An off pink polkadot covered van rumbled into the Rippers Chicken Drivethru. Behind the wheel sat a very stressed looking clown. Painted in full white face paint, an oversized purple smile, bald and with a patchwork of fabric top. His brother in the passenger seat, thinner, shorter and staring transfixed at the delivery van ahead of them. His orange poof of hair and matching orange painted smile complimented his blue top with green vertical stripes and oversized orange buttons.

Ahead of them, feathers shot out of the Charlie's Chicken delivery vans driver window, a feathery arm gesturing wildly and flailing at the drive thru speaker.

“Come on…” The larger clown groaned, his voice a deep growl. “Arguing with the staff box is a good way to get some extra protein in your meal.”

“Oh yeah, a surprise in the bottom of the bag too. Look at em go! Working into a crazed take off… Why don’t we head someplace else? I could’ve sworn we saw a Burger Lord on the way here.” The passenger replied, leaning over to get a better view of the mad feathery arm.

The larger clown sighed, “Burger Lord doesn’t do chicken. And their potato wedges are always sharp as nails.”

“Oooh, yeah! I forgot those things… But c’mon the creepy cartoon rooster on this guy’s van is freaking me out.” He said gesturing towards the creepy mascot holding a bucket of the nastiest looking chicken to ever exist.

The glossy finish didn’t help.

“I’m getting my damn wedges, Biscuit.” The driver replied, watching the flailing continue. He could feel his anger rising with each swing and thrust as it jabbed back and forth at the speaker. “Son of a bitch, I’m gonna rip that goddamn arm off.”

“Whoa there Rubber! Chill! It’s just a nasty old bird. Don’t forget we’re in the company van!” Biscuit said with a grin. Painted on the side of the van was the logo “The Round Brothers! Entertainers and Parties!”

“Just a strip. Nah, Gimme the whole damn wing.” Rubber growled rolling down his window and sticking his head out.

A shrill piercing shriek of outrage assaulted the night;

CORNBREAD

The delivery driver cried, “The Rippers n’ Gravy special is supposed to come with FRESH CORNBREAD! Not your lame ass excuses!” The last three words were punctuated with a jabbing thrust. The voice carried a southern drawl, and reminded Rubber of a cartoon character.

Rubber felt his patience slipping and slammed on the horn, clearing his throat and shouting; “You’re just gonna have to dip yourself in the gravy you deep fried cockblock! Move your country fried ass!”

“Bwack buck-a-WHAT!?” Came the response, and an oversized rooster head popped out of the window. The large yellow eyes rolled before snapping onto the clown. A red face dripping with sweat turned towards them inside the beak. The clowns both flinched at the appearance.

“Oh that is sick… He looks like he’s melting! Like… He drinks the gravy straight from the cup!” Biscuit remarked, looking utterly disgusted. “He looks like a waxed tomato left in the sun.”

“You heard me, Cuck-a-Doodle! Quit screaming at the box and move along!” Rubber shouted, trying to not look directly into the yellow eyes of the head. The alternative was not a pretty sight to focus on either.

The Rooster seemed to turn a shade of purple, turn towards the van's interior and started opening the door. “How about I come back there and wipe that smile off your face, Chuckles!”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“With the amount of grease pouring off you, Butterball, I’ll be surprised if you can make it this far!” Rubber retorted, starting to unbuckle. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. “I know, company van. But I can handle this clucker-” His words died when he noticed the look on his brother’s face.

“Man’s got a flock back there.” Biscuit said, pointing his free hand towards the tiny windows of the van. Shadows had begun to stir, yellow eyes flaring to life in the darkness.

The voice of the driver pulled their attention back. “What’s the matter Chuckles? Fixing up your lipstick?” The man had the door open, an oversized chicken foot dangling out with sharp talons, curved blades on each toe. The man was smiling, a wicked grin of a predator. Peeling the pair apart with his eyes.

A whiny and less than confident voice broke the tension, like snapping a rubber band. “Hey! You need to… You need to make an order, or get on outta here! Don’t make us call the cops!” A man wearing a grease stained apron with a shiny silver nameplate reading “Manager” in bold red had appeared from around the corner.

The Rooster’s smile vanished, and he tucked his foot back into the van. With a fake smile, he called to the man; “Ah I’m sorry sir! I let my RAVENOUS hunger get the better of me. We’ll finish up here, and be on our way!”

Rubber sighed, his anger flushing from his body with the exhale, following the Rooster’s lead. “Very sorry! Too much sugar at parties, not enough substance! Birthdays and chaos!”

The manager frowned. “Yeah, just… Hurry it up! And quit hollering at my staff!” He called, pointing a finger at the Rooster who waved a feathered arm in response. The manager turned and started walking away, muttering “Business degree bullshit. Don’t get paid NEARLY enough to keep busting up freak fights.”

Once the man was out of sight, the Rooster offered a single feather salute. A gesture of goodwill and called “We’ll see you around, Chuckles.”

“Don’t forget to chew your food this time Cuck-a-doodle!” Rubber called back, returning the gesture. The driver finished his order, drove to the window then finally into the night.

“Damn, I always wanted to do dinner theater!” Biscuit chuckled, nudging his brother as they pulled forward to the speaker.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The van whined as they pulled into the parking lot of an old seemingly abandoned biker bar. The lot was gravel and ruined pavement with an old chain link fence around the perimeter.

An eerie glow emanated from a stairwell leading down the side of the bar. Rubber opened his door with a grunt, unleashing a wave of fried chicken smelling air into the night. “Biscuit… You gonna eat those wedges?” He grumbled sliding from the seat.

Biscuit had appeared from around the front looking sick. “You can have them! Holy hell man… You can pack those things away… But next time you want to play pool boy with the chicken, I’m driving. That old broad must’ve thought we were trying to run her off the road!”

Rubber belched loudly slamming the van door. “I was. Little bit… She was giving me some dirty looks.” He replied as they walked to the stairwell. Rubber slowed to a crawl at the top, peering down at the light source. A glass case on a wooden stand. It was an old fortune teller box, embedded into the wall. The rough looking animatronic flaring to life as they approached.

“Welcome to the PRESENCE of the Great Magnificent Doorgua! Master of the keys to Fate and Fortune!” it proclaimed, its arms twisting and torso turning side to side as it spoke. “Teller of the Secrets from the Future!” the voice cracking through a speaker. The mouth dropped open with each word.

“I hate this thing… He’s creepy, and he keeps messing with me.” Rubber said, squishing his considerable mass against the wall furthest from the machine.

The eyes flared in response. “Do you wish to possess the knowledge of the future, or to grasp the keys to fortune?”

“Fortune.” Biscuit replied, “Relax, he’s a machine. He's even older than Smokey.”

The fortune teller whirred and clicked, a panel popping open on the front containing a small velvet lined box. “To receive the keys of Fortune, a token must be offered.” A hand creaked towards the box.

“How much?” Biscuit asked, pulling a wallet from his oversized pants.

The machine's eyes flashed “Token of Five must be laid before me.”

“Seriously? Did that old bastard up the price?” Biscuit groaned, looking over his shoulder. “Hey, do you got any cash on you?”

Rubber shook his head. “The kids at the party got my change.”

“Figured. Alright. Uhh, Doorgie! Buddy, do you take cards?” Biscuit asked the machine.

The eyes seemed to narrow, and the mouth clicked. “Token of Five must be delivered. Cards are acceptable.”

Rubber shuddered, pushing harder against the wall. “The damn thing is learning. It can hear us!”

“Shush! Hang on…” Biscuit shushed his brother, pulling a deck of playing cards from his pocket and slapping five into the box, before forcibly closing it, before Doorgua could respond. “See? No cash, no problem!”

Doorgua’s eyes narrowed further, his mouth dropping open and snapping shut. “Enter.” The voice groaned over the speaker. The door next to the fortune teller clicked and unlocked. Biscuit passed through without issue.

“See you inside brother!” Biscuit called before disappearing.

“Hmph.” Rubber growled, slowly approaching the glass.

THWUMP

Doorgua flashed to life, hands slapping into the glass “Token of FIVE Rubber Round! Or I’ll take your FINGERS as payment!” The voice was raspy, harsh and coming from inside the machine! Rubber screamed and fell backwards, throwing his wallet at the snarling face.

“FUCK! TAKE IT! TAKE THE WALLET!” Rubber scrambled to the door, tugging on the handle.

“Tell your brother he owes me… FIVE Rubber…” It hissed, raising a hand, the digits waving slowly. “Else, I’ll have his fingers too…” The door clicked. Rubber crawled inside.

A small fortune card fell to the ground, landing on the ground face up.

WELCOME TO THE CLOWN HOLE