The Clown Hole bar, a fancy bright place with a slow polka rock playing from the jukebox. On the right were puffy red leather booths. The center, the solid oak tables complete with ornate carvings of circus animals and trimming of gold smooth plating.

On the right stood the bar itself, a raised platform giving the bartender a view of the entire floor. Past the bar was “Clown Alley” the washrooms and change rooms to fix makeup and paint. Past the booths on the left was the entrance to the arcade and pool hall, complete with blinking lights and inviting sounds.

At the very back on a stage all its own stood a gap tooth grinning face of a giant clown. In its mouth blinked lights illuminating an entrance to a hole filled with neon rings lining the passage like a throat. Above the clown face stood a bright sign that proclaimed “The Clown Hole” In bold cheerful lettering.

Rubber crawled through the door, eyes wide and grasping at his brother’s pant leg, pulling himself upwards. “You… BASTARD.” He managed to gasp, grabbing hold of the collar.

Biscuit raised his hands defensively, laughing. “Whoa brother! Watch the suit! What’s the matter? Did the fortune teller say ‘You have Seven Days?’”

Rubber released his grasp and stared, trying to regain his composure. A glance around the bar showed the other patrons hiding chuckles and grins behind drinks and turning away. “That THING, threatened to take my goddamn fingers… And YOURS. Your little card trick pissed it off!” he growled, before shoving past and heading to the bar.

“Oooh, yeah! The Fortune Teller is gonna pop out of his box and get me huh?” Biscuit chuckled following closely behind. A quick glance around showed the usual crowd, white face clowns in fancy puffy suits, their lacky auguste companions, tramps and character clowns going about their business. One tramp had passed out surrounded by bottles, his companion sitting across from him finishing her last bottle with a grin of satisfaction.

Drinking contest.

At the bar, tucked away in a dark corner sat a lone Pierrot. His half white and half black clothes and alternating poofballs running down his shirt. Atop his head sat a white cone decorated with the same poofballs. Biscuit could never recall a time when the man wasn’t there.

Or what his name was.

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Looking too long, the air started to grow stale, claustrophobic and suffocatingly sad. Biscuit shuddered and forced himself to look away. A sad sigh escaped the corner.

They reached the bar and took seats furthest away from the Pierrot. The bartender materialized from a dark alcove between the racks of liquor.

His face hidden beneath a silver plated mask in the shape of a person laughing. He wore a form fitting red and black dress shirt with a vest and deep purple tie that sparkled like an evening sky. He seemed to glide along the floor as he approached the brothers.

“Ah, the Round Brothers!” He said, spreading his hands. His gloves seemingly sewn into his sleeves. “I heard you coming gentlemen! Rather… We all heard Rubber’s… Manly roar.”

Rubber looked ashamed and away. “Damn machine at the door wanted to take my fingers. This clown thought it was a funny idea to shove playing cards into the thing.”

“Hey now, it worked for me! I don’t know what the hell happened between you and Mr. Fortune.” Biscuit chuckled. “Now how about a drink, Maurice?”

Maurice nodded, even his mask seemed sewn into the hood covering his face. With a flourish and a puff of smoke he produced a pair of shot glasses, filled with an odd layered drink. The colors swirled and floated in a stack before collapsing into each other.

“How do you do that?” Biscuit wondered, staring into the glasses, before snatching both. One in each hand he slammed them back while Rubber was distracted. “Gah it BURNS!”

“What? Seriously.” Rubber complained, turning back towards the bar. “Those are going on your tab. I’m not paying for you.” He rose from his stool and headed towards Clown Alley.

“Oh come on, I already told you I’m broke! Besides this way, you’re not gonna piss yourself when we leave… You know, when Doorgua so much as TWITCHES at you!” He laughed following.

The Clown Alley was a hall of dressing rooms and doors. On the walls were paintings of famous clowns, scenes and spectacular advertisements of events past. “We’re gonna go see the boss. I want this night to be over so I can go home and-”

“Play with your collection of models and paints?” Biscuit finished catching up to the larger man.

Rubber nodded. “That and to put as much space as possible between myself, my fingers, and the murder mechanation outside.” They turned right at an intersection in the hallway. The music of the bar fading into an eerie silence. The hall had fun house mirrors, making them taller, shorter, and infinite selves.

“Guhh.. I hate this hall. I swear some of those ‘me’ are making faces at me.” Biscuit complained.

“That’s the booze, lightweight.” Rubber replied as they reached a solid metal door with a gold star painted onto the black surface that read: “Smokey Pete.”

The door creaked open, smoke licking at the edges of the frame but seeming to refuse to cross the threshold. The sounds of a record played a soft melody, as the pair entered. They stood upon a stage complete with red velvet curtains on either side held open with a thick gold rope. Before them spanned a luxurious office.

Deep purple walls, decorated with posters of “Madame Marie’s Flying Circus” With autographs from each of the performers displayed behind glass cases. A liquor cabinet off to one side held the player, scratching along the surface of an old vinyl plate.

A pair of uncomfortable chairs sat before a lovingly carved ornate desk, with a large big top ashtray filled with cigar butts. Behind the desk, a tall black leather office chair facing away from the door. A cloud of smoke rising lazy tendrils into the air.

“Have a seat boys.” A rough smoke burnt voice said, “And tell me the tale of Marcus Tailor.”