His story is kind of a sad one.
"The circus ain't doin to hot lately, brother. I got the idea you up and saw that from where you was sittin. Nobody getting their entertain on under that ratty old tent. Man, and that fuckin sucks, brother. That place is…well it's a church. Got that confused face on there, motherfucker, lemme explain. See, my family's always got their worship on to the mirthful messiahs, and ya know, our practices get some motherfuckers uncomfortable. People been figurin it out lately, that the Makara clan is the same Makara clan that they been all up and blamin for some cult crime shit that'd been goin down years before I got my lead on in the ring. We ain't criminals, brother, get that motherfuckin thought outta your mind right now. We ain't up and done a damn thing to deserve a motherfuckin sentence, but motherfuckers just don't up and see it that way I guess. Can't wear my makeup in public anymore, brother. Disgracin my religion cuz some fuckers been sayin there been a clown fuckin up the town. I ain't done a damn thing, and I sure as hell know my big brother ain't either. Sometimes he gets his urge on but I got him collared, he wouldn't betray me. I'm the top motherfucker, head of the house, the high priest if you got it all up in your mind to think of it that way. Gotta keep us under the motherfuckin radar. Gotta protect my family, kid, ain't nobody else gonna do it for me. But it's alright I guess. So many motherfuckers got their fear on of clowns even without the rumors and shit. Don't wanna be scarin the poor motherfuckers who don't got that believin in em. Not everybody's gotta worship the way I do. It ain't too motherfuckin right that I gotta muzzle my religion when I ain't hurtin any motherfucker, but I gotta do it to get my motherfuckin protect on. So yeah, it's alright. I guess."
You listen to every word of what he says, confused by the specifics, but you understand the concept. He's the kind of guy that will do all he can to protect his family, but there's only so much one person can do. Suddenly, though, the clown makeup doesn't creep you out anymore. Now you just see it as a cultural thing. Jeez, you sure feel bad for the guy.
And suddenly you wonder just how old Gamzee is. If he's the head of a religion he's probably something like middle aged, like forties or fifties, right? You can't tell with all that makeup on, and it isn't like it matters, but you wonder why he chose you to talk to rather than someone closer to his age.
"Um…how long have you, uh…how long have you been running the circus?" you ask softly, frightened to speak in the still, dark dampness of his small abode.
He looks up at you from where he's been carving something into the floor with a small knife. His face is slightly bewildered. His gaze would have made you shift uncomfortably in your chair if your legs worked. "That your only motherfuckin question, motherfucker?"
You shift your eyes anxiously from his, mapping out potential exits in case he decided maybe violence would solve something after all. "Uh…yes."
To your surprise, and utter relief, Gamzee chuckles and just looks back down at his knife. "Six months. Pops passed away near a year ago and I wasn't allowed to be ringmaster til I up and hit the ripe ol' age of twenty-five. Can't figure why, but the old man was always getting his lecture on about that. So once that birthday up and hit, the tent and the family and our whole life was up to this motherfucker to support.
"Twenty-five?" you repeat.
"Yeah, twenty-five."
"Oh."
"Problem, motherfucker?"
You shake your head quickly and decide maybe it's time to change the subject. "Um, so, why can't your older brother run it?"
Gamzee tosses the knife at the wall to his right, where it sticks, shaking for a moment. You jerk when it makes impact, and blink when a small lamp is clicked on, bringing light to the large center room. "Well, I suppose we all up and got two reasons for me runnin the thing. One, my brother don't want the limelight. He's more the behind the scenes magic man. And two, he can't talk. Motherfucker's mute. Opened his mouth one day, words didn't want a motherfuckin thing to do with him, waited a month, no better, stitched up his lips. Still got no voice. Tragic, motherfucker, he had a wicked voice."
You nod slowly, a small smile twitching on your lips. You don't really know what to say at this point, and you're still nervous about being in this house. There is no furniture in the main room other than that lamp and it's a little chilly and a little humid. For some reason, though, you can't say you mind. You like to listen to him speak. You don't mind his profanity. And, looking at him from such a close distance, he's actually really attractive, which isn't something you thought you'd notice, or care about at all.
Suddenly, Gamzee stands and walks over to you. "Do you wanna up and get some dinner with me, Tav my brother?"
You hesitate a moment before nodding, not even giving it a single thought. Yeah you want to get dinner with him. He seems pretty happy about it, and with a ruffle of your hair and a push from behind, the two of you are off.