“Drown the Clown” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)

Mr. Essex County wandered the fairgrounds with a hole in his wallet while his wife paraded around with a crown and a sash in some old ass car with an old man driver in a top hat as they tossed beads to the crowds of families like fucking Mardi Gras. Mr. Essex County would rather choke on glass than wave a little flag, but he agreed to accompany his wife, a freshly crowned Essex County queen most credited for her apple pie, to the fair for photography’s sake. He hadn’t realized the extent of her duties as Mrs. Essex County, however, and was salty to come to find out that she’d want him at the fair all day and well into the evening. “Why not just get an Uber home?” he had asked her. “But what would the great people of Essex County think?”

And so, Mr. Essex County spent hours dicking around the beer garden before he got cut off and texted his wife for an update. When she didn’t reply after a few minutes, he began his journey back to the truck for a husbandly toke. He kept his face down, Red Sox cap front and center, to avoid being recognized by people in his wife’s circle as he drunkenly hobbled past shit like The World’s Smallest Horse and The Giant Armchair. He wondered just how small the world’s smallest horse would look in the giant armchair, and if anyone had ever fucked in that giant armchair before. That’s something he’d pay to see. As the sun began to set, cheery, stupid parents shepherded their sugar dumb babies through the exits and back to their electric cars while freaks and douchebag high schoolers paid admission for their nighttime shenanigans.

Mr. Essex County had anticipated needing to take a hit or two throughout the day, so he smartly parked his truck in the most discrete spot he could find: woods-facing in the big dirt parking lot to the left of the entry closest to the rides and porter potties. He got into the driver’s seat and waited for dark. He checked his phone for word from Mrs. Essex County, but still nothing. After chucking his phone into the center console, he grabbed a weathered Altoid tin from the driver’s seat door pocket. About a gram of crack rock in saran wrap and a sticky brown stem pipe were hidden beneath a scattered blanket of the curiously strong mints. He packed his pipe, lit the tip, inhaled the Good Vibrations, and exhaled his puff of smoke into the windshield. Smoked up and frenzied, he giggled out of the truck and sped-walked back to the fair with an unlit Newport cigarette between his teeth.

The Gravitron! Fuck yeah, yeah fuck, let’s go… The trash can UFO hailed Mr. Essex County from afar, bumping and spinning at his cracked-out speed. He walked up to a dumpy-faced ticket collector at the lip of the spaceship. “How do I get in?” he asked, fidgeting his feet back and forth like the pee-pee dance. The Ticket Kehd asked Mr. Essex County for 21 tickets for entry. “21 TICKETS?! What do you mean?! Why so many? Why so many?” “It’s the price you have to pay…” said the Ticket Kehd, “…and you can’t smoke in there.” Ticket Kehd pointed to the chewed-up cigarette hanging from Mr. Essex County’s lip. “Pfft, yeah okay, ya fucking narc. You can’t tell me what to do. Let me in.” “I can’t do that without 21 tickets, sir,” Ticket Kehd said routinely. Mr. Essex County fumbled around his crumby pockets with his fingers, then pulled out 3 tickets, presenting them like pearls to Ticket Kehd. “No. Get the fuck outta here, you junkie piece of shit.” Ticket Kehd motioned to some Men-in-Black-looking-ass security guards on the side of the ride. “Fahhhhkkkk you, you fahking queer.” Mr. Essex County hollered as he jumped off the Gravitron ramp and ran in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, like a beacon of hope, he saw a sign written in bold red marker, Drown The Clown – 3 Tickets for 3 Balls! With only minutes left to his high, he ran to the dunk tank with his precious 3 tickets gripped tightly in his fist. The Crude Clown, in Insane Clown Posse facepaint and a Yankees hat, heckled “Red Sox suck!” and “Tom Brady is gay!” at fairgoers from his dunk tank prison throne. Mr. Essex County was fuming to give this asshole a piece of his mind. He tossed his tickets at the ticket collector in exchange for 3 red balls and shot that shit at the target without any inch of strategy, just aggravation. The first ball bounced off The Crude Clown’s metal cage. “HA HA, LOSAH ALERT!” The Crude Clown instigated. “Fuck you,” Mr. Essex County spat back as he hurled another red ball at the dirtbag. “MISSED AGAIN! Keep it up and the Red Sox just might recruit you!” Oh, that really got Mr. Essex County pissed off. This shitbag was about to get DUNKED. He kissed his last dirty ball, wound up his arm, and pelted it wicked hard toward the bullseye, whacking the edge of the target! The Crude Clown’s seat collapsed from under him and he dropped into the tank with a strike! The clown was drowned! “GOT YOU, MOTHAFUCKA!” Mr. Essex County yelled and jigged up and down like an Irish stepdancer, while The Crude Crown thrashed around in the tank. His victory was robbed when his comedown began to scratch at the back of his neck, so he lit a cigarette and stared as The Crude Clown see-sawed his way out of the tank dripping wet but being a good sport about it. “Good shot, asshole!” The Crude Clown hollered as he walked over to shake Mr. Essex County’s hand. “You alone?” he asked, his Yankees hat seeping tank water down his muddied clown face and into the corners of his wrinkles. Mr. Essex County looked over his shoulder then at his stale phone first before replying, “Yeah, I’m alone. The fuck do you care?” The Crude Clown shrugged, “I’m off now. Wanna do some whippits?” “Ok.”

The Crude Clown grabbed a towel and his backpack before following Mr. Essex County back to his truck. Once there, Mr. Essex County ordered The Crude Clown to cover his soggy ass with the towel before getting into his car. Instead, The Crude Clown theatrically draped the towel over the passenger’s seat before sitting on it and opening up his dusty backpack stuffed with neon green nitrous crackers, a whipped cream dispenser, and a party pack of deflated yellow, red, blue, and green balloons. Mr. Essex County anxiously rocked back and forth as he watched The Crude Clown stick the whipped cream nozzle into the mouth of a yellow balloon and fill it up with gas. The balloon, now fat with the funnies, was passed to Mr. Essex County. He held the hole of the balloon closed with his thumb and middle finger as he sweetly waited for The Crude Clown to prepare his own red balloon. When all was set and ready, the pair of punks put their balloons to their mouths and sucked in deep. When their balloons shriveled up, they removed them from their cracked lips, cracking up laughing and howling like demons. The Crude Clown’s face melted to the floor and Mr. Essex County looked like a happy baby. Topsfield was stupid and fun and scary blurry for about 2 minutes before it faded back to autumn ash. A sad, awkward silence suffocated the truck before Mr. Essex County nipped it when he asked a question he already knew the answer to: “You smoke rock?”

The Crude Clown was first to hit the crack pipe and he hit it hard, hacking up debris and Hepatitis B when he pulled his mouth away from the hot glass. His white facepaint crusted and curled off his skin as he sweat profusely and rolled his eyes back, vibrating in the head rush. Mr. Essex County took an even bigger hit than before and blew the smoke into The Crude Clown’s clay face. He cackled as he poked at The Crude Clown who sat stiffly, jarred and buzzing. “GOD, I’M FUCKING HORNY” The Crude Clown roared as he madly snapped out of his trance. He snatched his backpack off the floor and threw his body out of the truck before running into the dark forest like a GTA character. Mr. Essex County hopped out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door behind him, and chased after his new using buddy, paying no mind to the crowds of families and friends in the parking lot. He giggled as he ran, and the crisp New England air ran beside him as if time stood still and he was on top of it. He followed The Crude Clown’s dancing silhouette past knotty branches and hooting owls until he finally caught up to him between a rock and a pine tree. The Crude Clown, pants and briefs around his ankles, jerked off rabidly. “WHAT THE FUCK!” Mr. Essex County shrieked before punching The Crude Clown in the face, catapulting him to the brittle ground. The Crude Clown rolled into a backward somersault and cackled, his cock still gripped firmly in his hand. “Aren’t you horny?” he asked Mr. Essex County. “Of course I’m horny! But I’m no fag!” “It’s not gay! It’s freaky, dumbass! Go bonkahs! Have some fun!” Mr. Essex County was, in fact, incredibly horny; the head rush he got from smoking rock usually went to both of his heads, but he’d never had a partner to play with before, at least not another dude. He followed The Crude Clown’s lead by dropping his pants to his ankles. His whole body shook as he belly-laughed and jerked himself off like it was the first time he’d ever touched his dick before. “Fuckkkkk” he groaned as he gooned. The Crude Clown was still on the ground, jacking himself off with his legs up in the air like a crackhead contortionist with one finger plugged in his ass. “Put ya fingah in ya asshole, my guy! It feels wicked good!” he instructed. Fuck it. Mr. Essex County wet his index finger with his frothy, dry mouth then pushed it inside his untouched anus raw. “Mmmmmm, this shit’s good,” he buzzed as he tickled his brown eye, going cross-eyed and grinding his teeth. “Try this!” The Crude Clown pitched as he staggered to his clown feet and handed Mr. Essex County a petite bottle of Rush. “Sniff it!” Mr. Essex County unclenched his cock to uncap and huff the amyl nitrite. The poppers hit him like a warm whiskey ginger on a whale watch and his hole tore open like a blooming onion. “Fuck meeeee!” Mr. Essex County pleaded. “It’s so good, huh kehd?” The Crude Clown slobbered out. “NO, I mean FUCK ME!” Mr. Essex County corrected, turning around to show The Crude Clown his whoopie pie. He bent over a sturdy tree branch and spread his cheeks apart. The Crude Clown’s eyes grew wide as he ran to Mr. Essex County’s prized pumpkin with his arms spread wide. He mounted him like a horse and bayed at the moon as he sowed himself balls deep into Mr. Essex County.

A distant beam of light drifted closer and closer as the unlikely friends fucked raw amongst the grove. Mr. Essex County wheezed and croaked as The Crude Clown reached around to put and light a cigarette in his bottom’s mouth. He wanted to give it to him good before the comedown came to flatten their dicks and empty their tanks. But before either of them could come close to cumming, a flashlight shone loudly at their brotherly boinking. “STAHHHHHHP!” cried the spotlight operator. With his eyesight readjusted and his dick sunk soft, Mr. Essex County realized it was his wife that had him caught! She aimed her pageant crown at his head but hit The Crude Clown instead, knocking off his Yankees cap and him unconscious! She ran away and prayed to Mary for a day that her husband wouldn’t be so neurotic.