By: Aithne
Trigger Warning: Clowning Around (duh – oh and the header image – CLOWNS.)
So, a Monday afternoon, the kind that usually screams for a strong coffee and a place of quiet. There I was, strolling down Hathian Highway, facing the task of choosing my caffeine dealer. Would it be the street level pusher, The Pie Hole down Main, or the robust cartel of The Grind further along the highway? A true Sophie’s Choice for the chronically sleepless?
But my profound ponderings were, as Hathian would have it fated, rudely interrupted. Across the street, behind the aromatic embrace of the gas station, lay a sight: a police officer, horizontal. Perhaps ‘contemplating the clouds‘, but seemingly in that twisted manner to indicate it wasn’t voluntary. Hovering nearby like vultures near a fresh kill were three figures: one man, two ladies – one of whom was rocking a fetching pair of police-issue handcuffs. The fellow, bold as brass, was casually clutching what looked suspiciously like the officer’s radio, probably already calculating its eBay value. My inner paparazzi screamed, ‘Action!‘ So, naturally, I watched, listened, and my camera started working overtime.
No sooner had my jaw dropped than a squad car screeched onto the scene, lights flashing with urgency, siren wailing its mournful song. Two of “Hathian’s finest” bailed out, demanding the trio give the downed officer some personal space. The un-cuffed woman threw her hands up, Oscar-nomination style, proclaiming she’d dialed 911 and dramatically suggested our prone officer might be auditioning for a role in the morgue.
Meanwhile, Mr. Radio-Snatcher, sporting the height of criminal chic (mask, hoodie up, a general aura of ‘oh crap‘), suddenly developed an intense interest in a nearby bicycle. With the grace of a startled gazelle (if gazelles rode rusty Schwinns), he was off, pedaling like he was late for a very important appointment with ‘anywhere but here.‘ One of the newly arrived cops clocked his hasty retreat and was already on her radio, presumably not ordering pizza.
About this same time, the ambulance arrived with commendable promptness, presumably to collect our horizontal hero for either a hospital stay or a one-way trip downtown. But my journalistic instincts were tingling. The real story wasn’t the aftermath; it was with Mr. Speedy Spokes!
So, with the athletic prowess of a flamingo, I took off, my high heels click-clacking a desperate rhythm on the pavement. I nearly sacrificed an ankle to the fashion gods but, thanks to a cunning shortcut that would make a rat proud, I managed to intercept him. “PRESS!” I shrieked, possibly startling several pigeons, as he whizzed past. “I want to talk!” He, mid-flight, jerked a thumb towards a nearby construction site – the universal symbol for ‘let’s chat where it’s dusty and mildly dangerous‘ – and veered in.
Now, common sense (that boring little voice) usually advises against following potentially homicidal, radio-thieving cyclists into abandoned construction sites. But where’s the fun in common sense? Besides, my gut told me he was more ‘opportunistic scavenger‘ than ‘cold-blooded cop-killer.‘ If he’d done the deed, he’d be halfway to Mexico, not loitering. He might, however, be my star witness! After a cursory search of my handbag (he was probably hoping for cash, not just lip gloss and old receipts), he agreed to spill the beans. No photos, though. Apparently, he wasn’t ready for his close-up.
“I’m being framed!” he blurted, which, while a classic, seemed a bit premature. I mean, who’d go to the trouble? Maybe not specifically framed, I imagined, but yeah, he had looked guiltier than a cat next to an empty goldfish bowl. His tale was interesting though, so I listened to it in the stairwell he had pulled me into. Apparently, Officer Down-and-Out had been in the process of arresting the cuffed lady. Another cop had been there too, but then departed – vanished like my motivation on a Tuesday morning. Our cuffed damsel, he said, seemed to be high on something. Then, out of nowhere, a man in a CLOWN MASK (yes, you read that right) waltzed up and started a brawl with the cop. Our cyclist hadn’t seen the actual fisticuffs, just clown face making a swift exit shortly after, followed by the sight of the officer napping on the asphalt. He theorized Bozo the Aggressor had attacked the cop, possibly with the cuffed woman flailing ineffectually. The other, un-cuffed woman, arrived around when he did and made the emergency call. As for the radio? Oh, he “liberated” it, convinced it was his golden ticket on the black market.
So, the motive of our pugilistic Pierrot remains as murky as Hathian swamp water. What is clear, however, is that the circus has possibly rolled into town, and if this incident is anything to go by, the HPD might just be the headline act in the comedy tent they’ve always been rumored to be.
The editor writes: It is a real shame my article on the real Hathian clown… disappeared, perhaps I will have to restore it.
