?” Bobo offered, his eyes slowly landing on Giggles, offering his protege a way out. 

Just kill her…

  That what’s Bobo suggests as an alternative.

Chatterbox could admit defeat: he could apologize for acting outside of Bobo’s purview, and set things right: put himself back in his rightful place, beneath Bobo’s…

And Chatterbox can’t deny; it’s a tempting offer…

“ — I love games!” Giggles giggled in the background. “I want to see, Chatty! I want to see you play!”

SHUT UP, his mind barks. 

    But it wasn’t her fault… 

Still, he felt like he’d just brought his own replacement .

Another puppet, an obedient clown for Bobo to mold—

  to control…

  Meanwhile, he’d be rotting away in the deep freezer, 

providing meat for a family dinner: a useful clown right to the very end…

Well, he has no choice! Because if he doesn’t play, he already lost: Bobo would never respect him. Bobo would always see him as weak, and pathetic… Beneath him… 

“Chatterbox will play,” he decides. “Chatterbox will win.”

“Good,” Bobo sneered. “Giblets— take the new one with you. Show her how we choose who plays the game.”

“Oh. We’re keeping her? Cool! Come on, clown sister!”

Giggles looked over at Chatterbox in question— the only person she knew, or thought she knew, so the only person she trusted— and he nodded at her. 

“Giblets is a good clown. You can trust Giblets. Giblets will take care of you.” 

“I never had a sister before, only brothers,” Giblets rattled off in the distance, as they walked away….

“Me neither! Well, I don’t think so… I don’t really remember,” Giggles giggled... 

“Giblets!” Bobo called, stopping them to give one last order. “Kill her if she misbehaves. Immediately. Either way, the games will go on… and bring us some good contestants, will you? These games— they’re going to be the very BEST we’ve ever put on.” He looked at Chatterbox with a glimmer in his eye, and a sick smile. 

Bobo expected him to die; Chatterbox knew it. Bobo wanted him to die…

And then Bobo’s clown family would be only Giblets— loyal Giblets— and maybe Giggles, who was even weaker than Bobo and whose brain was as firm as scrambled egg…

Pathetic, weak old man…

    You’re afraid of me, aren’t you…

The thought makes Chatterbox smirk back at him. “Yes, they will be!” He agreed, suddenly giddy and giggly.

   If he won, he would never have to be afraid of Bobo again.

Because then he would know: Chatterbox could overpower him… 

   Outwit him... 

    And not even the threat of death could stop him.

All he has to do is WIN. 

Giggles and Giblets gathered in the basement to watch the games. Even Granny was invited this time, and she made her rare appearance in the hellish basement where the clowns performed; on an average day, she pretended not to know, but this was special. 

Giggles screamed in horror when the games began, but when she heard Giblets and the others whoop in excitement, she eventually cheered along with them. (Like he said: brain of scrambled egg…)

But that was his fault, and now he had to take the blame.

“Stupid stupid girl…”

He stabs the first player in the gut.

“Why’d you have to say you wanted to leave?!”

Another stab, to the throat this time.

“Now all these people have to die because of you!”

Wrong— he was deflecting. 

That’s a Bobo thing to do!

And he’s better than Bobo—

“No, no, it’s not Giggles’ fault!” he argued out loud with himself. “Stupid Chatterbox!,” he corrected. “Because Chatterbox had to save her! Chatterbox can’t just leave her alone!” He mocked. “Stupid STUPID fucking dumbfuck clown!”

Granny gasped and Bobo’s eyebrows peaked, then furrowed, but Chatterbox didn't care at the moment—

He’d taken a particularly hard hit to his back from a bat, and the crackling of bones distracted him from feeling anything but rage. Rage at the man who’d hit him— who was gearing up for another swing— and rage at the man who put him there and watched dispassionately as he took the blows— and rage at himself. 

He shouted, a yell of pure rage, and the other contestant froze in fright, like the horrific reality of his circumstances had just become all too real to him. It was not long before he fell victim to a ferocious attack, dying on the other end of his bat: a crumpled, beaten loser.

As blood began to trickle from the victors mouth, so too did a dark and twisted laugh. “I win…”

“Who else wants to play?!” He laughed, manic; out of his mind. 

He’s not afraid.

He has a million and a half reasons to be angry; to hate with every drop of blood in his veins. 

He has enough pent up rage inside of him to kill them all, and then some. 

He’s not afraid anymore. 

When the bodies of contestants lie motionless or twitching in the throes of their last moments, Bobo doesn’t call for the clowns assistance in cleanup, like he usually did…

Chatterbox looks him in the eyes as Bobo enters the caged rooms, but Bobo says nothing— just looks for signs of life to extinguish. He began to finish off the remaining contestants with his shotgun— like he always did— and Chatterbox smiled a twisted smile.

“Guns are for cowards, Bobo,” he taunts.

Bobo turned, slow and purposeful. Furious, Chatterbox can tell. He wondered if Bobo would turn the gun on him, too.

  Go ahead. Prove my point… coward.

As if he could read his thoughts, Bobo went back to euthanizing the rest of their players. He spoke lowly. “You won, did you… I admit, I didn’t think you could do it.” 

Meager is the praise, but it’s praise indeed: the admission that Chattebox succeeded, did something right, for once. Praise that’s long overdue, and too overdue; Chatterbox feels nothing when he hears it now. 

Just emptiness, where a heart full of pride should be.

In this moment, he doesn’t care what Bobo thinks of him. 

“Chatterbox…” There’s disgust in the way he speaks the name: like he regrets ever giving it to him. Like he regretted picking him up out of the field that day, so many years ago. “Or should I say… Jagger?”

“Yeah… maybe you should.” 

He walked away, and Bobo never spoke of the night or the name again. 

Chapter Text

Giblets was calling it a “clowniversary.”

“What the yuck is a clownipersity,” Chatterbox had asked, to which Giblets happily explained that today was a year to the day since Giggles had become a clown, and that was a cause for celebration!

… but Chatterbox suspects this is just a made-up excuse for Giblets to throw a party, because he and Giblets never had no ‘clowniversary,’ and Bobo didn’t care about it either. Holed up alone in the basement, Bobo would occasionally scream up the stairwell for a beer, and nowadays, Giggles was usually the one to scurry to serve him.

Chatterbox envied Bobo’s reclusive reaction, and wished he could join him in the basement with a beer… but Chatterbox was never really invited to have a drink with Bobo. Not like Giblets…

Besides, Giggles and Giblets were so excited for the party that it felt cruel to deny them their fun. (After all, it was surprisingly difficult to have fun in their Funhouse, except for in violent, bloody ways.) So Chatterbox goes along with it, even though he doesn’t really understand.

Outside, the trio of younger clowns were gathered in the pig pen, where Chatterbox and Giblets worked on a fence that Carl (one of Giblets’ prized pigs) had broken down and trampled. Giggles was feeding them scraps from the clowns’ breakfast to keep them distracted and contained while the fence was restored.

While she tossed out grains of oatmeal, trying to divvy it out equally to each pig, one impatient greedy sow plowed into the back of Giggles' legs, demanding to cut in line and get her serving before the others.

“Ow! Giblets– your stupid pig!” Giggles yelled as her legs folded underneath her. Chatterbox snickered at her as she fell into the mud: then crawled up and brushing the slop and twigs off of her hands and clothes. “Yuck! I need someone to come with me to patch me up… I got a cut.” She frowned.

“Chatterbox doesn’t wanna,” he whined. “Chatterbox is busy!” (He wasn’t that busy– fixing the fence was easy work– he just didn’t want to.)

“Call Granny! Granny will fix ya right up,” Giblets suggested. 

“No– I don’t want to talk to Granny! She’s stoopid and annoying! She nags too much!” 

“Sounds familiar to Chatterbox,” Chatterbox muttered under his breath, and Giblets snickered.

Giggles didn’t hear his comment, because the same pig that had knocked her on her butt had returned, sniffing around at her feet, reminding her of her grudge. “Go away, pig! You got mud all over my clowniversary dress!” She lifted a foot like she was gonna kick it, but it was an empty threat: she stamped her foot into the mud in frustration instead, splashing more mud everywhere. “I looked so hot, too,” she sniffled.

“Giggles shouldn't wear dresses in the pig pen! Wear normal clothes!” Chatterbox bossily snapped in advice.

The target of Giggles' anger switched from the pigs to him. “Shut up, Chatty!”

“Wha– why?! Why are you mad at Chatterbox?! Chatterbox is just–”

“Leave me alone! I have to go change now!” She stormed off, leaving Giblets to keep the pigs rounded up while Chatterbox hammered in the last nails into the fences.

“Yucking crazy lady,” he muttered as she got further away from the pig pen.

“Hey man, that's your wife!” Giblets laughed heartily.

“Shut up!”

Giblets earns a hit to the head with the handle of the hammer for that one. He lets out a long ow, but nothing else, then laughs more.

Chatterbox silently curses Giggles less hardy constitution than Giblets... Maybe if her brain hasn’t been made of paper mache, she’d still remember her yucking name...

   She wouldn’t have no yucking 'clowniversaty.'

“— Chatterbox only said that so she’d stop asking so many yucking questions! It’s not the truth!” 

“Yeah, well, I dare you to tell her that… double dog dare you.” Giblets challenged, deviously.

Chatterbox looks over at her, throwing open the rickety front door to the farm house in frustration...

“No way. Giggles would kill the Chatterbox!”
She had her teeth dug in and was attached, like a leech. Giblets knew it, and that's why he joked.

And, well... Chatterbox supposed they were as married as a clown without a court or a church could be; she sleeps in his bed and she calls him all the yucking time— asks him where he was, and when he was coming home, why didn’t he bring her with him to do work in town today… she said they needed more money, for this or that, and oh, can he pick up toilet paper on the way home, too?

It was yucking ANNOYING! 

… but he has no one to blame but himself, so he tries not to get too frustrated with Giggles.
   It wasn't her fault.
 Any of it…

Besides, it was nice to have the constant companionship, sometimes… someone who always checked up on him, who wanted him around…
it was nice to feel like somebody thought he was worth marrying … even though he knew it was a lie. 

If he had actually asked her, instead of just lied, he knows she would have said no.

Because who the yuck would want to marry Chatterbox?

“What is Giggles so yucking excited about…” he asked to Giblets. “Why does she gotta dress up?” 

“Because it’s her clowniversary! And because she looooooves you.” Giblets teased like a school boy.

Chatterbox made a sound like he’d taken a bad bite of stew. “Yuck!”

Giblets gave a more serious answer, laughing at his friends’ obliviousness. “She likes you, Chatterbox… you saved her!” 

   Saved her…?

No, he didn’t save her…

“Chatterbox hurt her… Chatterbox forced her to be a clown,” he whispered, so quiet he wasn't sure if Giblets heard it. He didn’t like saying it out loud. He didn’t like to think about it… but the guilt didn’t let him forget…

“Hey, that doesn’t matter anymore, buddy!” Giblets shrugged off the confession with a carefree coldness– “She’s one of us now! I taught her how to make the stew; I introduced her to all the animals, and–”

Giblets continued to list off all the things that made Giggles a clown.

Chatterbox said nothing else.

Giblets didn’t get it.
He never did.


‘Loved him’?
  She didn’t even know him... he lied to get her here.

‘Saved’ her?
  He didn’t yucking save her...

He forced her into a clown life she never asked for.
He made her forget her name, her identity, to leave it all behind and trust only him, and them… it was only the clowns now…

    Chatterbox was as bad as Bobo…

    Chatterbox was no better.

Giggles was trapped in a cage, too– though not a physical one …

     You ruined her fucking life, just like that freak ruined mine, he reminded himself, and he would never let him forget it...

Chatterbox has no gifts to give her, so he rips some wildflowers from the earth on their way back to the house. They make a violent tearing sound as they’re torn from their comfortable homes in the dirt.

They’d be dead within days, and would’ve been much better off staying in the dirt where they lay… but they were his now.

Happy yucking clowniversary. 

“Well?!” She sits at the table in a white dress with little black flowers printed all over it, looking at Chatterbox expectantly. “How’s the food?”

“Mmmmmm!” Giblets happily praises the stew she made them– maybe giving his clueless clown brother a hint of what to say.

“It’s the same thing we eat everyday…” Chatterbox listlessly picks up his spoon, dropping some stew from his spoon back into the bowl, watching it make a dark meaty waterfall. He can tell she wants him to say something, but… “What is Chatterbox supposed to say?”

Okay. Fair point. “Well, what about the cake?!” She demands. (They certainly didn’t have THAT every day!)

“Chatterbox hates cake,” he whines. “Does Chatterbox have to eat it?”

“Liar! You talk about cupcakes all the time!”

“Chatterbox just says that; it doesn’t mean it’s true,” he explains. Cupcakes were just a part of clown life; didn’t mean he had to like it.

Giggles threw down her silverware and pushed back her chair with a loud screech of wood. “Why are you so yucking mean to me, Chatterbox?! All I ever do is love you, Chatty, but you don’t give a da– a YUCK! I don’t even think you CAN love someone, Chatterbox! You’re– you’re… ugh!” She screamed in frustration and stormed off, and Giblets whistled under his breathe.

“Huh?!” Chatterbox was surprised, watching slack jawed under the mask as she stomped to their bedroom in a huff

“You’re in trouble…” Giblets. sang

Chatterbox picked up the piece of cake with his hands and threw it at Giblets stupid face, then stormed out of the room, too.

“Ooh, thank you! I love cake!” Giblets’ voice faded behind him.

He paced around in the hallway for a while, pissed off and confused, wondering how to respond. In anger? Apology? In violence– that’s what Bobo would say to do. But he doesn’t want to do that at all…

She was right, and he knew it.
Yes, he was mean. No, he didn’t love her, like that...

But why did it have to bother her so much?! Who cares if he couldn't love her back; why did it yucking matter?! People lived without love all the time.
He did! She’s not special for that…

   Get over it!

Besides, he loved her like a friend! She was his newest (and only, if you didn't count family) friend, and he cared for her.
Even more than that, he loved her like a clown! They were family! What more could she possibly want than that?!

As he clenches his fist and paces, muttering to himself– he hears her upstairs, knocking carefully on Bobo’s bedroom door.

“Bobo?” She softly called. “I brought you dinner… it’s stew– I made it extra special tonight– and— a piece of cake. It’s wedding cake! Because we didn’t get to eat any the day we were married… me and Chatty, I mean. At least, I don’t think we did… I don't remember…”

Chatterbox feels a wave of guilt: an unfamiliar and overwhelming, sickening feeling.

“You did what?” Chatterbox recognizes the sound of the bedroom door flying open. “Who said you could spend my money on cake?”

“Oh, I didn’t buy it, Bobo: I made it!”

“And what did you make it with, Giggles?”

“Sugar…” She fearfully squeaked.

“And what else, Giggles?” He sneered.

“Flour…”

“And where did you get the sugar, Giggles? Did the pigs shit it out for you?”

“N-no–”

“You bought it. With our money… MY money, Giggles.”

Chatterbox rushed up the stairs; couldn’t take any more of this conversation. Giggles stood in front of Bobo’s bedroom door with her head bowed, holding the plates she’d prepared Bobo with shaking hands.

“-- Chatterbox bought it, Bobo! Chatterbox bought the cake,” he cut in.

Bobo’s eyes turned to him quickly and sharply, hate pouring out of them.

    Why did Bobo always look at him like that? Chatterbox wondered.
What did he do to deserve it?

“You…”  Bobo snarled in disgust. He knew the boy was lying… but it didn’t matter now. “Both of you… get out of my sight!” He slammed the door so hard the house shook, and Giggles jumped and squeaked.

She still wasn’t used to that.
Bobo still scared her out of mind.

She slumped, and carried the plates down the stairs, dejected by his rejection.

… and then Chatterbox felt worse. 

He didn’t want to be like Bobo…

“Psst! Giggles!” He called, motioning her into their room— the smallest in the house, but a room was a room.

She looked over at him— excited to be noticed at first, but then her expression returned to one of disgruntled, pinched pain. “What do you want, Chatterbox.”

“Come here!” He motioned her over like a kid, and she finally acquiesced, placing the plates down to be dealt with in the kitchen later. “Chatterbox has something for you!”

She looked doubtful and her brows knitted tightly, but she approached.

He gave her the makeshift bouquet from the yard, and her grimace disappeared immediately– so fast his eyes could hardly believe it. Surprise takes over, then a smile.

“For me?! Really?!” She squeals in happiness and kisses his cheek— gross!, he thinks, even though it only touches his mask and not the skin (THAT would be even grosser)—
But that’s what married people do, right?
And that’s what she thinks they are, because of him…
So he allows it. 

Sure, it was fake…
But it’s not like he deserved anything real, realer than this–

This dark charade was far more than he could ever deserve, and so he should allow her that, at least. 

She was in a better mood for the rest of the night, and crawled into the bed next to him, her back to him and her body curled up like a cat… when he realizes it, the thought crosses his mind that he’d much rather have a pet cat than a wife; they were independent, and they caught their own food, and they didn’t beg so much for his attention … but Bobo wouldn't let him have a cat inside, so he has to make do with what he’s got. 

He never gets exactly what he wants…

    But if he ever got a pet cat, maybe he’d name it Chuckles, to match…

Giggles tugged on the sparse thin blanket shared between them, trying to steal it all to cover her body with. Chatterbox tugged on it back, not letting her take the whole thing.

“Share, woman!” He scolded her in her sleep, but she didn’t listen, nor relent, so he finally gave up and let her have it, with an annoyed groan. He turned on his back, too, curling up into a ball to get warm.

At first, he’d been excited to have his very own bed– one of the few luxuries Bobo let him have, and all thanks to Giggles! She had complained about sleeping on the couch and floor so many times that it had broken even Bobo’s stubborn will: and eventually, he’d allowed them a mattress. But what he did not like was having to share it. She took up half of it, and frequently took more than half of the sheets…

Lying in the cold of the room while she was bundled in their blanket, he had to ask himself: why did anyone ever want to get married?! Why was it so popular a dream?! And unable to sleep, his mind wandered. Wondering, what else did married people even do? How does he keep up this charade for her? He hasn’t a clue,. Bobo wasn’t married, Giblets wasn’t married; Granny used to be, he thinks, but she wasn’t no more. His mother and father are such a distant memory he can barely remember what they were like apart, let alone together… so how was he supposed to know what married people do?

… Argue, he remembers— his mom and dad used to argue a lot. And that, him and Giggles did do … so he guesses he’s fulfilling his marital obligations pretty well!

“Happy clowniversary, Giggles,” he says as his good night, as she rests peacefully and unafraid by side.