The Fall Of The House Of Bozo.

Richard stormed into the living room, having just come home from the office, and slammed his briefcase down on the kitchen table.
He then leaned with emotional exhaustion against the sink countertop, and let the tears of rage drip into the sink.



Finally, his wife Peggy worked up the courage to walk up and ask him what was wrong, wordlessly, with a gentle rub on the shoulder.

Richard, having swallowed back the tears stared blankly into the sink, unable to face his wife.

"The other lawyers picked on me again", he said through a dry throat.

Peggy nodded with a simultanious compassion, and dissapointment in her man, and then asked "The ones at the bad kid's table in the lunchroom?".

Richard nodded.

Peggy rubbed his back with long deep strokes, but this only got him to crying again.
She sighed and shook her head.

Finally, she said "do you...want to go to the army room now? Will that make you feel better?".

Richard let in a wavery mucous filled inhalation, and nodded.

And with that, he turned in the direction of the army room, and walked away from Peggy.
She tried to follow him, a worried look on her face, but he held up a hand that said "stay back, woman".

At the end of the hall stood an ornate wooden door with a medieval family crest on it.

The crest of Richard's family.

The crest of the house of Bozo.

Richard whispered the name in his mind, puffed his chest with pride, and opened the door.

There it was, the special den Richard had fixed up, that Peggy had taken to calling "the army room".
It was as good a name as any, Richard supposed, and besides, it wasn't worth fighting over a better name once Peggy had nicknamed something.

The permanent teeth marks in his groin from when he tried to poo-poo and put a kybosh on the name "Mr. Pippy", reminded him of that.

There it all was, up on plaques, in elaborate display cases, and hanging in expensive frames.
Ancient and modern relics and trophys of the house of Bozo.
A complete suit of armor.
Twenty swords, including the one true ancestral sword of Bozo.
Maces, axes, all the way up to guns and grenades.
Tracing the proud history of the Bozo line from the begining of recorded history up to now.

Bozo.

A proud name, a warrior name.

A name that struck terror in the hearts of tribesman and Turks.

A name that should have gone down alongside that of Attilla.

But hadn't.

All because of that fucking clown.

Richard then gloomily looked at his own contribution to the army room.
An angrily torn off sewing merit badge, and a 3rd place bowling trophy.
Richard hung back his head, and let fresh new tears slide back toward his ears.

Meanwhile, Peggy was rereading her secret stash of love letters from Jack the pet groomer.
The not so secret stash that Richard had found a couple times already.
The not so secret stash that among many, many, other things, Richard now furiously drank to forget.
Foremost among them, that fucking, fucking, clown.


THE END.