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Day Of The Carny


Comments (11)


Ever' time I see dat clown I smile. He jus' doan get no r'spect.


Another day, another crisis for Flinchy the Clown. Noted hunter-killer of falafel pirates, his adoring public never asked what happened to the falafel the pirates were carrying. I'm sure Flich would have considered such questions as mere 'distractions'.

Drake Duck, however, was not of the adoring public. Seeing as it was HIS FALAFEL that was missing. 'The Duck', as he was known in certain circles, wanted answers. Answers Flich was a little, shall we say, hesitant to divulge.

Flich was thinking about the smoke bomb in his left shoe heel, however, The Duck's partner just happened to have his own size 12 planted firmly on top of it at the moment. That and the SigSauer P226 planted firmly in his right temple appeared to limit his options.

Was this to be Flinchy the Clowns last curtain call?


…“Go ahead…make your day but the falafel is gone. What’s such a big deal about some fried bread balls anyway”, said the Flinch. Maybe they just wanted their precious fried surprise…but it had to be more if the Ducks were involved. Then it all came to the Flinchmeister, like the sun rising over the Carney in the morning. The falafel pirates were a middle-east terrorist cell being backed by the Ducks, a known deep underground mafia group who despised America and wanted to bring it down. They formally backed a group known as the Weather Underground and a new group known as ACORN. What was it? What did they want besides to steal the election? Was it just their bread, and how was he getting out of this? He knew he had to stop them! If only he could notify the Chief.

“Dirty Bomb…You’ve got nuclear material for a dirty bomb hidden in the dough…right”!

“Just hand over the bread” said the Duck.

“Only I know where it is”, said Flinchy, hoping he could buy time. Flinch knew that the Sig 226 had a big double action 12-pound pull on the first shot. If he could distract them enough and dive away, the thug couldn’t pull the trigger in time and maybe he could turn this around.

“I need to scratch my nose”.

“Don’t move” said the Duck.

“It’s itching and I have to scratch it, my balls too!” said Flinchy.

“All right… but only your nose.”

Flinchy slowly reached up to remove his nose and then like a flash, his Taekwondo training kicked in. He dropped to the floor swinging his heels and body around to the backside of those yellow wrinkly legs, knocking the Duck on his fluffy ass. The shot rang out, but as Flinchy surmised he managed to duck under it and scrambled out the door using a serpentine motion to avoid the next shots. FLOP FLOP…Flop Flop… flop flop…flop flop…


ferry360 and everyone else...jump in!


Flinchy was high-stepping once again, and again his lungs were screaming for mercy. But distance was his mistress this night and he needed to put a lot of it between him and The Duck.

FALAFEL his mind screamed over and over. What's so freakin' important about falafel? Flinch had reached the forested area west of the carney; in the dark he bounched from tree to tree like an avenging pin ball. All the while, his mind screaming FALAFEL! over and over.

BAM! He hit the tree trunk dead center, just as the answer swirled up from the depths of his rot-gut frazzeled brain. NO! It couldn't be! No! No! NO! But the more he denied, the more his inner being said YES!

Chem 101; Falafel, indigenous plant of Tennessee lowlands. Drought tolerant, low maintenance, food source. High in energy, producing 30-40% more energy than needed to produce it. BIO-FUEL!! "That's it!", he screamed into the darkness around him, while nursing a large knot that was forming on his forehead.

The Goracle!, Drake Duck!, it all made sense now!


Flinchy posed stoically as the cartel goon pressed the muzzle against his temple. Flinchy was cool…TOO cool...& for good reason…

You see, nobody ever took clown-craft as seriously as Flinchy did, & he took it to its logical end. No lame “Wild & Crazy” fake arrow-on-a-headpiece for him. No slapstick herky-jerky gyrations. He was the REAL DEAL…“Mind Freak my big blistered [behind]”, Flinchy often said.

In the early days, Flinchy had a surgeon bore a hole through his skull from one temple to the other. The channel was to pass through his frontal lobe just to the front of Broca’s Area--on the margin between the sectors that controlled voluntary movement & the sense of smell.

This channel was designed to serve two purposes. The most obvious is that it would allow Flinchy to put a real arrow through his head. The channel was lined with a chrome-moly cylinder that allowed Flinchy to do the real “Wild & Crazy” with expandable broadheads. He had intended to bring his Glock 20 into the act, but just too many stupid little rug rats were trying first-one-thing-&-then-another at home, & his liability insurance carrier wouldn’t cover him if he did it.

This was the same insurance company that bankrolled billions in taxpayer subsidized sub-prime loans to anybody that would sign on the dotted line; well, all they really had to do was hold the pen, & the brokers would move the paper underneath the pen.

Those folks had big fat mortgages on houses from Studio City to Westchester, & they were paying those mortgages with everything from aluminum cans (they were classified as commodities experts), to scavenged golf balls (club professionals), to big bricks of doobie (pharma reps), to scavenged dumpster renderings (recycling experts), to S&H Green Stamps (commercial paper experts)…but no insurance for Flinchy (in spite of the fact that he was willing to pay 7-figure premiums).

The falafel proceeds were their last chance at solvency, & without them, they would become yet another casualty of the banking crisis. The Drake was certain he had thought of everything when he coined the slogan, “Get a piece of the lake.” Who could hold a piece of a lake? It would run right through your fingers & soak into the ground--if it didn’t evaporate first. “Genius”, thought The Drake; “Sheer genius.”

That's right. The Drake the falafel pirate was also The Drake the filthy banking "magnate." Things couldn't have come together any better as far as Flinchy was concerned.

But I digress:

The surgical process was carefully planned to nick the frontal lobe just a scosh so that Flinchy would lose just a little bit of voluntary motor control. AUTHENTIC, baby…

In the process, Flinchy’s sense of smell was affected as well. The olfactory effect wasn’t intended, but it was fortuitous. For one, when Flinchy’s dad made falafel, he could never stand the smell of the nabulsi. His father didn’t use the good stuff; he used those nasty little balls packed in big jars of rancid olive oil—the stuff that looked like pickled ping pong balls. Second, that cheese--combined with beans & peppers & then deep-fried—made for some of the rankest flatulence & mud-butt blowouts this side of P. F. Chang’s. When people said “squirt like a duck”, it was The Drake they were talking about (that was one dirty bird).

Anyway, the muzzle of that piece just happened to nestle right into the flap of "The View" Gorgon skin (certainly NOT adorable little Elizabeth's) grafted over the opening to Flinchy’s brain channel, & Flinchy was stalling for just enough time to align his temple-tube with the middle of The Drake’s forehead.

His eyes twitched... left... right... left... right...

Aw...pull the danged trigger already...


Reaching the safety of his trailor, Flinchy collapsed in his broken and torn old Lazy Boy. Heaving over and over....”HAAAAAAWCK....ARGHHH PETUWEY” A piece of lung hits the floor. His trailor smelled like BO, rye and mice piss. “Ummmm HAAAWCK”. Flinchy needed to call the Chief and tell him about the Falafel BioFuels Scam. He lifts up his right number 16….”Crap”. The shoe phone was broken in the scuffle. He needed to find a phone, report in and...and where was that rye?

Knock Knock “Yooo hooo...Flinchy is that you?...he he he he he....open up...he he he he”. It was Bernice and Wilma the two headed woman from the back sideshow. She also played the fat lady on Thursdays...”What ya want...I’m busy... HAAAAWCK”

“You know snookums....how ‘bout a little fun....he he he he he”?

“Go away you smelly old skank or skanks or what ever you are. I’m busy ‘hic’. No patty cake tonight....daddy’s tired.....Besides, I can never tell which one of you is faking it.....BELCH”.

“ohhh babycakes its been so long....he he he he”

“I said leave” and with that he throws his left number 16 at the door. Luckily nothing went off.

Finding the Old Overholt, the Flinchmeister again collapses in his chair and takes a big swig. “Ahhhhhhhh”. Wrapping up in that old fedora his X left, his eye lids droop...”falafel...biofuel....must call the Chief ...biofuel...falafel”...”hmmmm, I got some biofuel for ya”...with that Flinch lifts up his right #16 and releases a large burble from behind” then with a quite "Burp"....he begins to snore...


It was all rather serene. Nicest funeral he'd ever been to...come to think of it, the only funeral he'd ever been to. Not that he had a choice, seeing that it was his!

Flinc was 1st floating over the scene, all the carney people gathered around the open pit...er, grave. He did cock a jaundiced eye at one or two...okay, alot, who appeared to be snickering. Then he was at the bottom of the grave looking up, seeing the faces of the carney clowns looking down on him. Then, as one, they all produced their selzer bottles, giving him a parting salute, the spray washing over his painted face.

Awwk! Blupfffffff! Spllllfff! Flinchy woke up gasping for air! "Wake up you drunken sot!" That voice! "I said WAKE UP! You freakin deaf as well as dumb!" "Chief?", Flincy quired, "That you?". "Now who the hell you think it is, if it were Drake you can bet he wouldn't be sprayin' your face with seltzer, now for the last time, WAKE UP!" Flinch opened his eyes and looked around. He wasn't dead! His head was killin' him, but he wasn't dead!

"Don't give me that stupid grin you sot-headed moron!", the Chief opined. "Where's the stuff?" Flinch responded, "Had a heck of a time protecting it ya know, had some extra costs, to keep it safe." "Don't con me ya rat-faced bastard, who ya think I am, one of your dumb-ass carney's? Now where is it, or do I roll over on ya and drop a dime to The Duck?"

"Aw Chief, you know ya can trust me, I was just funnin' ya. It's all safe, two tents over, back of the elephants tent, I'll take ya there right now." Sliding out the underside of the back of Flinch's tent, it was mere moments before they were entering a tent marked "Supplies". Flinch cast nervous eyes right and left as he strolled casually over to the back of the tent towards a large 'something' covered by canvas sheeting.

Pulling one side of the canvas upwards, he turned to the Chief while crying out "Wa-Laaa!". The look on the Chief's face was not one of gratitude or pleasure. Flinch turned and stared at box after box marked "Popcorn Mix". Behind him he heard the Chief say, "If this is one of your jokes, asshole, you'll notice I ain't exactly laughing."

Out of the shadows at the front of the tent also came a comment, "I ain't quacking up myself"!


“Quick Chief!” Flinchy dove across the room, baggy pants and floppers in the air, grabbing the Chief and landing them both behind a row of crates. Just then the M249 SAWs machine gun opened up. Canvas, crate wood, rope, dirt and popcorn sprayed everywhere in the racket. The Chief reached in his coat to pull out his Manager’s Special .380 auto.

“Are you kidding”, yelled Flinchy! “What? You think this is a game at a two bit carny........DON’T ANSWER THAT”!

Again the machine gun opened up tearing up the tent like a tree in a pulp mill, but miraculously both Flinchy and the Chief were unhurt. Flinchy did have two bullets tangled in his hair and one had taken off the outer half of his nose, but somehow they made it.

“Go make sure they’re Dead” quacked the Drake. Flinchy being really quiet held his fat puffy white finger up to his lips and looked at the Chief. He then reached into his big baggy brown stained pants. “Ooooooo Ahhhhhhhh” wrong gun. Ah ha, there it is and out it came. The DE .500, a monsterous thing! Standing up from behind the rubble, WHAM, WHAM WHAM, the thug smacks the ground instantly; the machine gun tumbling off infront of him. Again WHAM WHAM, and duck feathers flew around the room like a busted pillow at a teenage sleep-over.

“You can come out now Chief” croaked Flinchy. “It’s all over.....and put that pee shooter away before someone gets hurt”.

“Wow, nice shooting! How’s a drunken broken down bum shoot like that?” the Chief said in total amazement. Flinch just shook his head and mumbled to himself “Marvelous… just Marvelous”.

“Don’t think this get’s you out of trouble Flinchy. Where’s that falafel?”

“I smelled that duck the moment we left my tent”, said Flinchy. “...a strong urea smell masking the normal smell of sour beer, cigarettes, puke and garbage. I purposely led them to the wrong tent. The falafel’s with one of the other carnys”

“Who? Where is it?” exclaimed the Chief.

“It’s with my friend Wilma ... I mean Bernice ... I mean”.

“Well. Which is it” pressed the Chief.

“You’ll see when we get there” mumbled Flinchy. With that Flinchy and the Chief headed off, flopping through the puddles, puke, piss, and mud of the Carny grounds over towards the sideshow wagon.

"Got an extra butt Chief? ... It's been a long night." ................

"sir? shouldn't you move to the left or right a bit?"
"okay sir."


Hey wickedpinto.

When Flinchy comes up again, and he will, please jump into the story. GO FOR IT! We need help developing this soon-to-be famous e-comic book character! I think he's gaining popularity.

We'll see. Maybe you could start the next one off.


John Cox is a painter, cartoonist, and illustrator for hire. For information about purchasing existing work or commissioning new work, contact him by e-mail at john555cox [at] hotmail.com.

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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on October 11, 2008 6:37 PM.

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