Down to Clown

When you were younger, you'd never imagined how your career path would twist and turn in adulthood. Never in a million years could you have guessed that you would hold the dubious title of CLOWN ASSISTANT, but life had taken a very, very hard turn towards the unexpected when you found the job opening, putting you in the employ of the famed wonderland for clown fetishists, DOWN TO CLOWN.

To some folks-- the uncultured, perhaps-- an adult fun-fair full of clowns probably sounds like a nightmare. To you, it sounds like a sort of heaven. Others might be off-put by brightly colored wigs, rubber noses, painted faces, and a veritable rainbow of bizarre costumes, but these sorts of things have been on your mind ever since you hit the age of 18. To be frank, it turns you on just seeing a clown, let alone the sort that this place employs. This is an attraction for adults, meaning that the hundred-or-so clowns that staff this place are bodacious babes, the kind that wouldn't look out of place on magazine covers or porn shoots-- they just happen to be dolled up as clowns. A double score, as far as you're concerned!

You try to rip your eyes off of the many pairs of tits, barely restrained by long leather suspenders, and the many-colored tights fit snug on shapely legs, as you make your way towards the office of the so-called CLOWN ASSISTANT MANAGER. Is that a job path you might look into in the future? Perhaps! You can't imagine anybody here is more into clowns than you are.

When you enter into the room, your face falls, replacing your sunny grin with a look of disdain. You're upset at two new developments.

The first: a giant sign hanging at the back of the manager's otherwise surprisingly official-looking office. It reads "DON'T FUCK THE CLOWNS." As soon as the man behind the desk spots you, he taps the sign with two fingers, as if he noticed your over-enthusiastic expression.

The second: the manager himself. The "himself" part is already a bit of an annoyance. Just your luck that the first person you'd speak to here would be one of the staff's few other male employees. This guy looks uptight as hell, with his blond hair parted and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He's wearing the same pink uniform shirt with "DOWN TO CLOWN" written on the chest, purple bowtie, and bright purple slacks, but he somehow manages to look extremely unapproachable and unfriendly, in spite of all the colors.

The nameplate on the desk calls him Theodore. He taps it next, in lieu of an actual introduction. It seems he plans to keep this brief. He doesn't even gesture at the room's other seat, instead expecting you to remain standing.

"Here's the rules rookie. Each clown here at the Down has an Assistance Bell. If you hear that bell, you go running and you do whatever it takes to make her happy," the man explains in a smooth, no-nonsense voice. When he notices a smile starting to form on your face, he taps the sign again. "That means work, rookie. The clowns here have a job to do, entertaining paying customers. Don't get in their way. You're just here to help them."

He turns in his chair, watching you with a side eye, then hits the sign hard with the knuckles of one fist. "This rule is the only other one. If you don't do anything else, stick to this one: do not fuck the clowns. I mean it. You're going to be tempted, poor bastard. You may think this place is the Garden of Eden, but sample that forbidden fruit and your ass is out of here. This whole place only works because we assistants do not fuck the clowns. You understand me?"

You gingerly nod your head. If this place-- a paradise for clown fuckers-- isn't a safe place to fuck a clown, then where on this earth is? You feel profoundly empty as you leave the office with your head slouched and your arms to your side.

The manager hadn't told you that you'd be meeting anyone else, but to your surprise, there's someone waiting outside. It turns out to be yet another guy. This just keeps getting worse! The man is a bit repulsive looking, mostly because his uniform really doesn't match his age. He looks terribly old, with deep crags running all through his skin and thick, bottlecap glasses. He's got a white goatee and otherwise bald head. Worst of all, he's wearing a huge grin, showing off two rows of dentures, the top of which has one gold tooth. "The name's Donatello! Hey kid, you're uh... what's your name... Katapashikara? Nah, that ain't it. It's Bowie, right? I got it!" he chuckles, clapping his hands to congratulate himself.

He seems exhausting, but at least he's friendlier than the last guy. Just as you decide you don't mind shadowing him for the day, he gives you some more surprising news.

"I got just one thing to tell ya about before I let you loose, kid, and it's gonna be the most important thing you learn all day. You listenin'?"

You nod.

"Ya can fuck the clowns. You can do it! Guy like you, young, virile? They'll be all over ya in no time!"

Your spirits lift. Your face lights up! "How?" you ask, with eagerness dripping from your shaking voice.

"These gals wanna fuck about as much as you do, but the way things work around here, they're the goddesses and we're the commoners, capiche? If you wanna fuck em, you gotta win their favor first. It's like the way things work on the outside, just way faster," Donatello chuckles, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully with one terrifyingly skinny hand, covered in gold rings. "Here's the skinny: when a clown likes ya, she'll give ya a business card. That business card's got her name and number on it. You call that number and you're set. You two'll meet up somewhere the overlord don't know about and go to town. That's how things work here in the Down. Every single clown girl here is in on it."

You can't believe what you're hearing... This is amazing! It's not just a place where you might fuck a clown. It's a place where you will, apparently, have the opportunity to fuck a hundred of them!

"So work extra hard while you're not off or on ya break! Answer as many of them bells as ya can! You'll be swimmin' in clussy and tradin' paint with more clowns than ya can shake a stick at in no time!"

You grab the man's hand and shake it. You can't wait to get started. Curious, you ask him if he's going after clowns himself. Isn't he worried about the competition?

"Bah ha ha! My clown-hound days are behind me, kid, if ya can't tell," he guffaws. "You got a way with the compliments! Good, good, they'll like that. Well, most of 'em. Save it for the clowns, alright? Now, let me tell ya what it really takes to succeed here at the Down, in all the ways that you wanna succeed, that is."

The man holds up four fingers and begins to count down. "First, your stamina! There's only so much you can do in a day, be it work or somethin' else, ya get me? To refill this, try resting at your room. Next is your guts. You can think of it as your courage, your social battery, whatever you want. Ya gotta be daring to do the kinda work they ask ya to do here, and that'll drain on ya after a while. Again, just sleep if ya start feelin' low on spirit. Next is self-restraint. It's kinda like the opposite of guts-- sometimes, it pays to keep it in your pants, basically. If ya run out of self-restraint, ya might find yourself doin' somethin' stupid. Again, rest is the magic bullet. Finally, and this one's a little different, ya need wealth. This is the one that you can't fix by sleepin'-- it's actually the other way around. The boss takes money outta your paycheck every night ya sleep here. So if ya want to make sure you don't run broke, be sure to do some work every now and again, capiche?"

When he finishes, the old man claps one hand to your back and flashes you another gleaming, unnaturally white grin. "Got all that? It sounds like a lot, but just keep this in mind: as long as you keep up a nice work/life balance, ya ain't got nothin' to worry about. Now that said, if ya run out of stamina, guts, or self restraint, you'll find yourself unable to make certain choices ya might want to. You can wanna fuck those clowns harder than any clown-fucker that ever lived, but if you're dead on your feet, it ain't happenin'. If you start to run out of wealth, it might mean ya can't afford ya room... then you have to go talk to the boss for a loan. That's about the most mortifyin' experience ya can ever have, so make sure it don't happen."

You thank the surprisingly genial old man, shaking his hand one more time before turning your back on him. As you begin to run off like Charlie with a golden ticket to Wonka's factory, you wonder at the last second if he might have some advice on where to start in the park. However, when you turn around to look for Donatello... he's completely vanished. Like a ghost. Or a guardian angel...

The glow of bright lights, the scent of marvelous foods, and the laughter of a hundred clowns calls to you! Also, honking horns and blaring bells more literally call to you. Now is the time to blatantly disregard your superior's orders and follow the ramblings of an old guy who seems like he may have been a figment of your imagination! It's time to get out there and fuck a clown!

((Welcome to Down to Clown!

This is a story where game-mode is optional. This means that you can either read it without game-mode on, enjoying all of the content with no restrictions, or you can turn on game mode to forge your own career and relationships as a Clown Assistant! To activate game mode, use the "Start Game" feature at the top right of the page.

Cover art by me!))