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“Life isn't easy when you're homeless, on the road, and sweat liquid fear. Trains, trucks, and worn soles take our hero across the southern states as he tries to find new meaning in his life. Read on to find out how he gets by and more about the affliction that is threatening his very sanity in the third adventure of Punchline ‑ The Cursed Clown!”
"Boxcars and Billboards!"
There's nothing left for me here. I could keep searching through the ashes of the circus, but there's just nothing left. Heh. . . there's part of the old sign here. It reads, "Circus of the Burning Stars". You know, sometimes I wonder if you weren't the real fortune teller, Boyd. I'd like to ask that in person, but I know you're in there somewhere, amongst all these ashes. Here's hoping you got to heaven before the devil even knew you were dead! Heh. Godspeed, Danny.
So many people that day. I wonder if I should count myself amongst the dead. I'm not Francis Porier anymore. I'm something else.
I keep looking at my hands even though they haven't been right for weeks now. They're longer, and the nails are thick and browned. My regular shoes hardly fit anymore, so I'm wearing some charred clown shoes I found, silly as they are. Even my veins have changed into thick ropes that coil around my arms and legs. What used to be fire scarred skin feels more like leather now. It'd be a good thing if it wasn't so damned ugly. I have no idea what's happening to me, but I know I'm not the only one like this. Valphazar had wings, clawed feet, and mangled hands. . . is that what I got to look forward to?
I've managed to find a few things here over the last few weeks. I don't know why I hid when the police came to comb through the debris. Maybe I didn't want anyone to see what I've become. Everyday I'm hiding down by the river, under the old bridge. Got to admit I feel like a troll coming out at night to search for things. Things to take back to my hiding spot down there. I managed to this old suitcase, some clothes, and a bit of cash. I also found one of the old clown costumes I used to wear. It's silly to keep the thing, but I want to remember what I used to be before things got so wrong. I had some of the best moments of my life here, but I guess that's over now. I can't stay here forever. It's time to move on.
...
Now, I don't know how long I've been going boxcar to boxcar, but now the trains have stopped for good. I have sneak into in the backs of trucks these days. Sometimes people are kind enough to give me odd jobs as I pass through. I might mow a lawn for a meal, or maybe go out and pick apples on the farms. Anything to get by really, and getting by is all I got the ambition to do these days. I can't go get a real job because I make people skittish. It don't matter how I dress, or how I cover up my hands and feet... it's like people just know that I'm not right.
Not that I like being around people much now, anyways. Every time I get close to someone I can just smell their fears, almost taste them. That's not what bothers me though. What bothers me is deep down something in my mind likes feeling their fear. It's a high, and makes me feel a bit more alive. I don't want to be like that, though. That's what monsters do, and I refuse to be a monster. In the meantime I'll just roam. I'm starting to think there's a whole lot of "meantime" left to go.
I'm not as young as I used to be, and somehow I'm not old like I should be either. I don't feel old, at least not like I'd think old feels. I don't look old either. I'd say I look half my age, at the most, and that ain't right. How can I be over sixty years old and still look like a thirty year old man? It's a curse I'd say if there was anyone around to say it to. Maybe that's what this thing is. Maybe I am cursed. Maybe that mad mystic did this to me for revenge. How long am I supposed to live anyhow? Do I want to keep on like this forever?
I wonder how that gypsy man's doing these days. Is he an old man, or is he aging like I am? I haven't seen him since the day he burned down the big top. I told him to run, and he did just that. Heck, I've been running too, but I got no idea what I am running from. No idea where I am going to, either. The works been drying up, and people are a lot more careful about having strangers working around their house. Sign of the times, I guess.
I hear up in Detroit they got factory work and they are willing to take anyone that's able. Maybe it's time to try something different.
Want to know what happens next?
Issue #4 - "Nothing to Fear, but Fear Myself!"
West Side Detroit might not be the easiest place to live, but at least now our hero has a job and a roof over his head. That don't mean things are going easy for him though, for when you got an addiction every moment is just filler until you get another taste. Read what happens when power runs unchecked in the third adventure of Punchline ‑ The Cursed Clown! (Read it now!)
If you'd rather read the PRIMUS DATABASE entry for Punchline, click here.
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