Life as Jest

Life as Jest
   I am nothing without laughter and crowds, I am left at the end of my life a sad, sad clown without gluttonous kings to perform for. Oh! to light up a hall with cheer, the glasses clinking as I pluck a chicken from under a maiden's dress, as I sang songs of bread and circuses, their roaring laughter turned away from despair. Oh! To light up lives again, my bones now brittle and my mind not so sharp, my tongue a shadow of its former self, an aging fool looking back on his glory days. Ah! The glory, I've never fought in battle or went on grand adventures, I had a more important purpose; to be the most famous fool in all the lands, to beckon crowds with my charm and wit, with my fowl mouth begin anew! For I am Cloan The Fowl! 
   For the king is a tyrant to the many and I a tyrant to the few. I squeeze their laughter out, I make them beg for falsehoods, for relief, I persist until they are red and smell of ash, until they are reduced to animals, to a herd of bleating sheep, their royalty laughed away, their precious lives commandeered for a few moments. They are plucked out of time, their royal blood boiled to a pulp, they are mesmerized and scintillated by my folly. History will always remember the king and never the fool, but the secret is we are all fools, only some are dressed as kings.
    Laughter is the best medicine even for the miserable. Ah! The medieval jester, the first comedian, the dancing monkey, the anarchic buffoon. He makes the crowd roar by losing himself, hence he allows them to lose their pretentiousness, he can gargle tradition and fight away political correctness, for an evening the guests can be released from their invisible chains and the highest of noblemen will be reduced to squawking fowl. He shows them that even with their land and riches they are closer to him, he is their foolish dancing shadow, he makes the world laugh when otherwise they would be on the verge of tears. Oh! The jester eats up despair and turns it into joy, laughter is the highest and lowest of all truths. Even so the jester must pay the price for being a mad clown, for playing the fool, his clown heart breaks under the overwhelming pressure of performance. He lays on a bed of nails-he is crucified while he performs, martyred by life’s loss, he wears his crown of thorns through laughter and criticism; for the jester the world is a stage and we are infinitely laughing at the same old joke.
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   The Farter came through town and the king and court loved his Fartistry. I was appalled by such indignity, he thinks he can fart his way into the king's good graces. I can juggle, I can dance and throw swords and sing and be a general fowl mouth, for I am Cloan The Fowl, a fool for all to see, not some second rate talent that makes sounds out of his ass! Flatulence sells and I was forced to watch the court lose their marbles, they laughed at every fart, this preposterous joker squeezed air out of his backside and made the whole hall smell like a privy. He even let one rip right in a maiden's face! A wind of flatulence blew her hair back as she cackled her ass off.
Fart, Fart, Fart, have you no dignity, the lowest form of comedy. I thought I’d be usurped by this mediocre Farter, But I had a plan; On the evening of his final performance I spiked his stew, this was his secret weapon that allowed him to fart without care. As he farted here and there, I watched from the shadows as he showed hesitation, he kept clenching his stomach, he grew weary and on his final round of flatulence he grunted out his grand finale, his final fart, his last gas, but this time he shit himself to death. His face blood red, his bright blue leotards stained brown, he lay dying in his own filth. The smell of excrement filled the air, the court gasped, I took my chance and jumped forth from the shadows to address the crowd, “It seems the Farter was simply full of shit!” I farted in his face a much more graceful fart than any of his artless farts. The court erupted and I felt a rush of power, the innocent fool had become a player, I had taken my rightful place as the superior fool. I had usurped this mediocre Farter! 
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     I remember The king had a protruding jaw that made his face look small in comparison, he had a soft spoken childlike voice accompanied by a lisp, his eyes hid nothing, he looked dull and brooding, even though he was of high birth. He wore an off white wig due to lice, when he laughed his whole belly shook, and his face turned red like a tomato, it sounded like he was about to choke on his tongue. His tiny hands clasping his wine chalice made him look infantile, wine often trickled down his long face staining his bare chin. Not all kings I performed for resembled a deformed donkey, he was special. The rumour is he has mongoloid blood, that his parents were brother and sister, the only thing we know for sure is the king was divinely appointed to the throne by god! So by royal decree I was God's fool! 
    As long as you don’t poke fun at his lisp he was a fair and admirable jouster, he let me wreak havoc on the court. I swore like a sailor, my biggest arsenal was barn animals, calling the women cows, and the soldiers donkeys or pigs, I called them rodents and dogs and cockroaches, as they laughed at my spear throwing they seemed to morph into these animals. I used Bastard and Bitch in my tirade, they loved my hymn of slurs, even the servants snickered as I pummelled the court with insults, their eyes gleamed as I slandered their rulers. 
    One of my routines was to steal the courts noses, a child’s jest, most were good sports about it. I held some fake noses in my pouch and would plop the noses in peoples drinks, it was really quite innocent fun. One rather brainless guard truly believed I stole his nose. Oh! What an utter imbecile, his nose wasn’t even worth stealing! The guard unsheathed his dagger and came running at me like an escaped bull, his eyes glazed with rage. The crowd thought it was just part of the performance, another foolish trick, but I had a madman chasing me with a sword. I jumped on the table to evade capture, spilling wine and food, his blade missed me by mere digits. It was ecstatic, I made silly faces and mocked this goblin man as he tried to murder me in cold blood. Mockingly I bent over backwards and exposed my buttocks, he got his revenge and sliced off his pound of flesh. I roared in pain, the crowd stood up and applauded our performance; the crowd was still convinced this was part of the show. In a glum voice he said “Give me nose back!” Followed by a clumsy “Or I’ll gut ya!!” while clenching my back door, I dug in my bag and threw him a small mirror, the buffoon was surprised to find his nose still attached to his face. He slunk down defeated as the court applauded. The following morning he was found in bed with his throat slit and nose missing; a strange turn of events for a man who cannot take a joke! 
       Oh! What does an aging clown do but look back on the good old days, the rascal days, of fakery, and of course of laughter and crowds! A clown cannot weep for he will ruin his face, the face of tragedy hidden behind comedy! The face of the beast hidden beneath civility! The jest hidden beneath tyranny! The lines had to be crossed, the mischief brought over these blurry social borders, the bridge between royalty and the trickster just a line in the sand, a social title. Without any challenge to the sacred, the bending of the brass, how can we begin anew! I can feel the ground forever shaking under me, I bring fire to the people and they choose what to do with it; they can warm themselves with this fire or burn the castle down! Ah! To begin anew! The trickster cannot truly love or be loved, he must trick the audience to laugh and to love but he cannot trick himself, so he bites back tears with a drawn-on grin, and he begets himself to madness, as the laughter continues with or without him.