feet and defended herself, swinging the skillet left and right. She connected with one of her assailants. He flew across the room where he flattened out completely against the wall and stuck. Much to her horror, Soapie watched as he peeled himself off and shook his face hard, finally laughing.
Soapie kept swinging, knocking each approaching clown away from her until one, dressed as a cliché parody of a doctor, sprayed her in the face with seltzer water from a lapel flower. Soapie lost her grip on the pan as she was knocked back.
The terrified reporter stood and was immediately attacked by another fool who waved his hand up and down in front of her face, distracting and confusing her just long enough to poke her in the eyes. Another jumped forward and sprayed nylon snakes all over her from a fire extinguisher.
Soapie fell flat on her rump and all the clowns laughed. Suddenly, Soapie got pissed. She jumped up and grabbed one of the pins that one of her would-be-assailants had been juggling and again she started swinging. Her first move connected with a Lolita clown who flew through the window, taking the glass and frame with her. Her second swing knocked the stilted leg out from under a tall clown who then crashed face first into the table, a puff of dust billowing up from the collision.
Two mimes jumped to the front of the throng and started simultaneously struggling with the imaginary glass that they were trapped behind and walking against non-existent wind. In the two seconds that Soapie was distracted, trying to figure out what in the holy hell they were doing, a tiny clown ran up and kicked her in the shin. Soapie grabbed her leg as the little guy hooted and whooped. Soapie put both feet on the ground, gritted her teeth and swung a low upper-cut that sent the tiny freak across the room and out the door. She then cracked one of the mimes in the head with the juggling pin, knocking his head into that of his friend. Both mimes went down, silently.
It was a valiant effort, but it was futile. The mass of silly faces descended on Soapie at that point and there was nothing she could do. Fight as she might, there were too many of them. They subdued her and held her in place as a tall shadow moved along the hallway and the head clown appeared at the door.
He was dressed as a ringmaster, and unlike his minions, his expression and actions were controlled and deliberate. He walked slowly into the apartment, hands behind his back, and over to where Soapie was standing, yet immobilized. As several clowns held her, the ringmaster looked her up and down.
“Ms. Shumacher,” he said in an unnervingly calm voice, “you’re no fun.”
By this point, Soapie had calmed, returning to her normal, emotionless state as she quickly accepted the absurd reality of her fate. She stared blankly back at the ridiculous commandant confronting her.
“Wanna hear a joke?” Soapie asked flatly.
The ringmaster cocked his head, intrigued by her response.
“How many clowns does it take to change a light bulb?”
The ringmaster was silent and patient.
“Two,” Soapie informed him “One to change it and a second to juggle his balls.”
The army of clowns fell apart, laughing, tumbling, squeaking and honking. Unfortunately, they never lost their grip on Soapie. To her credit, she never lost eye contact with the ringmaster. As the clowns' cackles began to wane, the ringmaster looked at the two clowns on her right and nodded. Suddenly, there was a frenzy and poor Soapie was engulfed.
The following day, Soapie’s editor, Dale, still hadn't received her article about alien clowns. He never would either. Instead, he had another, seriously unfortunate responsibility to address as he stood teary-eyed over the dumpster behind the offices of The Wandering Star.
“That’s her,” he choked.
“Are you sure?” the police detective asked.
“Yeah… Yeah.”
After the police finished with him, Dale made the pained crawl up the stairs to the editing room. “Can I have your attention?” he called out. The urgency in his voice brought a quick stop to the click-clack of typing and everyone grew silent. Dale swallowed and wiped tears from his eyes. He made his announcement while trying to look his staff in the eye, with only limited success. “A couple of hours ago, Soapie Shumacher was found dead in the dumpster out back."
There were gasps around the room. Dale went on to tell them that she had a plastic bag over her head and had also been strangled. The room was silent, save a smattering of sniffles and tears.
“Soapie was the best columnist this publication has ever seen. She was creative, inspired and completely unfazed by the poignancy of her own work. She expressed her subtle genius without fear and made me proud to call her my employee, my co-worker…my friend. She made me proud to work here.” There was another pause. Dale tried, with very little success, to shake off his emotions and to be an administrator. “Services will be…some time soon. The authorities may take a while to release the body. I hope you’ll all attend.”
A week went by as the funeral was arranged by Soapie’s co-workers, the closest thing she had to family or friends, and the police investigated. The funeral was small and brief. The police investigation was not. After tireless hours and painstaking attention to detail, it was declared by the police that the killer had been Maggie Gyllenhaal. The actress was promptly arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to life without parole.
A few weeks later a conspicuous article appeared in World Press News Message. It was dripping with the same arrogant tone and disregard for facts and reality that Soapie’s articles always shared. It proclaimed that aliens, due to their obsessive love for romantic comedy and show tunes, had infiltrated Broadway and were controlling America’s minds though the use of Stephen Sondheim.
America tried not to panic and ticket sales to Sweeny Todd and Into the Woods tripled.
The End
Special thanks to Corinthia Garrett-Miller and Jennifer Beckwith.
Cover model: Corinthia Garrett-Miller
Photographer: Matthew Miller
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