Bruce and the Clown

Disclaimer: These characters are the rightful property of their creators. I don’t lay any claim on them. Just so you know.  😀

There was no denying it. Bruce loved the fact that he was born into money. It simplified his lifestyle and enabled him to get away with certain eccentric behavior.

He  also couldn’t deny that his wealth was a burden. It forced him to wear a tuxedo at least once a month and attend dreadful things like business meetings and charitable auctions and society functions. Society functions were the worst. They bored him into a state of deep grimness. 

Yet, there were some society functions that were worse than others.

Oh, so much worse.

***

Bruce lurked in the shadows.

Mercifully, there were only two reporters and two photographers and they all had the same bored look on their faces. None of them wanted to be there. Bruce could see that clearly from his vantage point. None of them wanted to even try to do their job.

And, honestly, he couldn’t blame them. No sane person would want to be witness to a clown school graduation ceremony.

The clown pranced about on stage, joking and blathering at his fellow clown cadets. “And theeennn, when no one is looking, you  go and pull out a rubber chicken! AHHH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Bruce set his mouth into a grim line.

His butler droid ambled over to him. “I do say, Master Bruce, he is quite like his father. What do you think?”

“I think he’s trying too hard.”

“To be The Joker?”

“To be funny. Why am I here, Al?”

The servos in Al’s head spun and whirred as he apparently cycled through all of the possible answers. “Chief Commissioner Gordon requested that you attend to reclaim The Joker’s stunt cannon. Oh. But you already knew that.”

The clown walked over to the table at the far end of the stage and picked up a fluffy looking pie. “Annd remember, boys and girls, what should you do when life gives you a lemon whipped chiffon and marshmallow cream pie?”

His audience chorused, “Throw it at Batman!”

Bruce quietly clenched his teeth.

“BINGO! Twenty kudo bars for everyone! You know, it’s just too bad the old bat isn’t here. Look at this pie. So lovely. So fuuh-luffy! It needs to be thrown at someone, don’t you think?”

A chorus of cheers and honked horns broke out.

The reporters looked down at their watches and sighed disappointment.

“When can I leave?” asked Bruce.

“According to my advanced calculations, Master Bruce, he should be finishing shortly.”

“Good.”

One of the photographers pulled out a Rubik’s cube and got to work turning and twisting the colored squares.

“Ohhh, but who to throw it at? Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Eeeeeny. Miiiiiiney. Moe!” He set the pie on the table. “I have found my mark and I am going to LET HIM HAVE IT!” He pressed an oversized red button right next to the pie.

The table warped and whirled and transformed into a cannon with a caricature of The Joker’s face on the side.

Bruce snapped to attention. “There it is, Al. The Joker’s old cannon.”

“If I may be so bold to speak, Master Bruce, I would wait until after the ceremony to reclaim the cannon.”

“I’d hate to wait. This is the right moment, Al. All we have to do is—”

The clown pulled a lever next to the cannon. “ANNNNND FIIIIIYAAA!”

The pie shot out of the cannon in one long straight line and fwoomped Bruce right in the face.

“AHHH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! TARGET HAS BEEN HIT RIGHT IN THE BULLS-EYE!”

And the crowd went wild with applause and raucous laughter and whooping and all manner of tomfoolery.

The photographer without the Rubik’s cube looked up to see who was the unlucky target. His eyes widened in surprise. He stood quickly and pulled out his camera. He took shot after shot after shot.

The other photographer followed his rival’s lead and took his own busload of pictures.

Bruce schluffed the thick layers of cream off his face and gouged it out of his eyes. “That’s it. The cannon can wait.”

“Are you certain, Master Bruce? Chief Commissioner Gordon said—”

Bruce gave the droid a look that was as serious as a cement block in the middle of a busy highway. The bits of cream sticking to his face and hair failed in their comic relief. “If I stay here any longer, Al, I will have to throw my robotized shuriken at him and make a scene.”

“Yes, it would seem to be unavoidable.”

The reporters woke from their mental dozing. They raced towards Bruce, pushing and shoving each other the whole way.

“Run, Master Bruce. I’ll hold them off with my repulsion shield.”

“Thank you, Al. I’ll owe you one.”

 

 

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