Blizzards taste best when eaten in an actual blizzard.
Me, the author. This epigraph defies the 4th wall.
In the ages before the herbaceous menace had fallen from the sky, when local heroes were athletes, and not killing machines with good PR, there was a song, a song that was played by small white vans. When it was heard, the streets would fill with children, clutching rumpled bills and jingling coins in tiny sweaty fists. Parents would stand on doorsteps, watching their bundles of joy jockey for position in line to be the first to enjoy a dubious frozen treat.
Sadly, those days had passed. For decades, the song was heard only ironically, or in old media. For some, a song of nostalgia, from a world erased by alien forces. For others, it was laughed at, a strange remnant of a strange era, where strangers were perhaps trusted a bit too much.
Today though, in the Brazilian city of Neo-Salvador, it wasn’t being played over augs, or through media systems. It was once again echoing through the streets, nearly drowning out the sirens that accompanied it. Once again, parents were ushering their children out into the streets. They did not wear the usual looks of joy or gentle indulgence, but of fear, concern, determination, and perhaps a bit of hope.
They rushed in streams down the streets, not to line up at a small white van, but to places of shelter and security. They rushed into bunkers buried deep in the ground, with great concrete and steel shells. Huge gaping entrances, bracketed by massive turrets and arrays of cameras.
As the people of Neo-Salvador rushed down cacophonous streets, they were herded along safe paths by members of the military, both private and local. Groups of anxious civilians were guided by local samurai or their minions. Mechanical creatures, flashing neon signs, and holographic projections of dance crews pointed the way and escorted the frightened citizens to safety.
All of these they were used to, they were the callsigns of the new type of local hero. Today, however, along with the new song cheerfully ringing through the streets, were new additions to the crowd. A cadre of amusing and whimsical minions mixed among the fray.
Balloon animals of every shape and configuration toddled alongside crowds. The size of a small child, they were often found at the sides of children. Helping them over obstacles, brushing off a bruised knee after a tumble, and offering a smaller version of themselves to the children if tears showed signs of flowing. Their movements were awkward and clumsy, tumbling and stumbling to the great amusement of their tiny charges. The awkwardness was quick to vanish if help was needed more than distraction.
The people found streets blocked off by walls of pink fluff held together by vibrant sticky strings. Tin toy soldiers stood at attention along their tops, and in nearby windows.
Where the locals came across remnants of the constant conflict, they found riots of colour. Razor sharp confetti and smears of whipped cream lay strewn over the pavement. Oversized, dripping lapel flowers were stuck to walls, alongside grasping white gloved hands on the ends of long, springy arms, a shiny brass buzzer in each palm.
Most importantly of all, the song was not a lie. In the middle of each and every shelter, big or small, sat colourful chests filled with frozen treats with more of the amusing minions handing them out to those that approached. Atop a pillar near the chests, screens played recordings of a woman dressed as a clown performing myriad circus acts. Wildly coloured hair, patchwork clothing of every pattern and material imaginable, and the biggest, brightest, shiny apple red shoes filled the screens and tried to bring a bit of joy into the dour shelters.
*****
Cassy the Clown and Barty were overlooking the big top, setting itself up in the middle of the only open space they’d been able to find in Neo-Salvador so far. They’d had to spend a few points to smooth over what Barty had said was a demolition site whose owners had run out of funds for rebuilding.
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“Hey, Barty, what’s with the sirens?”
Oh, those are the local incursion sirens, I was just about to let you know.
“Hmmm, I guess it’s time to switch to fundraising mode then. I was looking forward to this too! I’ve been working on my Spanish”
Most Brazilians speak Portuguese, Cassy.
“Oh, well, shucks. Why didn’t you tell me that when I was fumbling over “banyo” all night?”
You seemed to be having fun.
“I mean, yes, who doesn’t love a little potty humour?” Cassy giggled at her own terrible joke, while tossing out handfuls of long rubber balloons. Each one inflated as it fell, while twisting into various shapes, before dashing off in every direction.
“Alright Barty! It’s fundraising time! Also, promotion time. Should we do ice cream, acrobats, or noise makers this time?” While they spoke, Cassy the Clown was walking over to Bike and Trashy the Bag who were waiting nearby. Checking her hammer was in easy reach, and ensuring the ammo for her hand cannon was fully stocked
The noise makers were not appreciated as much as we’d hoped in Boston. So many complaints from parents, and sadly none of the local shelters have ceilings high enough for a trapeze.
“Well darn, ice cream it is, again. I hope they like it better than the Edmontonians did. Who complains about free ice cream?
It was barely above 240 kelvin. I tried to tell you people concerned about frostbite wouldn’t want ice cream or freezy pops.
“Free. Ice. Cream. Barty.”
Frost bitten tongues, Cassy.
“I stand by my decision,” Cassy replied back with an exaggerated pout, as she settled into the seat on Bike.
Looking over her shoulder, she spoke to the balloon rabbit sitting in the turret on her trailer. “Are we fully stocked on confetti rounds, Sgt. Fluffle?”
The large balloon construct rabbit, with googly eyes and a toy army helmet perched between its rubbery ears, nodded back at its commanding officer. Somehow managing to look grim and determined as the pupils in its plastic eyes spun and jiggled. Round, inflated limbs reached for knobs and levers, bringing the strange love child of cannon and catapult to life.
“What do you think Barty? Should we pick up the T-shirt tosser upgrade for Sgt. Fluffle?”
We can’t afford it at the moment, sadly, not without dipping into the moon shoes savings. A couple clusters or hives should get us there, though.
“Grrrr, I hate when I want two things at the same time! Being able to jump to the moon is a worthy cause to save up for though. Point me at the biggest crowds, Barty. We’ve got a T-shirt cannon to raise funds for.”
A contraption stuck between Bike’s handlebars sprung to life with the chime of a bell. Spindly arms holding crayons unfolded and rapidly drew a map of the city around her. Crossed pairs of arms held images over the surface of the map; a clown face for her current location, a bag with dollar signs for clusters of antithesis, and bleachers with crowds for civilians.
Cassy the Clown’s shiny red shoes flew to Bikes pedals as she powered her way to the closest fundraising location. Sgt. Fluffle swivelled his contraption too and fro, launching packages full of troops and supplies up and over buildings. The licorice cigar clutched in his inflated lips, leaving a trail of sugary smoke in their wake. Trashy the Bag was folded neatly in the basket behind Cassy, waiting patiently for clean up duty.
“What model do you think will look best in a T-shirt Barty? My bet is on the model 10, headless plant monkeys in clothing! What’s not to love? Oooh! I almost forgot, do we have any of the flying googly eyes? The footage of googly eyed antithesis stumbling around blindly always gets a good laugh at the aftershow.”
Sgt. Fluffle let out a sigh, shaking his head. The commander was a strange one, who spent far too much time “clowning around” for his taste. Still though, he thought to himself, mad as a hatter or not, she was damn good at killing the herbaceous hordes, and he knew he’d follow her anywhere, even into the needle factory that haunted his nightmares. Pulling a lever, he launched another crate of his brethren and frozen snacks off toward a shelter.
Cassy the Clown, Barty, and the rest of the team, well, mostly Cassy, kept up the steady stream of banter as they disappeared around the corner. Bike’s many instruments belting out the ancient song of the ice cream truck all the while.