Coulrophobia

"I... I don't know. Maybe. Probably. But if you ask her to come back, in front of me like this, I don't need to go to the egg to tell her. She'll hear you. If you leave a note and I see it, she gets the message. I don't know what's safe. Just... no more talk of 'getting rid' of her, okay? We don't want to piss her off even more."

I remembered something. "Monica, did you take Spanish in high school?"

"No. French. Why?"

"Trixie speaks Spanish. At least, a little."

"Well, I don't."

"Ni siquiera un poquito?"

"What?"

"Shit." I rubbed my forehead and noticed the IV line was still in. There was probably more to all this than I thought.

***

It was decided. We were going to try to appease Trixie. I'd make a point of 'asking her out' one day a week. I even kept up the practice of writing her invitations, since it allowed us the pretense of 'leaving Monica out of it'. The rest of the time, I stayed with my wife and kept enjoying our freshly renewed intimacy.

The dynamic had shifted, though. My time with Trixie was all about keeping HER happy, rather than me. So I went down on her, yes, front and back. She dressed me up in costumes and had me play her weird games. She set up a old-timey schoolroom scene with her in a mortarboard and me in a conical 'dunce' cap. That ended with me getting brutally pegged. Then there was this whole 'My Little Pony' scenario with me as an old perverted desperate Bronie and her as a magical unicorn named 'Flutterflaps.' You don't even want to know where that unicorn horn went. On a calmer night, she set up a bunch of carnival games, like 'nipple ring toss,' and that thing where you shoot a squirt gun into a clown's mouth to make a balloon blow up until it pops, but instead of a squirt gun, it was... peeing. Then it was my turn to be the clown.

As weird and as Gross as that was, it was still... fun? I guess? She was nothing if not inventive. We just wanted to keep her occupied so she wouldn't do anything dangerous again. As long as I was the one who called her, the original rules still applied; so she not only had to keep Monica on board, but she'd have to leave after we got off and I went to sleep. I took a lot of ambien, just to be on the safe side.

***

We spent a few months in that 'New Normal,' until tax season. We always started early, because Monica's freelance work was pretty complicated. In the second week of February, we started getting our documents together.

"Honey," I said, holding up an unfamiliar 1099. "What's 'TLS Enterprises'?"

"I have no idea."

"This says we have a liability for thirty-four thousand, six hundred fourteen dollars and twenty-seven cents of gross income with no withholdings."

"WHAT?"

"I know. The taxes on that are going to be like ten grand. That puts us into the next bracket. What is all this money?"

"I wish I knew. What's the E.I.N.?" She started tapping frantically at her laptop. I read it to her. A few clicks later, her jaw dropped open.

"Shit," she said. "OnlyFans."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. TLS Enterprises? Oh. OH NO. OH GOD. You don't think?" She looked at me in a panic.

"TRIXIE!" we both said together.

"Shit," I said, pulling up OnlyFans on my device and doing a quick search. "Oh shit. Oh God. Oh Shit. There she is." Sure enough, Trixie had a profile and a surprisingly popular page, with hundreds of subscribers. And yes, she did it all. Full service sex clown, indeed.

"Call her," I said, flailing my arms, unsure what else to do with them. "Summon her, transform, whatever you do. But, like, only halfway. Stay with me, like we did that time before. Like, now, okay?"

"Right, right." She was headed for her studio, where I guess she kept her makeup. While she was gone, I checked some other websites. She had a YouPorn channel, and accounts with Chaturbate and CamSoda, too. Jesus. She was a full-time camgirl.

"Hey HEY! Huhhuh-Hee!" They walked in, wearing the wig, Monica's regular clothes, and exactly half of her clownface, bisected vertically along the bridge of her nose. "What's all the Hubbub..." (HONK) "Bub?"

"Explain THIS!" Monica grabbed my device with her right hand and showed it to the made-up left side of her face.

"Oh. That's my side hustle. A clown's gotta make a living, y'know. Show biz ain't cheap. CHEEP! All those props and costumes and things don't pay for themselves."

"Thirty-four THOUSAND dollars?!?!?" Monica was apoplectic.

"And more. She's on at least three other websites," I added.

"Yeah," said Trixie, with a shrug. "There's a bunch of 'em. I don't keep track. You'll hafta talk with my agent." She produced a bowler hat and a string tie from somewhere and bound up her left sleeve with an old-timey garter. "Pleazedtameecha! Traxy LeSploosh, that's capital 'L' capital 'S' two 'Os,' Agent to the STARZ!"

"Jesus Christ," said Monica, out of her own side of their mouth.

"Unfoitunately, My agency don't represent Mistah Christ at the present time," said Traxy. "Too big a name! But someday, I tell ya, we'll get that kid signed!"

"Mister LeSploosh," I said, "Can you tell us just how many websites Trixie is on, and how much tax liability we've got from that?"

"Soitenly! Mizz La Splish is the STAR of five streaming channels and owner of two websites providin' premium adult entertainment soyvizes! Dat's in addition to her independent work with OnlyClowns. That's DBA her OnlyFans presence, y'see. Fer the current fiscal year, TLS Enterprises, the wholly-owned LLC under which she's incoyperated, has grossed eighty-six thousand seven hundred sixteen simoleons in revenue, the tax liability fer which is going to be in the nayboihood of twenty-six thousand bucks."

"FUCK."

"Okie-Dokie!" Trixie took off the hat and reached for my pants.

"NO!" Said Monica and I together.

"Goddamnit, the bitch makes more than I do," Monica lamented. "Doing PORN. With MY body. While I'm ASLEEP."

"OUR body, buttercup. We have a Deal."

"Bullshit!" I've never seen Monica so furious. "The deal was that I could step in whenever I saw you doing anything I didn't like. I don't even need a reason, remember? Well, I DON'T like THIS."

"But you never SAW me doing anything ya didn't like, didja? I been workin' strictly on my own time. An I ain't doing nothin' you said I couldn't."

"No more camming. No more prostituting yourself. No more prostituting ME."

"Hmmmmmmmmnnn," she said, drawing it out way too long, "I dunnoooooo... That's askin' Quite A Lot." She had her hand at her chin again, tapping her finger against her jawline in anticipation, a shrewd gleam in one eye.

"No no no no no, Trixie," I cut in quickly. "No new deal. No amendments, no revisions. We got into enough trouble with the last one!"

"Awww. C'mon, honeypie! Don't be such a Dougie Downer! We could have so much MORE!"

"Mike is right," said Monica. "If you want to change the deal again, I'm not agreeing to anything without having a lawyer look at it first. Keeping me asleep is a rotten trick. I'd never have agreed to that."

"Butcha DID. Ain't my problem if you ain't happy with it."

"Trixie La Splish, I'm telling you right now, while I'm wide awake: NO MORE CAMMING. No more PORN. That means you're not allowed to do that kind of thing, AT ALL, according to the terms we agreed upon. Also no more keeping me asleep and trapping me in those weird dreams. And no more doing ANYTHING if you even THINK I wouldn't like it!!!"

"Arright, arright. Jeez. Keep yer panties on." She wiggled one eyebrow. "Or don't."

"Now is not the time for that, Trixie," I said. "We're in real trouble. You really fucked us over with all these taxes. Where is all the money you made?"

"Ah-Duhnnooooo. Huhuh-Heeh!"

I picked up the bowler hat and put it back on her head.

"Mister LaSploosh, capital 'L' capital 'S' two 'Os,' where is all that money?"

"Why, it's in the TLS moychant account, of course! Minus, of course, my ten poyzent. And the moolah what's been dispoysed on various entertainment materials, fees, operatin' expenses, fees, additional considerations, fees, garnishments, fees, and discretionary fundifications. And fees."

"How much is left?"

"Bout nine large."

"Oh..." I stomped my feet and pumped my arms at my sides. "FUCK. Fuckkity fuck fuck fuck! At least tell us you've got receipts for all that stuff."

"Naturally!" He... she... they... whatever, reached under the sofa and produced a valise I hadn't known was there. It was opened and a flurry storm of paper erupted with a disconcerting "SPROOYY-OOOOYYY-OOOOING!" filling the room with flying detritus.

"I really hope that's all deductible," said Monica.

***

It took us a month to figure all that shit out. We were pretty well screwed, but only to the tune of twelve grand. We raided Trixie's account and arranged a payment plan for the rest. Trix was NOT happy about that, but Mister LaSploosh smoothed things over with her for us. Despite being a random semi-character with shady ethics, he seemed to actually understand something about business. He HAD, in fact, legally incorporated her as TLS enterprises. Also, he was embezzling from Trixie, and we didn't touch his cut.

Life was good for a while. Monica and I had never been happier. My work was engaging without being a pain in the ass, and Monica had a deal for a new book she was excited about. She practically lived in her studio and completely lost track of time again. Trixie remained under control and was surprisingly docile... for her. It wasn't until later that summer when we had our next crisis.

***

The doorbell rang. I answered to find a shabby, middle-aged man who looked like he hadn't bathed for a couple of days.

"Can I help you?" I eyed him skeptically.

"Yeah. I'm here for Trixie."

"What?"

"The clown lady. I'm here for her."

"I think you must be mistaken."

"Here I am!" She came bounding towards the door in full sexy-clown regalia, her lovely straight rainbow hair in pigtails bouncing around her shoulders.

"Trixie. What the fuck. Who is this guy?"

"Mikey, meet Snake. He's taking me to a party! Snake, meet Mikey. He's my woogie-wuggums."

"Pleased to meet you." He extended his hand.

"I'm not shaking that," I said. "And YOU," turning to Trixie, "Are not going ANYWHERE with this man."

"Am Too! Huhhuh-Hee!" She stuck her tongue out at me.

"Are NOT!" I shook my head. This was pointless. "Monica! WAKE UP! She's at it again."

"Awww. 'Fraid the ol' bag can't hear you right now. She's sawing logs."

"You're not allowed to keep her asleep! That was the deal!"

"I ain't! She's passed out on her own."

"It's the middle of the afternoon!"

"No rules about that."

"You can't keep her trapped in a dream!"

"She ain't trapped. She don't know she's dreamin.' She thinks she's wide awake, writing her book. And I ain't allowed to keep her in a quote-WEIRD-unquote dream." She'd made air-quotes with her fingers. "This one's really REALLY boooooring."

"Trixie. You know you're not allowed to do anything she wouldn't like."

"Correction! I ain't allowed to do anything I THINK she wouldn't like! Soooooo..." For a few horrifying seconds, her face went blank and her eyes went glassy, like a doll's. "...I just don't Think about it." She shrugged. "Besides, who's to say she wouldn't like it? Every girl dreams about gettin' made airtight."

"WHAT?!?!?"

"I SAAAAAID," She held her hand up to her mouth and shouted, as if I was hard of hearing, "EVERY GIRL DREAMS ABOUT GETTIN' MADE AIR TIGHT!"

"Fuck. Keep it down! I don't want the whole neighborhood to hear you!"

"Look, buddy," said Snake. "I don't know what your deal is with this broad. I don't know what she told you about the nature of this little party, but this is gonna happen. You don't want there to be any trouble, all right?"

"The fuck I don't! That's my wife!"

"We ain't married," she said, waggling her ringless left hand at me again. "Hell, we ain't even Exclusive. I've been sharing you with that Dull Dilly this whole time. You got no beezwax gettin' all bent out of shape if I'm gettin' a lil somethin'-somethin' on the side, too."

"Get back in the house right fucking now OW!" I'd made to grab her, but Snake caught my hand and bent two of my fingers back at a really painful angle.

"Any harder, and I break 'em," he said. "Now then. No putting hands on the lady, got it? We're leaving now, and you ain't stoppin' us. Sorry, pal. Nothin' more for you to do." He squeezed just a little bit more, and my fingers screamed that they were going to snap right off. "Do we have an understanding?"

"FUCK."

"Get in the van, clown girl. The guys are waiting."

"Righty-O! Huhhuh-Hee!" She skipped into the passenger seat. "Don't wait up, candypants! Whenever I get back, I'm gonna tell ya ALLLLL about it!"

Snake released my hand and shoved me backwards, into the house. I staggered, then fell on my ass as he slammed the door in my face. He was back in his van as I raced towards my car, feeling in my pocket for my keys. Trixie dangled them at me through her passenger-side window, twirling them on one finger as she pulled out the front of her top, exposing three inches of creamy cleavage, dropped them between her globes, and unmistakably mouthed the word "BOOP!" at me as the vehicle pulled away.

FUUUUUUUCK!

I got part of the van's plate and was on the phone with the cops within seconds, screaming that my wife had been kidnapped. The more of my story they got out of me, the less interested they became. It turns out that being held prisoner in your own mind by an alternate personality while freely getting into someone else's van to cheat on your husband and pull a train with a bunch of violent strangers is NOT actually any kind of crime. Even having her steal my keys wasn't a problem because the car is community property. The best I could do would be to report her "missing" after seventy-two hours.

***

It wasn't until late the next afternoon that she came home. She was still being Trixie, even though her makeup was smeared, run through with rivulets of tears and drool and what I really hoped wasn't other mens' semen. Her wig was tangled and askew, and she was missing one shoe. Her clothes were torn, but not soiled. I got the idea that she hadn't spent much time in them. She smiled brightly at me but didn't say a word, just tossed me my keys and headed straight into the shower.

There was a long list of adjectives to describe what I'd been through in the previous twenty-four hours. None of them were good. None of them were adequate. 'Betrayed.' 'Enraged.' 'Helpless.' 'Furious.' 'Terrified.' All that and more, so much, MUCH more. The only word that even cast a shadow on where I really was... would be 'Murderous.'

But I had to wait.

After the ten thousand years it took for her to shower and dress, Monica emerged into the den where I sat glowering.

"Hey, honey," she said. How could she be so calm?

I stared a hole through her head.

"Honey?"

"You... understand what happened?" I asked.

"Ah. Well. Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I know, okay, I know what happened. She let me see it, after the fact, like, as, a, a... memory kind of thing. We went downtown, with that guy. We were in some shitty apartment or something. And... she had sex. With, uh, some men."

"Some men. How many?"

"I'm not sure. Six or seven, I think." She winced. "Uhm. Sometimes two or three at a time."

I closed my eyes and held my face in my hand.

"She said 'Airtight,' when she left," I groaned. "Three holes, no waiting."

"Ah. Yes. That's how she put it."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Honey. It's not like that. It wasn't my doing. It was all her, okay? It was her, not me."

"This has got to stop."

"Mike... I don't see how. I couldn't stop her. I didn't even know."

"She broke the rules."

"Not technically. I wasn't trapped. I didn't know I was dreaming, everything just seemed normal. I had no idea what was happening until it was too late. There were no cameras, so it wasn't porn. She wasn't prostituting me, because there was no money. And... yes. She let me enjoy it. She sort of MADE me enjoy it. retroactively. So I can't say I wouldn't have liked it, because... I kind of... did?"

"Monica. No. No more. Nothing like this should ever have happened. She's got to go."

"Don't talk like that, Mike. You know how dangerous she might be."

"Fucking Right I do! Don't you?"

"Mike. I, uh, think it's time we faced the fact that she's a part of me, and I'm a part of her. There is no 'getting rid' of her; we're way past that. The only thing we can do is roll with these punches. I've had to learn to live with her. We both have. We just... need to accept that once in a while, she's going to do her own thing, and we're just going to have to deal with it."

"Seriously? Who the fuck ARE you? Why aren't you upset? She fucking RAPED you. She GANG-raped you."

"Not really... I mean..."

"You could have gotten every fucking sexually transmitted disease that exists. Did she at least use condoms?"

"I don't... I wasn't... I don't know, I mean... Fuck." Monica facepalmed herself. "She made balloon animals with them. And balloon penises. That's easy to do with a condom, you just blow it up and make balls. And no, she didn't let the guys wear them. She, um. She really likes sperm."

"I know." I shook my head. "God. What the hell happened to you? Where is the woman who was so angry with that bitch during tax season? FUCK. You blew a gasket at me before all this started when I was just THINKING about having a sex life that didn't necessarily involve you! You were ready to fucking kill me! Now WHERE THE HELL IS MY WIFE?!?!?"

"I'm right here, Mike. I'm still your wife. And we've still got us. Thanks to her."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"There's no way I can touch you until you test clean. I can't lay a finger on that disease-ridden cum dumpster of a body right now. She might have already killed you."

"It's not like that. It doesn't count."

"Doesn't...? What the FUCK? No. That's not how it works. You know that. Why would you even say that?"

"Honey. It's okay. I'm fine."

"NO. No you are not fine. Nothing is fine. Nothing about ANY of this is fine. It's got to stop, and I'm putting an end to it, Right Fucking NOW."

I picked up the egg.

Her face bloomed open in horror.

It had NOT been easy to find. While she was gone, I'd torn apart her writing studio, even unscrewing the vents and electrical outlets from the walls. Nothing. I'd searched the bedroom. Same nothing. I finally found it in the kitchen. She kept it in the freezer, way in the back, inside an empty box of chopped spinach I would never have touched. The egg was much lighter than I expected, because she'd carefully drilled tiny holes in the top and the bottom, to blow out the insides. This egg, this symbol of life and fertility, was just an empty shell, filled only with some crusty brown residue of what might once have been hope. The rainbow wig was glued-on scraps of yarn and thread. Her blue eyes and cartoonish red lips were drawn on with crayon or magic marker. How could such a cute little amateurish effort contain so much Evil?

"Mike..." said Monica, "Please, no, don't...!"

I smashed the shell between my hands and threw it onto the floor. I stomped on the pieces for good measure. My wife's face was a rictus of agony.

"No. More. Clown!" I raised my head triumphantly.

"Of Course You Realize," said a voice coming from Monica's mouth, "This Means WAR." One eyebrow curled at me in a decidedly Chuck Jonesian fashion.

No.

"Trixie?"

"Congratulations, Cap'n Obvious. Set course for No-DUH-itstan. Huhuh-Hee!"

"But you're not in makeup!"

"Yeah. Funny, ain't it? Huhuh-Hee! Almost like somebody don't actually understand how it works."

"How? Monica always said..."

"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey." She drummed her fingernails across her chest. "It ain't all about the greasepaint and the costumes. It's like Rock-an-Roll. All it takes is three chords and an attitude, but if ya got enough Attitude, one will do."