Bobo's Funhouse

by graveice

Summary:

A collection of short stories exploring the time before it was Chatterbox’s Funhouse; when the clown family was ruled by a different, harsher hand: Bobo the clown...

Notes:

I want this to be multi-chaptered but I have 0 faith in myself to do anything multi-chaptered so please don't expect anything of this but I will try, lol

Chapter 1: Baby Teeth

A hot early autumn sun beat down on sandy land, where crops struggled to thrive, roots stubbornly pushing past the surface of hard dirt to grow. Survival didn't come easy on a Grapeseed farm, but persistence was rewarded, and a few sparse crops managed to pepper the land Bobo owned. Every so often, the large man haunted the rows of growing crops with his heavy footsteps, observing and tending to the colorful crops and vines.

Wordlessly, he plucked a bushel of carrots and a few ripe onions, and tossed them into a basket with a grunt. In his other hand, he carried a large shovel, and he continued on, not stopping long to take from the garden. He had another errand to tend to today.

He walked a long distance from the modest farm and it’s large but dilapidated house, where no food grew and no animals roamed. There were no trees to shade him, and no signs of life except for the tall, unkempt blades of grass that reached to his waist. Bobo looked for a place that was isolated: far from human eyes.

And when he found the perfect spot, he stabbed his shovel into the dirt and began digging a hole not very large or deep. The clown reached into his pocket and removed a fistful of human teeth. He dropped them inside the hole, and buried them under a mound of dirt made to look like a natural indent in Earth: the evidence of lives' to be disguised and undiscovered forever.

Teeth. One of the only remains that pigs won't eat, and fire won't burn. Teeth. His, too, would last a long time after he was gone, broken and cracked pieces of his skull that suggested a life of undernourishment and illness...

Not too long from now, he thinks. His old bones hurt from the exertions of the day: the keeping of the large plot of land he tended, and the digging to hide the evidence of his games.

But he works, and he works alone, and when his job was done, Bobo turned around without a hint of emotion in his eyes, and slowly made his way back toward his home.

He recognizes every tree and pock mark in the ground, the land as familar to him as his own skin and bones. Even as his eyes dim with age, he is astute to any detail that’s askew on his property…

And that’s when he sees it: a human-shaped bundle disrupting the perfect order in a field of wheat. The golden stalks were bent and broken under the weight of what appeared to be… a boy.

A living boy, Bobo observes— with some disappointment. It’s chest rises and falls slowly, in peaceful slumber…

And hate filled every pore in Bobo’s body. He hated people, big or small. No living thing deserved to breathe the clean air of his Grapeseed farm except the animals, and this disgusting little intruder was taking what belonged to him, on land that belonged to him.

He prodded the body with his shovel, and it stirred. Dirty, small hands pushed himself up from the grass, and he blinked up at the imposing— horrifying — figure of a man dressed all in blue with the makings of a clown, and a shovel raised threateningly. He rubbed at wide eyes, sure this must be he a nightmarish hallucination.

Bobo rose the shovel in a threat above the little body, and snarled a threat. “Get out of here!”

Startled and dazed, words slowly trickled up from the small voice in the grass. "Wh- where am I?" 

"That ain't none of your business! This is my property, boy! And I don’t take kindly to uninvited guests!”

“' Paw perdy'...?" The boy began to stand, and looked around the field in confusion. 

He was a slow-moving, easy target in the grass… Bobo, silently, considers the merits of killing the boy. Likely, it was a disobedient little snot: a neighborhood kid running amok in the grass to avoid doing his chores back home... and Bobo felt nothing but displeasure for it.

... but a missing kid could send cops or concerned citizens to his doorstep, sniffing around in places Bobo didn’t want them to be... 

He wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with a large arm, and decides: killing it was more trouble (and effort) than it was worth.
The child was probably too stupid to cause any trouble, anyway. Scaring it would do just fine. (And the truth was, he didn't want to have to chase no lively kid alone. Not when he wasn't prepared for it...)

"Get on home!" He bellowed, and the boy scurried backward in the grass away from the man, but did not yet rise to his feet. Bobo bared his teeth in an angry snarl, lifting the metal end of the shovel threateningly. “You want me to hit you?” And that, the boy understood: he gathered to his feet in a hurry with wide eyes, and took off down the dusty path between fields of tall grass, and the sound of his clothes scraping against the leaves followed him the whole way. 

“That’s right— get ! And don’t ever come back here or I’ll beat you blue!” Bobo snapped after him, and his little feet carried him faster. 

He was a fast runner, and he hoped over the occasional rock and errant root with ease...
the blessings of youth!
Bobo could hardly remember a time when it was that easy...

The thought of children sickens him: their incessant whines and cries, the unpleasant sounds and smells, their loud demands for crackers and balloon animals...

They were insufferable, the little brats, and one of the many reasons he'd left the life of a circus clown in favor of a quiet Grapeseed farmhouse...

He’d put out a bloody scarecrow to scare away the birds and neighbors alike, he decided: that should keep them all away.

His work done, he picked up his basket of produce and continued his walk to the house.

… and it wasn’t long before his maw was clenched again, an angry noise bubbling in the back of his throat.

There it was again. 

That boy— standing in the cleaning before the Funhouse, staring up at it… even with his back to the man, it was easy to see the boy was enchanted by the sight of the large farmhouse to which his eyes were glued...

Bobo's fists curled: his footsteps grew heavy, and his voice menacing. "Didn't I tell you to get out of here?"

The boy turned around in a hurry, his shoes crunching barren gravel ground as he did. He stared with big brown eyes that reflected the sun, and unconsciously began to step away, backward. “I— I heard you, mister, but—“

“Don’t back talk me, boy--”

“ I don’t know how to get home! ” He cried out in panic, sensing impending punisgment in Bobo's harsh tone. He knew that tone, and he knew what came next... Pain .

Bobo growled, but decided the boy might be too dim-witted to figure it out on his own. “Your folks have a place around here, don't they boy?”

“Maybe… no… I don’t think so… I've never seen a place like this…”

“You from the city, boy?”

“No… maybe…”

“You don't know nothin', do you?” He sneered.

The boy shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’— my pa always says so.” 

Bobo stared, like he was trying to pierce the boys soul through his body. The boy fidgeted, tugging on an ear and looking around like a path would reveal itself, and Bobo saw nothing but vacant, empty fear in his eyes… at that, a smile morphed the man’s face. It was an ugly, menacing thing on the man, which revealed yellowed teeth with holes of rot. “Is that right…?”
Dumb was just the way he liked his prey. It was harder for them to escape... “Well, boy, I suppose I can make room for ya at the dinner table…”

“Really ?”

“That’s right." Bobo frowned sternly. “But we earn our keep around here. I don’t hand out food for free.” He swung the basket at the boy, demanding that he carry it. 

The boy understood, taking the job without question. He understood this way of life very well. His father never let him do anything for free: every bite of food, every second of punishment-free living was paid for by his work and obedience. He took the task Bobo offered without question. His eyes lit up with hunger when he noticed the contents of the basket, and Bobo noticed, greedily snapping—

"Don't you dare think about it, boy. That's for the stew." Bobo looked at the thing, skinny and weak. Malnourished and bony, his big dark eyes were the only soft thing about him, and they reminded Bobo of the witless cows that roamed the fields… “You can pay me for my kindness by shuttin’ up,” he ordered. He was tired of hearing the pathetic desperation in his voice. It gave him nothing but a headache: no sympathy, just grating annoying.

The boy perked up. The quiet game. He played this game with his dad, a lot! He knew the rules...
But, he wasn’t very good at it, no matter how many times he played… a few minutes passed before he lost the game, his wandering mind having latched onto other thoughts and forgetting about the game entirely: “Have you seen my dad around here, mister?”

“Ain’t nobody else around here, kid.” That’s the way Bobo liked it. (That’s the way he needed it, for his plans to work.)

“ Oh … well, I’ll get in trouble, if I don’t find him…” He muttered, sounding concerned.

“ Nobody’s gonna find you here,” Bobo sneered sharply. (He hoped fear would shut the child up.)

But it doesn't: the boy frowned in concentration, and looked around… mentally trying to retrace his steps. (If he took too long to get home, he’d be punished. He was never allowed to play for long . and definitely not with strangers ...) He ponders over the very last things he remembers: a long, long car ride… and himself, running… running , through fields of overgrown wheat, to escape something… or someone... He squinted, confused by the hazy memories, which felt like they faded from his memory more and more by the second. He looked up at Bobo, the tall man with no eyebrows and sweat on his brow. “How long am I staying for?” He asked.

“You’re not long for this world.”

“... what’s that mean? ”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Will you tell my dad I was good? So I don’t get in trouble?”

“You ain’t gotta worry about getting in trouble no more.” 

“ Really ?! Thanks mister!”

Bobo scoffed. The idiot thinks it’s benevolence, not a warning of his impending death...

Grass swayed in the calm winds, and a cow called in the distance... and even though there his only company was a scary clown, for the first time in a long time, the boy wasn't afraid… “How did I get to here?”

Bobo is tired of the questions. So many questions. normally, he’d have slit their throat to silence by now– “You fell from a balloon. In the sky,” he lies, smoothly, betraying none of his violent thoughts or ill intent.

Finally, a good meal, and fallen right into his lap… it would be a waste to scare it off so quickly...

“I did?” said the boy. Confused, but gullible.

“That’s right,” he lied again. "Greedy," Bobo snapped. "Greedy little children ask for too many balloons, and they float away." Bobo explained, thinking back to days under a circus tent, slave to grubby little children just like this one.

"But I never had a balloon before," the bewildered boy thought aloud.

"That's impossible. Every boy's held a balloon before."

"Not me, mister. My pa never took me to the sir kissed. He hates clowns," he rambled on. "He says they're bad people and I should never talk to one or I'll end up dead and buried under someone's basement,“ the boy matter of factly reported.

"And yet you're talking to me..."

"Yeah… you don't seem that bad t' me, mister." The boy seemed confused by that. If clowns were so bad, why was this one nicer than his pa ever was… ?

Bobo looked back at the boy who trudged behind him, following in his foot steps, watching him almost like a duckling following it’s mother…

Hardly any meat on his bones, Bobo observed.
Hardly any meat in his head, either, he thought.

This one was simple.
Stupid. Probably alone…
And very gullible, easily herded and convinced…

But even a dim-witted dog could be useful. 

They could be trained…

    But would something like that be worth all the trouble… ?

            He isn’t certain: never considered the possibility of companionship, not even for the practicality of sharing the work load…

Dark inquisitiveness fills his tone. “ … Run , boy. Show me how fast you can run.”

“Run? Okay!” He takes off on the wind, acclimated to a life on the run. The boy was good at that: he and his father ran a lot, when the men in blue uniforms interrupted dad’s work. Then he would curse and scream and yell at the boy to go faster— keep up or get left behind… and he hadn’t been left behind yet.

Bobo doesn’t take chase, though he often did: the predator to unwitting prey. Instead, he watches.

He was fast, for a little runt.
Strong, for a starved husk of a boy…

The boy stopped his sprint at the porch, and the sudden halting sent an onion flying from the basket he carried,, where it rolled down the gravel path toward Bobo. The boy chased after it clumsily like a fool: like a clown in a circus show…

Bobo huffed, not wanting to admit to himself he wasn’t unimpressed by the boys quick feet and obedience.

It gawked up at the clown and his huge home in awe. “Is this house yours, mister?”

“Of course it's my house. It belongs to me,” the man proudly spat. “Bobo’s Funhouse.”

“A funhouse? I never been in one of those!” He’d never been in a house, period, especially no fun one. A couple rundown apartments, but these days, mostly motel rooms where he slept on the floor– maybe a chair, if he was lucky. But they were no fun at all: at best, he got to watch old tv shows while his dad was in the shower or left him behind in a locked room that reeked of cigarette smoke...
He spotted a vine on the porch, and approached it with steps that creaked the weary wood under foot. “You grow tomatoes? I love tomatoes! I like bananas too. Do you grow those?”

“This look like the tropics to you, boy?”

“What’s a 'straw pick'?

“You aren’t very bright, are you?” Bobo speaks sharply in annoyance, and the boy cowed: he knew the price for making a grown man mad. It was a fist, or a belt, or a book...

“ Sorry mister. I never went to elle-men-tree school…” He was more quiet and observant as Bobo led him into the house and through rooms full of junk and decay, following a series of rooms that wound through the house in a confusing labryinth. Finally, they reached the kitchen, where a pot simmered on the stove. The boy’s stomach ached with hunger.

"What does your pa call you?"

"Boy," he answered simply.

"Your name , boy," Bobo barked in irritation. "I'm asking your name."

" My name? Well, I don't know it…” When was the last time he heard it…? So long that he can’t remember… so long that it might as well not exist... “I don’t think I got one of those."

He looks at the youth in disbelief. "That’s impossible! Don’t you ever lie to Bobo. Lies make your mouth dirty, and you don’t wanna see what Bobo does to dirty mouthed little liars ,” he scowled. 

“I don’t?”

“Don’t make me find you out!” 

“But— I don’t know my name!” The boy stuttered nervously. “I don’t have a name! Is Bobo your name? I— I could be a—… ” The boy tries to think of a name on the spot, but he had met so few people— he couldn’t recall many names, least of all what his might be.

“You’ll be quiet, that’s what you’ll be,” Bobo cut him off, tired of the chattering youth. " Make yourself useful. Cut the onions. And I don't want to hear no crying." Bobo handed the boy a dull kitchen knife, one that the boy had no clue had long ago, before its edge had flattened with time, been bloodied with the viscera of many human bodies…

The old man watched the nameless boy clumsily follow directions— asking a million questions along the way. He was an insufferable chatterbox who barely knew the difference between left and right, lacking in all the common training a boy his age should have… but, with youth, and naïveté, came a blank slate , where Bobo’s own wisdoms could be inscribed… 

No name, no home, no idea where he came from or how to leave… quick, malleable, capable, and too afraid (or perhaps too stupid ) not to obey... maybe, Bobo thought, an apprentice could be more useful to him living, rather than as an ingredient for his stew...