Once upon a time, there was a secret company, with no sign on the door, no office building, no trace. Only behind closed doors did a few dare whisper its name: The ClownCloners.
There, deep underground, three hundred sociopaths gathered. Their hearts were cold and their eyes empty. They had one obsession: to rule the world with their army of cloned clowns.
Clowns with white face paint, red noses, colorful suits, striped socks, wigs in green, blue, and fiery red. But a curse had been cast over the world: ordinary people did not see them as clowns. Where an objective eye would only see a circus figure, with jingling bells on its shoes and a smile that never faded, the people saw only respectable politicians, presidents, kings, and ministers.
In the United States, the president stood before the people: a clown with a wig of bright orange curls, a gigantic tie dangling to his knees, and shoes big enough to house a horse. He spoke in crooked sentences and occasionally tossed confetti into the crowd. The people heard statesmanship, but in reality he cackled like a circus ringmaster.
In Europe, the leaders gathered in a parliament that looked more like a circus tent.
The German chancellor wore a neat gray suit, but above it towered a shocking pink wig and two red balloons dangling like earrings.
The French president had a face painted white and signed laws with a water pistol instead of a pen.
The Dutch prime minister wore a clown costume decorated with little windmills that spun whenever he spoke, and gave interviews while smashing pies into his own face.
Yet no one saw it. The people heard only serious words and polished debates.
In Russia, a clown-tsar ruled with a bearskin across his shoulders, but beneath his crown he wore a bright red rubber nose. Sometimes he rode through Moscow on a unicycle. The people thought it a show of power.
Even in the desert states appeared a clown-sultan, with a turban full of bells that jingled at every step. And in Asia a clown-emperor waved great fans that scattered confetti at every state visit.
Whenever a clown grew too old, too obvious, or when his ridiculous antics drew too much attention, he was quietly replaced. At night, black vans pulled up, and the next morning a fresh clown stood in his place, straight from the factory, with a bright white face and a brand-new gag.
No one noticed.
And yet, there were some who saw the truth: a small band who called themselves the Clownbusters.
They saw the noses, the wigs, the meter-long shoes. They heard the honks and bells instead of speeches.
But as soon as they opened their mouths, the rest of the world laughed them off.
“Conspiracy theories!” screamed the newspapers.
“Tin-foil hat lunatics!” shouted the crowds.
The Clownbusters were hunted down, ridiculed, sometimes even imprisoned.
Their truth was too absurd for the world to accept.
When more and more people began to doubt, the three hundred sociopaths decided to create a masterpiece: the Great Clown.
He was cloned from the genes of all clowns combined. His nose was so red it glowed like a lighthouse, his suit sparkled in a thousand colors, his shoes were as large as boats, and his laughter cut to the bone.
When he spoke, the people heard a prophet.
When he laughed, they felt hope.
When he bent down to smash a pie in someone’s face, the people saw tears of joy, as though he had blessed them.
The Great Clown restored trust.
The people once again believed in their leaders, not seeing that they were prisoners in a circus.
Then came the final phase of the plan. The Great Clown built a digital world: an endless circus, where everyone could play their own role. The people stepped into it willingly, grateful that their leader had given them a paradise.
But behind the bright colors lurked a prison.
Everyone was remade into a bitclown: digital copies with red noses and painted faces, dancing and jumping, laughing forever, without freedom.
The real bodies remained behind, motionless in chairs, while their souls were trapped inside the circus.
And so it happened that the world, blinded by face paint and false smiles, lost itself.
The Clownbusters remained, calling into the emptiness, their voices drowned out by the endless laughter of millions of bitclowns.
The fairy tale ended without applause.
Only with the sound of a horn…
that never stopped.
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