SidaivaRevaso
Registered User
- Joined
- Jun 3, 2024
- Messages
- 3
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- 3
Southeast Michigan in the mid- to late-90s was a boring place—or at least it was to Chloe. Her family sat around watching TV, her friends sat around smoking in dank basements, and she sat around feeling bored. So, for want of something to do, she became a Juggalette.
It was fun to immerse herself in a world distinct from—while fundamentally related to—her own bleak surroundings, and very quickly she began to feel a new vim for life, perhaps even the stirrings of a spiritual awakening. Soon she was hanging out at a Juggalo specialty shop, immersing herself in the culture and customs of the Insane Clown Posse fandom. Before long she made friends, and while it was a male-dominated community, she felt oddly comfortable around these misfits and outcasts. They were grubby and uncouth, but proud of it—which made them unlike her family and erstwhile friends, who wallowed in the misery of their squalid lives. Chloe felt a burst of excitement to discover people who were choosing to live, and who were doing so with some measure of personal expressivity.
She especially enjoyed the distinct appearance adopted by so many in the subculture, and she began to style herself in that particular fashion—especially for shows or gatherings. On such occasions she’d slip on her custom ICP halter-top, wear her Hatchet Man earrings and lacy choker, and paint her face to resemble an evil clown. This accoutrement went well with her piercing green eyes and the green highlights in her long black hair, which she sometimes fashioned into pigtails under a black beanie. Black too were her buckle-strapped, high waisted denim shorts and Callicut Etnies, which she always wore with ankle socks. She looked the part, and while things often got grimy and muddy at the shows and gatherings, at least she knew she’d show up looking good.
At such events, her favorite Juggalo to tag along with was Rowdy, a gentle giant who had taken her under his wing, showed her a good time, and looked after her without being overbearing or expecting anything in return. Together they would attend the Dark Carnival-themed ICP events, enjoying the dizzying mix of horrorcore anthems, amusement park rides, backyard wrestling matches, wet t-shirt contests, raging bonfires, and incessant drinking.
On this night they were doing just that, along with some other friends, at an ICP show during the Great Milenko Tour.
It was summer and sweltering, the crowd sweaty with anticipation as they stood in darkness, eyes toward the stage. The energy was palpable, a simmering atmosphere of latent madness cloying to the skin.
Suddenly a voice cut through the air, piping and jaunty in the way of a carnival barker. At the same time the stage was illuminated, revealing a medley of circus tents and shrouded cages, all expressionistic and vaguely menacing.
“Ladies and Gentleman!” announced the voice, nearly drowned out by the crowd’s electric cheer. “Welcome to the greatest spectacle in history! The most exciting exhibit in mankind! The one and only! The wickedest show on earth! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to…The Carnival of Carnage!”
The crowd roared its approval and Chloe, standing next to Rowdy, felt the ground shake beneath her feet.
“Yes, my friends, get ready! For you, the lucky ones in this very building, are about to experience the thrills and chills, the comedy, the tragedy, the ups and downs of the mighty wicked clowns!”
The crowd cheered, becoming increasingly boisterous. Chloe could barely see the stage through the frenzied shaking and drunken revelry of the bodies before her, so she asked Rowdy to put her on his shoulders, which he did without question or delay as the voice piped on.
“So step right up, come closer, don’t be afraid! Approach the stage—for who knows, if you’re lucky you might even get… a pie in your fuckin’ face, motherfucker!”
At this the crowd released an ear-shattering scream, one that mingled with the circus music now being played through the loudspeakers. The music ran for a few moments and then cut out, along with all the lights.
“Are you dooooooown with the cloooooooown?!”
At last Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope appeared on stage, loosed from two shrouded cages by a group of cavorting carnies. As their fans went wild, they began the set with “The Show Must Go On,” and from there made their way through the ICP catalogue, whipping the crowd into a frenzy and breaking occasionally to spray liters of Rock & Rye-flavored Faygo onto everyone in the first few rows.
Chloe was enraptured by the music and display, and she felt herself being transported into another realm—a darker realm, one full of twisted funhouse mirrors and wanton violence, but a realm in which she felt sensitive to the people around her, alive to their sorrows, pleasures, and ambitions. She realized how much she shared with them, how much she had always shared with them, and this gave her a buzz of belonging that grew and grew as the show went on.
It reached a crescendo about a half-hour in, when Violet J announced the fifth Joker’s Card. The crowd went insane, even more so than before, and their raucous energy only increased as the next three songs (“How Many Times?,” “Boogie Woogie Wu,” and “Toy Box”) were played.
From afar, the crowd might have appeared to be a single seething entity; but from within it was violent, impulsive madness as people pushed and punched with heedless abandon, their elbows flying and jaws cracking. Some leapt up and were carried aloft the mass, crowd-surfing for a brief spell before being thrown back to the ground in a crumpled heap. Wherever she looked, Chloe saw jumping, jamming Juggalos, and as she swayed perilously on Rowdy’s shoulders she began to feel an intoxicating oneness with the energy here, a comfort with its brutal ebbs and flows. Swept up in this ecstasy, she suddenly lifted her shirt and flashed the stage, releasing a celebratory yell along with her bare breasts.
In this moment she felt free and easy, caring little for the norms of decency or morality, and following her vulgar display she found herself filled with confidence and a devil-may-care attitude. Grinning widely, still tapped into the crowd’s energy, she yelled a sudden desire down to Rowdy:
“I want to crowd-surf!”
He nodded as if it were the natural progression of things, and without a word he took her from his shoulders and held her horizontal, then passed her over to nearby fellow Juggalos—and so Chloe found herself being passed along, riding a wave of straining arms and hands, moving with fits and starts away from Rowdy, at first vaguely toward the stage and then suddenly in the opposite direction. She was at the mercy of the wave, and knew its whims could not be influenced or anticipated.
Rather than anxiety, she discovered in her indeterminable fate a kind of bliss. She enjoyed being passed from hand to hand, never seeing the specific people who held her but still somehow knowing them—knowing they were kin, knowing she was part of a shared community that eagerly supported its own. To Chloe, this moment of physical support seemed a manifestation of the spiritual reinforcement she had received since breaking from her boring life and finding this new world. She was literally riding high, and felt that nothing could break through her mood of blissful ecstasy.
But then she felt her shoe loosen.
Somebody was grabbing her right shoe. And now her left as well!
Her black Etnies, the shoes she always wore to concerts, the shoes she always wore period—they were being taken from her by the same anonymous hands that had supported her just before. She felt a panic at this, instantly forgetting any prior feelings of goodwill toward her fellow ICP fans. She didn’t want her shoes to be removed. She really didn’t want that.
She wriggled and squirmed, trying to drop herself to the ground and evade the grabbing hands, but she remained aloft, unable to exert influence on her increasingly desperate situation. She was stuck in the air and her shoes were being removed against her will.
Suddenly her right shoe popped off her slender socked foot, and almost immediately the left followed suit. She heard cheers around her, cheers directed not at the stage but at her situation. She felt vulnerable without her bulky skate shoes, being accustomed to their protection and wearing them wherever she went.
But now they were gone and her dainty socked feet were being handled by a mob of unseen, unknown Juggalos. She hated the feeling, knowing how many strangers were touching her heels and arches in order to pass her along in the air. All the hands were so brusque, so uninhibited, and Chloe yelled at the people below her to put her down, to give her back her shoes. They only laughed and continued to pass her along.
Chloe was about to yell again, this time more stridently, when she felt her thin ankle socks begin to slip down toward her heels.
At this her voice caught in her throat and she fell to involuntary silence. Oh my god, she thought, my socks are coming loose.
It was a basic observation, but it was the only one she could muster—and on top of that it was true. Some of the anonymous hands had dislodged Chloe’s socks, and now they were coming off. This cannot be happening, she thought, this CANNOT be happening!
She was thrashing now, trying more desperately to come free, but the hands seemed to be gripping ever more tightly, as if they had recognized Chloe’s struggle and were now hellbent on prolonging it—even delighting in it.
A drunken sense of play could account for some of this delight, but there was something else too: a sadistic malice, a yearning to humiliate. At some point the Juggalos had become attuned to Chloe’s anxiety, and now they wanted to see it peak. They wanted to bring it to a peak.
And so, as Chloe continued to scream and struggle, the hands below her were joined by others, and soon these were slipping fingers under the elastic bands of her socks, pulling down and away as she clenched her toes and tried to keep them in place. She wailed, pleaded, and writhed, but her effort was futile—and soon she felt the fabric of each sock slide along her skin and then beyond her stretching, curling toes.
Chloe was now completely barefoot.
She felt a heat of embarrassment course through her body, knowing her pale feet were so totally exposed. She had never been comfortable without shoes and socks, and her Juggalette lifestyle—with its vaguely gothic dress code of ratty skate shoes or heavy boots—had accorded with her innate desire to conceal her feet, to never have them out in public. But now the very subculture to which she belonged, with whom she had felt such camaraderie, had forced her into this humiliating position.
Her humiliation was not complete, however, because suddenly she felt a tickling at her soles.
She yelped and tried to lunge away, but as before she was held fast. What were these Juggalos doing? Surely they weren’t… ?
But they were, and soon an assortment of Juggalo fingers were skittering along her tender soles, driving her into fits of bucking bronco body laughter.
It had been years since she’d been tickled, and she couldn’t remember ever being tickled on her feet, so the sensation was both unfamiliar and unnerving. She laughed and laughed as her feet wiggled and danced, as merciless nails dragged in random patterns along her soles.
There were so many fingers, so much sensation against Chloe’s soft sensitive skin. The crowd felt like a many-fingered demon, clutching and fondling and tickling as she screamed. Sweat poured from her body in the humid summer heat, and tears ran down her cheeks, making tracks through the face paint she wore.
As the thumping beats and staccato vocals of Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope continued on in the background, Chloe realized she had entered her own Dark Carnival, where a mind-melting mix of whimsy and cruelty could not be ignored, only endured.
Yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to withstand such “fun and frivolity” for much longer. Even now her muscles were slackening and her will was draining. Soon she would succumb entirely to the torture and simply pass out from exhaustion.
But just then, right as she was perched on the very edge of oblivion, something changed in the ticklish patterns being applied to her soles. Suddenly there were only two hands where before there had been many, and these hands were not tickling her at all. They were merely grasping her heels, holding them with surety and even a bit of care.
This unexpected alteration roused Chloe from her fatigue and dismay, and with some effort she strained to look down the length of her body, to see who was there at her feet.
It was Rowdy.
For a moment Chloe saw him as a light at the end of the tunnel, and she felt a dawning relief at being delivered to safety.
But then Rowdy grinned a clownish grin—a wicked, lustful grin that caressed Chloe’s body with malign delicacy. Then he brought his fingers to her soles, and as Chloe felt the unendurable pleasure of his tickling, she experienced the truest expression of Clown Love, the final stop on her journey to Shangri-La.
It was fun to immerse herself in a world distinct from—while fundamentally related to—her own bleak surroundings, and very quickly she began to feel a new vim for life, perhaps even the stirrings of a spiritual awakening. Soon she was hanging out at a Juggalo specialty shop, immersing herself in the culture and customs of the Insane Clown Posse fandom. Before long she made friends, and while it was a male-dominated community, she felt oddly comfortable around these misfits and outcasts. They were grubby and uncouth, but proud of it—which made them unlike her family and erstwhile friends, who wallowed in the misery of their squalid lives. Chloe felt a burst of excitement to discover people who were choosing to live, and who were doing so with some measure of personal expressivity.
She especially enjoyed the distinct appearance adopted by so many in the subculture, and she began to style herself in that particular fashion—especially for shows or gatherings. On such occasions she’d slip on her custom ICP halter-top, wear her Hatchet Man earrings and lacy choker, and paint her face to resemble an evil clown. This accoutrement went well with her piercing green eyes and the green highlights in her long black hair, which she sometimes fashioned into pigtails under a black beanie. Black too were her buckle-strapped, high waisted denim shorts and Callicut Etnies, which she always wore with ankle socks. She looked the part, and while things often got grimy and muddy at the shows and gatherings, at least she knew she’d show up looking good.
At such events, her favorite Juggalo to tag along with was Rowdy, a gentle giant who had taken her under his wing, showed her a good time, and looked after her without being overbearing or expecting anything in return. Together they would attend the Dark Carnival-themed ICP events, enjoying the dizzying mix of horrorcore anthems, amusement park rides, backyard wrestling matches, wet t-shirt contests, raging bonfires, and incessant drinking.
On this night they were doing just that, along with some other friends, at an ICP show during the Great Milenko Tour.
It was summer and sweltering, the crowd sweaty with anticipation as they stood in darkness, eyes toward the stage. The energy was palpable, a simmering atmosphere of latent madness cloying to the skin.
Suddenly a voice cut through the air, piping and jaunty in the way of a carnival barker. At the same time the stage was illuminated, revealing a medley of circus tents and shrouded cages, all expressionistic and vaguely menacing.
“Ladies and Gentleman!” announced the voice, nearly drowned out by the crowd’s electric cheer. “Welcome to the greatest spectacle in history! The most exciting exhibit in mankind! The one and only! The wickedest show on earth! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to…The Carnival of Carnage!”
The crowd roared its approval and Chloe, standing next to Rowdy, felt the ground shake beneath her feet.
“Yes, my friends, get ready! For you, the lucky ones in this very building, are about to experience the thrills and chills, the comedy, the tragedy, the ups and downs of the mighty wicked clowns!”
The crowd cheered, becoming increasingly boisterous. Chloe could barely see the stage through the frenzied shaking and drunken revelry of the bodies before her, so she asked Rowdy to put her on his shoulders, which he did without question or delay as the voice piped on.
“So step right up, come closer, don’t be afraid! Approach the stage—for who knows, if you’re lucky you might even get… a pie in your fuckin’ face, motherfucker!”
At this the crowd released an ear-shattering scream, one that mingled with the circus music now being played through the loudspeakers. The music ran for a few moments and then cut out, along with all the lights.
“Are you dooooooown with the cloooooooown?!”
At last Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope appeared on stage, loosed from two shrouded cages by a group of cavorting carnies. As their fans went wild, they began the set with “The Show Must Go On,” and from there made their way through the ICP catalogue, whipping the crowd into a frenzy and breaking occasionally to spray liters of Rock & Rye-flavored Faygo onto everyone in the first few rows.
Chloe was enraptured by the music and display, and she felt herself being transported into another realm—a darker realm, one full of twisted funhouse mirrors and wanton violence, but a realm in which she felt sensitive to the people around her, alive to their sorrows, pleasures, and ambitions. She realized how much she shared with them, how much she had always shared with them, and this gave her a buzz of belonging that grew and grew as the show went on.
It reached a crescendo about a half-hour in, when Violet J announced the fifth Joker’s Card. The crowd went insane, even more so than before, and their raucous energy only increased as the next three songs (“How Many Times?,” “Boogie Woogie Wu,” and “Toy Box”) were played.
From afar, the crowd might have appeared to be a single seething entity; but from within it was violent, impulsive madness as people pushed and punched with heedless abandon, their elbows flying and jaws cracking. Some leapt up and were carried aloft the mass, crowd-surfing for a brief spell before being thrown back to the ground in a crumpled heap. Wherever she looked, Chloe saw jumping, jamming Juggalos, and as she swayed perilously on Rowdy’s shoulders she began to feel an intoxicating oneness with the energy here, a comfort with its brutal ebbs and flows. Swept up in this ecstasy, she suddenly lifted her shirt and flashed the stage, releasing a celebratory yell along with her bare breasts.
In this moment she felt free and easy, caring little for the norms of decency or morality, and following her vulgar display she found herself filled with confidence and a devil-may-care attitude. Grinning widely, still tapped into the crowd’s energy, she yelled a sudden desire down to Rowdy:
“I want to crowd-surf!”
He nodded as if it were the natural progression of things, and without a word he took her from his shoulders and held her horizontal, then passed her over to nearby fellow Juggalos—and so Chloe found herself being passed along, riding a wave of straining arms and hands, moving with fits and starts away from Rowdy, at first vaguely toward the stage and then suddenly in the opposite direction. She was at the mercy of the wave, and knew its whims could not be influenced or anticipated.
Rather than anxiety, she discovered in her indeterminable fate a kind of bliss. She enjoyed being passed from hand to hand, never seeing the specific people who held her but still somehow knowing them—knowing they were kin, knowing she was part of a shared community that eagerly supported its own. To Chloe, this moment of physical support seemed a manifestation of the spiritual reinforcement she had received since breaking from her boring life and finding this new world. She was literally riding high, and felt that nothing could break through her mood of blissful ecstasy.
But then she felt her shoe loosen.
Somebody was grabbing her right shoe. And now her left as well!
Her black Etnies, the shoes she always wore to concerts, the shoes she always wore period—they were being taken from her by the same anonymous hands that had supported her just before. She felt a panic at this, instantly forgetting any prior feelings of goodwill toward her fellow ICP fans. She didn’t want her shoes to be removed. She really didn’t want that.
She wriggled and squirmed, trying to drop herself to the ground and evade the grabbing hands, but she remained aloft, unable to exert influence on her increasingly desperate situation. She was stuck in the air and her shoes were being removed against her will.
Suddenly her right shoe popped off her slender socked foot, and almost immediately the left followed suit. She heard cheers around her, cheers directed not at the stage but at her situation. She felt vulnerable without her bulky skate shoes, being accustomed to their protection and wearing them wherever she went.
But now they were gone and her dainty socked feet were being handled by a mob of unseen, unknown Juggalos. She hated the feeling, knowing how many strangers were touching her heels and arches in order to pass her along in the air. All the hands were so brusque, so uninhibited, and Chloe yelled at the people below her to put her down, to give her back her shoes. They only laughed and continued to pass her along.
Chloe was about to yell again, this time more stridently, when she felt her thin ankle socks begin to slip down toward her heels.
At this her voice caught in her throat and she fell to involuntary silence. Oh my god, she thought, my socks are coming loose.
It was a basic observation, but it was the only one she could muster—and on top of that it was true. Some of the anonymous hands had dislodged Chloe’s socks, and now they were coming off. This cannot be happening, she thought, this CANNOT be happening!
She was thrashing now, trying more desperately to come free, but the hands seemed to be gripping ever more tightly, as if they had recognized Chloe’s struggle and were now hellbent on prolonging it—even delighting in it.
A drunken sense of play could account for some of this delight, but there was something else too: a sadistic malice, a yearning to humiliate. At some point the Juggalos had become attuned to Chloe’s anxiety, and now they wanted to see it peak. They wanted to bring it to a peak.
And so, as Chloe continued to scream and struggle, the hands below her were joined by others, and soon these were slipping fingers under the elastic bands of her socks, pulling down and away as she clenched her toes and tried to keep them in place. She wailed, pleaded, and writhed, but her effort was futile—and soon she felt the fabric of each sock slide along her skin and then beyond her stretching, curling toes.
Chloe was now completely barefoot.
She felt a heat of embarrassment course through her body, knowing her pale feet were so totally exposed. She had never been comfortable without shoes and socks, and her Juggalette lifestyle—with its vaguely gothic dress code of ratty skate shoes or heavy boots—had accorded with her innate desire to conceal her feet, to never have them out in public. But now the very subculture to which she belonged, with whom she had felt such camaraderie, had forced her into this humiliating position.
Her humiliation was not complete, however, because suddenly she felt a tickling at her soles.
She yelped and tried to lunge away, but as before she was held fast. What were these Juggalos doing? Surely they weren’t… ?
But they were, and soon an assortment of Juggalo fingers were skittering along her tender soles, driving her into fits of bucking bronco body laughter.
It had been years since she’d been tickled, and she couldn’t remember ever being tickled on her feet, so the sensation was both unfamiliar and unnerving. She laughed and laughed as her feet wiggled and danced, as merciless nails dragged in random patterns along her soles.
There were so many fingers, so much sensation against Chloe’s soft sensitive skin. The crowd felt like a many-fingered demon, clutching and fondling and tickling as she screamed. Sweat poured from her body in the humid summer heat, and tears ran down her cheeks, making tracks through the face paint she wore.
As the thumping beats and staccato vocals of Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope continued on in the background, Chloe realized she had entered her own Dark Carnival, where a mind-melting mix of whimsy and cruelty could not be ignored, only endured.
Yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to withstand such “fun and frivolity” for much longer. Even now her muscles were slackening and her will was draining. Soon she would succumb entirely to the torture and simply pass out from exhaustion.
But just then, right as she was perched on the very edge of oblivion, something changed in the ticklish patterns being applied to her soles. Suddenly there were only two hands where before there had been many, and these hands were not tickling her at all. They were merely grasping her heels, holding them with surety and even a bit of care.
This unexpected alteration roused Chloe from her fatigue and dismay, and with some effort she strained to look down the length of her body, to see who was there at her feet.
It was Rowdy.
For a moment Chloe saw him as a light at the end of the tunnel, and she felt a dawning relief at being delivered to safety.
But then Rowdy grinned a clownish grin—a wicked, lustful grin that caressed Chloe’s body with malign delicacy. Then he brought his fingers to her soles, and as Chloe felt the unendurable pleasure of his tickling, she experienced the truest expression of Clown Love, the final stop on her journey to Shangri-La.
