Laugher Strike

As of yet not turned in, so no chance for professional suggestions, haha.  I just thought it was funny.

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            “Ringmaster, we uh, have a problem…” The man in the dirty tuxedo fidgeted with the brim of his top hat as he stood in front of the Ringmaster’s oak desk.  He was sweating profusely.

            “What is it now?” The Ringmaster didn’t even look up from the stack of paperwork sitting in front of him. “Trapeze artist fall again?  Tent collapse?  Lion kill another tamer?”

            Top Hat tugged at his collar.  “No sir, it’s a bit… more dire.”

            The Ringmaster finally looked up, tapping his pen against the desk.  “What can it possibly be, Stenson?”

            “Um, Winston, sir.”

            “Whatever.  What’s happening?”

            Winston wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist.  “It’s the clowns, sir.”

            “…The clowns.  What about the clowns?  Who cares about the damned clowns?”

            “Sir, they’re… well, they say they’re on strike, but-“

            “Great!  Finally a way around that stupid performer’s union.  I’ve been trying to get rid of the fucking clowns for years.  Where’s the problem, Winlow?”

            “W-Winston, sir.  It’s uh, well, they aren’t striking right.  Uh, y’know?”  He gave up waiting on an invitation to sit and took a seat anyway before his shaking knees gave out.

            The Ringmaster just stared.  “What do you mean ‘not striking right’?”

            Winston gulped.  “They… won’t stop performing, sir…”

            There was a pause.

            “Won’t… stop… You said they were striking, Longstein.  That’s not striking.”  The Ringmaster’s voice was calmly terrifying.

            Winston switched arms to wipe his brow with, his right sleeve soaked through.  “They… they know you want them gone, sir.  It’s, uh, still Winston, by the way.  But they said they’re going to keep performing until you uh… you uh…”  He fidgeted for a good, disarming word.

            “Until I what, Newston?”

            Another gulp.  “Until you… err, give in to their demands, sir.”

            The Ringmaster’s fist slammed down on the table, causing papers to tumble over.  “CLOWNS are making DEMANDS?!”  He stood to his feet, his rolling chair flying out behind him and crashing against the wall.  “What do they even WANT?  We just got done with them fighting for equal show time!”  The Ringmaster pulled out a small, unlabelled bottle of brown liquid from his desk and began pouring it into a glass.

            Winston fumbled for a folded piece of multicolored paper in his inner tux pocket.  Clearing his throat, he spoke, “T-They gave me this.  For you, sir.  They wanted you to, uh, to know their… demands.  Here…” He handed the paper to the Ringmaster, who started reading it.

            “…What is this?  ‘Equal Pies for All Clownes’?  ‘More Compact Clowne Cars’?  ‘More Honky Noses for Clowne Brothers’?  Is this a joke?  And they want an elephant?”

            “Uh, read the footnote, sir… they uh, they’ll accept a giraffe, if the elephant is uh…” He gestured unhelpfully. “Is uh, too much?”

            The Ringmaster just stared for a full five seconds.  “No.  I don’t bargain with clowns.”  He ripped up the colorful paper into confetti.  “They want to play hard, we’ll play hard.  There’s a reason I keep those mime freaks employed.  Round them up for me, Stanislaw.  They’re going to break this strike.”

            Winston started stammering.  “Sir, but… the mimes… they’re as bad as the clowns, sir.  Without the clowns to keep them in check… sir, they’ll… they’ll try to take over!”

            The Ringmaster smiled a sinister smile.  “I’ve dealt with the clowns before.  They’ll call in their backup.  The clown mafia – the Hahfia.  Dr. Bonzo riding in on his unicycle, troops loaded with water balloons and squirt flowers… But the mimes will be armed with invisible lassoes and weaponry.  It’ll be a massacre of cartoonish proportions, and whoever survives will be easily kept under thumb.  Now, get those mimes ready, Winburgh.”  

            As Winston stepped out of the office, muttering under his breath, the Ringmaster turned to the window behind him and stared, untouched drink in hand, already imagining the Looney Tunes level of carnage that would soon take place.

            He took a sip of the brown liquid, a home-brewed root beer, and a genuine smile touched his face.  "God I love the circus."