Pudding Spooks: The Clown Dies at the End
Special Agent Kandy Fontaine shook her head with vehemence. “I just can’t believe it. I grew up with Dr. Huxtable. He’s an icon of my childhood. Showed us all that a…”
“That a black man could display middle class family values, yes. I don’t mean that in a racist way, of course. Maybe I came off a bit crudely, but yes. The Jello Puddin,’ the cigars. William Cosby, Doctor of Education. The sweaters.”
“Reading Rainbow. Fat Albert. And yes, the sweaters.
“Right? As a father figure, there was none better. You could trust him. Hey, if you couldn’t trust Dr. Huxtable, the world would be a scary, scary place. But as it turned out, the world of Bill Cosby is a scary, scary place indeed.”
Director Steve Gustaffson passed the file over the desk. Fontaine picked it up and thumbed through. It was weighty and packed with incriminating evidence, surveillance photos, black and white glossies marked with red Sharpie ink: a figure in a patchwork gown standing over the limp figure of a young actress, on the card table a glass of wine drained to a dregs composed of chalky white residue.
“Cosby was onto Rohypnol long before the rest of us. He even joked about it on a comedy album he made in the 60s. The ‘Spanish Fly’ routine.”
“You know, I didn’t put that together until just now. But now that I think about it, it’s chilling, actually.”
“It’s a matter of cognitive dissonance, I think.” Gustaffson cut the end off of a cigar and, twirling it, took a few quick puffs. “Now that’s a good cigar. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
“No, Sir.” Fontaine’s eyes began to water and she reached in her purse for a tissue. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I followed your point. About cognitive dissonance. Or Freudian embolism for that matter.”
“It’s the inability to see danger in a familiar context. For example, an authority figure, such as Cosby, seems absolutely trustworthy. The brain has a hard time putting him together with serial rape and sexual abuse. A bit like clowns.”
“Ok, I see what you’re saying. Because we associate Cosby and people like him with values we hold dear, or hope we are perceived to hold dear.”
“Exactly.” Gustaffson snuffed out the cigar on his desk, cut it open with a six-inch, serrated blade and filled it with a composite of hash and cannabis, then sealed it up with another layer of tobacco leaf. “Care for a hit?”
“Oh, okay, I see what you’re doing.” Fontaine smirked. “Irony and all that. But seriously, Director, I want to nail this guy bad. If he’s really out there without any sort of constraint, drugging and banging girls under the mask of a lovable, wholesome Doctor of Education, he needs to be brought down. So what was all that about clowns?”
Fontaine opened the file and spread the documents on the Director’s desk. She looked up. “Clowns, Director?,” she repeated.
“Let me explain. That file is just a drop in the bucket. We have an entire library of evidence on Cosby, going back to his early comedy career. We even found backward masking on his Jello Pudding spots.”
The Director clicked on a sound file and Fontaine listened with astonishment as Cosby directed children to “worship the Prince of Light, the Lord of this World.”
“I thought that was just, you know, gibberish,” said Fontaine finally. “Clowning around.”
“Bingo,” said Gustaffson.
“Pardon?”
“Take a look at the documents in the manila envelope at the back of the file.”
“Oh?” Fontaine eased open the envelope and added the contents to the documents that now covered the Director’s desk. As soon as she registered what she was looking at, she dropped the envelope and scooted back her chair.
“There’s two of them,” said Fontaine in a hushed voice, as though speaking to herself.
“Bingo again. Clownsby and Cosby. They were separated at birth. Clownsby had a terrible time. He struggled to make a living while his identical twin brother soared into celebrity status. You see, Clownsby was hampered by two things. One, he is an angry obsessive with a borderline personality disorder, which led him into the world of clowning. Two, Tourette’s Syndrome. Shit cock motherfucker, that kind of thing.”
“I only caught a glimpse,” said Fontaine. “But some of those photographs are…really gruesome.”
“Taken at the scene of the crime, some of them by the man himself. The placement of the bodies in ritualistic fashion is a hallmark of the Clownsby style. Note the balloon animals stuffed down the victims’ throats—that was by design. He wants us to know who did this. He shows in every instance signs of both careful planning and, in the actual attack, blitzkrieg overkill. There must have been something that set him off—something the victim said or displayed. A trigger. We aren’t absolutely sure what that would be, but we have some ideas.”
Gustaffson clicked open another sound file. “This was obtained from surveillance. We dusted it off and filtered out the ambient noises.”
Fontaine scooted back to the desk and planted her elbows, listening intently.
First came the voice of a young woman: “Wow, Mr. Cosby, I want to thank you again for offering to help my career. I’ve only just begun. A few local commercials and that sort of thing, but I really, really want to break into the big time, you know?”
There was a muffled grunt.
“Mr. Cosby, where did you go?”
“I was just changing into something more comfortable, doncha know.”
“Wow, okay. A little informal, but…okay! That’s a nice dressing gown. Hey, you’ve got some really neat pictures here. Is that you and Bozo the Clown?”
“Why yes it is. I took that a few years before he died. Bozo and I were tight, ya know.”
“I didn’t realize you knew so many clowns.”
“M’kay, clowns and circuses make me feel happy, give me that good feeling in my tummy like a Jello puddin.’ Would you like some?”
“Jello pudding? Now? Well, I guess.”
“It’s wholesome and nutritious. Everybody loves the puddin.’”
“It’s so…creamy and…salty. Salty?”
“Yeah, that’s the extra special ingredients I add because flibberty woberty zappo!”
“Um, Mr. Cosby?”
“Yes, honey? Would you like some more, because it looks like you wolfed all that puddin’ down in a squiffy jiffy…hold on, I’m just goin’ to the kitchen to get some more of that special ingredient.”
“Mr. Cosby? I, uh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel kind of woozy.”
“Why don’t you just relax and maybe take off all your clothes, I’ll be there in a flashety wamputty.”
“Something’s wrong…I don’t think I heard you correctly. Take off what?”
“While I put this big ole puddin’ pop in your mouth so you can taste all the chocolatey goodness m’kay. Let me just shrug off these pants and I’ll be inside you nice and tight. You won’t remember anything because of the Spanish Fly, I control the vertical and horizontal doncha wish your girlfriend was hawt lak me. Heh heh.”
“How do you…shrug off..pants…please no…stop…so sleepy…” The woman’s voice trailed off.
There was silence, followed by loud thumping sounds. Then grunting, panting, escalated breathing and a bloodcurdling scream.
“Mr. Cosby! What are you doing?”
“You are supposed to be asleep, young lady. I assure you that nothing improper is going on, nor could it possibly be going on. I’m a Doctor of Education.”
“Please let me go! You’re hurting me!”
“Oh it’s nothin,’ just a little bit of fun and play with the puddin’ pops doncha know.”
“No! It is not okay. I should have known when I saw those pictures…the clowns. It’s all coming back now. I…I can’t stand clowns! I hate them, and I hate you! You’re not at all what you seem to be. You’re a monster!”
Gustaffson paused the sound file. “This part is crucial. We think it’s the trigger—where he crosses the line. Loses the plot.”
Fontaine nodded.
“Ok, you know what, you’re right. I am a clown. A fucking clown. A fucking clown who is going to fucking rape you. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Who’s going to believe you? What are they going to say when you come to them with some crazy-ass story about Bill Cosby being a rapist clown?”
Whimpers. Sobs.
“Please stop…please stop! I won’t tell a soul, I promise. It will be our secret. I swear.”
“Young ladies like yourself shouldn’t swear, m’kay. Nobody should fucking swear. If there’s one thing I can’t fucking tolerate, it’s swearing. Comedians who work blue. And clown haters. Oh, I am going to fucking rape you like a fucking rapist…”
Gustaffson stopped the audio. “It escalates from there. The body was dismembered and the pieces were placed in plastic garbage sacks, scattered around the city.”
“That’s horrible!”
“That’s Clownsby for you.”
“So what happened to Cosby?”
“He keeps Cosby in a drugged condition, moves him around. When you see him appear on TV, have you ever noticed that he seems a little out of it?”
“Yeah, I thought that was just age.”
“That, and animal tranquilizers. He’s on a short leash, and by this point his brain has pretty much turned to mush. But if we find him, we’ll find Clownsby. And put a stop to these killings, once and for all.”
“Where do I come in?”
“We have intelligence that Cosby is doing a one-off benefit show at a club in Hollywood. Big security, hand-picked audience, of course. It’s going to be tough getting past the muscle, but we know he’s a sucker for a breathless ingénue. That, of course, would be you.”
“Naturally,” said Fontaine, batting her eyes at the Director and crossing her legs high enough to show her lacy panties. “And when is this all going down? So to speak.”
Gustaffson cleared his throat, gathered the documents from the desk and placed them in his lap. “Next week.”
***
“Well doncha know doncha know flibbetty jibbety Ernie Hemingway gimlet eyes how d’ya do I see you met my…faithful…”
“Why how d’ya diddly freakin’ do,” said Special Agent Kandy Fontaine, extending an eager ivory paw. “I’m a young, innocent, extremely hot n’ busty ingenue who is eager to make a good impression on you, the esteemed Dr. Clow- I mean Crosby Stills and Gnash Muh Heart to Ribbons…see, you’ve got me all flustered-like, and that usually means within a few minutes of getting me alone, say at your hotel, you could, say, roughy me and then rough sex me up…pleez, oh woncha, doncha know what a girl is lookin’ fer?” she squealed in a high-pitched voice equal parts Betty Boop and Kate Hepburn.
“Well howja diddly doo-doo young McLady I could just eat right the fuck up,” said Clownsby. He summoned an assistant to his side. “Dithers, I want you to escort this fine young thang to muh hotel toodles de sweet and await further instructions. Set her up with one o’ muh special ‘cocktails’ if you know what I mean, emphasis on the ‘cock’ and the ‘tail.”
“Yes sir I’ll snap right to it sir you won’t need to repeat yourself pleez sir ah need this job to support muh family down in Monroe, Michigan what r’ bein’ surveilled by multiple federal agencies due to bein’ long-time peace activists and setch.”
Kandy felt a twinge in her stomach. Only just the previous week she and Director Gustaffson had been exchanging oral McSex favors while furiously batin’ to orange-y surveilance videos of Dithers Dabbsburton’s family. One in particular they quite enjoyed was a scene from the house of “Pickles” McFarlane, a beautiful Hispanic artist and poet who was said to have involvements with a publisher of seditious litratchure out in California.
“Sounds great!” said Kandy. She was actually quite looking forward to it on several levels.
***
“Well now honey you’re probably feelin’ the woozy oozy cootchie flow down there doncha know Pickles N’ Smol Bear Show, ever see that one?” said Clownsby, lowering his body over Kandy’s. Kandy was playing possum.
Kandy twitched from within the soft cocoon of her semi-drowse.
“And now fer some Diddy Diddlin’ for reals, dogg,” said Clownsby. He wore a polka dotted blouse, loose, baggy pants, a forlorn bowler hat and floppy shoes, He unzipped, bringing forth a turgid sausage which he then attempted to force down her throat.
After three pumps Clownsby was about to erupt with some hot creamy jissom action all over Kandy’s delectable cherry blossom lips when she bit down hard, severing his penis in half, then smacked his shit up with a quickness.
“On the other timeline, you got away with drugging and raping many, many women, Clownsby. But this is NOT your lucky day. This is the bad new bears timeline for you.”
Clownsby screamed in pain and anguish as the blood pumped from his stub. “You fucking bitch! You whore! Doncha know who I am? Puddin’ Spooks Director Bill Cosby, Ed D. Do you even know what that fucking means? I…”
He began to sag as Kandy cinched the handcuffs tight behind his back and yanked. Hard.
“What it means is that if you’re lucky you’ll bleed right the fuck out on this hotel carpet, but if you don’t, you’re going to federal prison with a missing cock, where they have a special appetite for sex offenders like yourself.”
The clown shuddered, flopped around the room a touch, as the blood continued to gush from his cock, then gave one final departing scream and expired.
“Damn, that was fucked up,” said Kandy. After the dopamine and adrenaline rush had worn out, she made a mental note to quit the FBI. Despite her generally loose sexual morals, she couldn’t abide cruelty and racism, and the look in Cosby’s assistant’s eyes was heartrending.
Kandy broke the fourth wall to address the reader:
“You may have noticed that ambiguity remains over the exact identity of the clown. Was it Cosby all along? In which case, was Clownsby always already an alter ego of Cosby, or the reverse? Well I guess you’ll have to ponder that some, if that’s what does it for you, or not, or just have a dab or five and extremely rough consensual sex with a buddy…or five. Well, me for some o’ that three hole punch action as I turn over a new cannabis leaf and join Bone CIty PD. See ya in the funny papes!!!”
THEES EES THEE ENT, MUH HONLY FRENT, THEE ENT
Horror Sleaze Trash 