Posse of Clowns

When I win the lottery, I’m going to hire a gang of birthday clowns, and have them follow me everywhere like a posse.
A posse of clowns, in their makeup and baggy pants and floppy shoes, making balloon animals and squirting flowers and annoying the hell out of everyone.
We rough it up with other lottery winners and their posses.
Of mimes. Of Renaissance Fair fortune-tellers. Of chiropractors.
And we fight. Boy, do we fight.
We fight like… well… a pack of clowns.
There are a lot of casualties.
I pour out a forty-ounce of seltzer water on the curb.

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