Disclaimer: This story contains some scenes which may trigger strong emotions. If you don't feel that you have a supportive source whom you can trust to help find positive, nonharmful methods of dealing with strong feelings then this story may not be for you. Responsible reader discretion is advised.
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To this day, a city known as Rozlegle Rozlic (1) is a vast settlement with a lingering rumor of owing its founding to the lure of gullible minds. Whatever inspired such humble beginnings, those minds aspired beyond expired expectations. In our current times, Rozlegle Rozlic stands among a nation of cities in the scenic splendor of modern city ways.
One of those ways is sitting in a vehicle packed roadway spread across a traffic jam.
An already aggravated atmosphere afflicted in automotive annoyance accelerated into auditory anguish in the abrupt arrival of an antagonistic attack! Those first few victims experienced antagonizing as a roof-denting 'thunk' completely destroying every window pane in their vehicle. Some windows broke without falling apart, allowing that car's occupants to escape their auto bonds. They became the first to set sight on something truly out of the box.
For a sugar-infused cereal's surreal form, a clown balanced on a unicycle easily served as that embodiment. And "demented" certainly filled in the descriptive packaging.
Like any distracting beacon of entertainment, this clown's costume bore a vitamain event design. Polkadots in garden-inspired brights covered a baggy bodysuit encasing all but the clown's head, hands and feet. The suit looked even more balloonish with its undersized gaudy gold vest loosely stitched across the clown's chest. Matching golden shoes jingled almost as loudly as they looked. To top it all, a grin-painted face peered out from a cranium topping wig-set hairstyle of tomato-red which reached out to the world in all directions.
"Hee, hee, hee! Just call me a mere pun-knight-ive action attraction; the kooky; the corny, Sir Repartee!" cackled the clown as he rode down a pickup's front and hopped onto a crossover's back.
Hoping to save their own insurance rates, a few drivers pulled into any empty lane spaces which their egos drove them into. Such action yielded the obvious result; a smashed pack of crumpled cars with a mob-meshed melody of mouths in discussion, distress.. and pain.
Deflating tones of disappointment wafted above the noise within range of a few ears. "Awwww..."
Sound seekers soon sighted said sullen source. The clown frowned through his make-up as he watched the scene. "It's not as much fun wrecking stuff when everyone's so quick to join in. Ah well..."
He hopped his unicycle to the sidewalk. Anyone who didn't heed his cackled warning received a tired track across their toes as he wheeled away.
Crowded commuting converted into crowded communication as cries, calls and keystrokes congested connections with complaints, comments and other commonly credible contacts. Then a singular call conveniently received the attention of many listeners.
"This is, like, WAY too mega, man! Where's Rozlic's Blue Hero when we need him?"
"Yyyoooouuuuu called?"
Several excited faces turned towards the responding voice. Their excitement dropped flat as soon as they looked upon their blue-suited savior.
"Oh, it's just a cop."
Mild ire wrinkled Officer O'Qunck's face as he smoothly pressed a civil tone. "Sorry if my shield's not good enough. Would you prefer a Captain or some - other - blue uniform; like say, a seafaring Crunch?"
Waves of wincing wound through the gathered citizens. One person gestured at the car pileup. "I... think the clown's already done plenty of 'crunching' around here, Officer."
"Clown?" Confusion blinked across the officer's face before spilling into horror. "Oh no. You don't mean..."
Many heads among the attentive crowd nodded. Officer O'Qunck slapped his forehead. "Great, another serial kook."
With walkie-talkie in hand, Officer O'Qunck's quick communication began the chase.
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Stirring musical beats kept silence off the side streets of a road less traveled. Life served its own brand of flavor along this drive whose time had passed for the day's traffic. And that flavor reflected in the hue enriched buildings behind each side of the pavement. Windows above and shops below lightly sprinkled their life-filled glow over these constructs of paint, bricks and concrete.
Beyond those glassy panes, silhouettes indicated that the real energy was contained within these colorful containers. None saw a clown round a corner and cycle onto the street.
"Ahhh! A quiet city side street. Could there be a more quaintly place to hear a pin drop." Sir Repartee let out a few cackles as he allowed one of his juggling pins to slip through his fingers and gently clatter on the sidewalk cement.
A jingling outside of Sir Repartee's shoes drew his attention to an opening door. Two men stepped out of a shop brightly labeled as "The Blue Jambi Cupboard". Their eyes bulged at the sight of a single-wheeled rider.
"CLOWN!" one of them screamed, instantly backing back into the Blue Jambi.
That brought the life pouring and peering through the windows and doors.
Not one to shy away from audience manipulation, Sir Repartee pretended to be shocked by all of the attention. "What? Is there no room for a little clown in this happy town?"
Various audible shudders came with murmurs of, "Ughhh, another saccharine showing we - don't - need!"
The other man shook his fist in Sir Repartee's direction. "Go back to outer space, ya parasite!"
Clownish lips twisted within that brightly painted smile which turned upon the insulter. "Y'know, I'm feeling a little 'tongue-tied' at the moment." The clown held up one of his juggling pins. "My pin can do the popping off for me."
Like a puffing machine pressurized, he released the pin. It followed the man's fleeing form back into the Blue Jambi, eliciting screams and scrambling. An explosive pop battered the windows in a pasty goop, leaving the shop's caked over walls filled with orchestrations of linguistic mixes.
Behind Sir Repartee came an authoritative wheeze. "Sta-stop, you pedalsome pantaloony! Yor-you're (gulp, gasp) ohhh-ooohhhh-nly making-making thin- (wheeze) things wor- (cough) worse for yoursa-yourself. (hack, hack, gasp)"
Recognizing a police pursuit, the unicyclist pedaled his way on down the street. "Sorry flatfoot! Ya gotta go fast to catch this cycle! Heeheehee haha hee hee ha ha ha ha!"
Two tiring police officers rounded the corner just as their lungs and legs demanded rest. Both stopped to grant that demand.
Despite their air-starved conditions, one of the officers, Whammeth, managed to wheeze, "So, where's our blue backup with the tools to handle situations like this?"
In so saying, she took off her hat to wipe some sweat away. Officer Rip gave her a snarky look. "What do you want; some Cerulean Shoveler?"
"If he's trustworthy, sure," shrugged Officer Whammeth
Officer Rip bent down to look at a juggler's pin lying on the ground. "Ugh! It's just some juggling jerk on a unicycle. We're a huge police force. Why haven't we caught this nut yet?"
Such an inquiry went unanswered as the pin suddenly activated, trapping both officers in a sticky goopy substance.
(*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*)
Fresh cans of mechanized mayhem opportunities loomed around the foreground of a new traffic light's reflection in the sights of an approaching clown. This group of vehicles didn't quite have the bumper-to-bumper tightness of the other road. While the cars were too close together to pass between, they moved too quickly for Sir Repartee's unicycle to simply jump around on. Suddenly, something boomed and pinged on the pavement in front of his tire.
That bulletous boom triggered a traffic turnover griddled in heated exchanges. A few drivers made a tire-squealing escape in the turn lane or conveniently placed driveways. Other auto occupants quickly huddled down into their seats. And a few defiant souls blared car horns. But one casual comment caught the clown's keen hearing.
"Aw, bacon bricks! I missed."
Some smoke rising from a glint of steel gave Sir Repartee his next target. "So ya wanna take pot shots, huh? Well stick a pin in it, buddy!"
He hurled a pin at the shooter's car.
"Spike!" shouted a passenger beside the trigger-happy driver.
Instantly egged on into action, Spike fired a bullet through that pin. It immediately rewarded the shot with a goop-splashing explosion. Substance covered the traffic lights and splattered across car windshields and side windows - especially the open ones!
Heavily soaked light signals all but ensured that a thoroughly jammed up intersection practically created itself. Sir Repartee cackled a vengeful mockery as he left these divisives to their own devices.
Through the cacophony of motor-mouthed opinions, a sarcastic statement sniped at the not-so-sureshot's goop-encrusted ears. "And - THAT'S - why we 'don't shoot at the costumes', Spike."
(*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*/\*\/*)
Another turn took Sir Repartee on a scenic neighborhood tour. But this place seemed too quiet for getting a swift law response; let alone attracting his real target. So his single wheel carried him onward. An equally-vacated park offered a bit of parkour practice but still no useful fun.
Near the back of the park stood a high wall which proved little issue to an athletic clown. And Sir Repartee easily leapt over it - straight into the perfect hero snagging storm!
Excessively bright lights flared in his face, finally causing the unicyclist to halt his treads. Police car sirens blared out as the lights spun in vision-assaulting hues of reds and blues.
As the clown steadily balanced his joy-ride, the ominous bluster of a megaphone shrieked across the scene. Then a human voice spoke through it.
"Police! You are surrounded. Put your hands in the air or we will use force."
"As you wish!" Sir Repartee threw his hands upwards. They flew from his wrists, hurdling through the air. Horrified shock sent many of the officers into recoil mode. That instance of backward motion saved their lives as the clown's hands hit a car's hood - with an immediately explosive result Pained screams mixed with reactionary retreat as the assembled law enforcement dealt with flying shrapnel, fireballs and chaotic group movement.
Unnerving laughter tracked the unicyclist's emergence through the flames. He took the freshly opened path and wheeled past any of the officers' reach.
Among the few faces who saw him go, one flustered tone articulated the big question hanging in the air. "What in the big G monstermellows does it take to stop a clown - a musical number?"
"Nnuuuuuuuhhhooooooohhh!" groaned well-grouped replies with a few "miner" variant responses mixed in.
One of those responses came from under a car's flung frontside. Two more officers rushed over to lift it, allowing Officer McGlipp to crawl out. As he slowly stood up, he said, "Uuurrrggghh... Sorry but... I'm... already stinging in black and blues. No way I'm singing them too..."
"Speaking of songs," Officer Clankest piped up, "where's that 'super blue bird' of Rozlic anyways?"
Those words suddenly received a nudge in the heroic direction. A few officers jumped as they caught a glimpse of some puffs of dirt being kicked up from the dented road tar. Everyone went on alert with those who could drawing their guns and pointing them towards the dirt moving source... a boot.
(Commercial break)
(1) Rozlegle Rozlic - pronounced "rose-leg-lay rose-leek". (The name "Big City" bored me. So since this is a fanfiction, I changed the city's name to make it more fun to write.)
Continued in Part 2