r. Potts released The Clown Virus last week.
Most people died mid-transformation, horrible grins on their pale faces.
But some survived, and now they roam the streets looking for the few remaining bottles of seltzer water, red rubber noses, and joy-buzzers.
A kind of social hierarchy has developed: The floppier and bigger the shoes, the more powerful the clown chieftain.
Then there’s the rare unexpressed carriers like me.
Potts had developed what he thought was an antidote foam, but it’s no cure. It just keeps the virus dormant.
I spray it into the pie-tin, and smack myself in the face.
by Laurence Simon