“What the fuck do you Dicks want?” asked Gonzmo the Gleeman as the Group of Six Richards approached and then surrounded him.  The six men did not offer a reply, instead, they closed in upon him and began to beat him savagely right there on the city sidewalk.

The Auguste Clown fought back as best he could, swinging his purple and green parasol in wide arcs, attempting to keep his attackers at bay, but to limited effect as six against one was a fight even more lopsided than Gonzmo’s itty-bitty yellow hat.

Soon, even the broad base of his big red shoes wasn’t enough to keep Gonzmo upright and he went down onto the cracked pavement in a heap and the Group of Six moved in tightly and continued to viciously wail away at the hapless buffoon.

Suddenly, there came the sound of rubber tires squealing, accompanied by the unmistakable blaring notes of the Circus March Theme, as played on a steam organ, and a tiny white car with a red and blue polka-dot paint scheme came barreling down the otherwise empty street towards the seven figures engaged in the brawl.  Mounted on the roof of the car was a miniature calliope, the source of the music.  The car itself rode on four white-rimmed wheels, each mounting a tire of slightly different diameters, which caused the vehicle to shimmy and wobble as it sped closer to the scene of the attack.

The little automobile screeched to a halt and the coupe’s two doors slammed open and, as the music continued to play, the Flip Murder Squad began to stream out onto the road.

With a howl and a bonk!, the first member of the Squad sproinged into the melee, unleashing mirth and mayhem upon the scene.

One after another after another after another after another after another after another after another after another after another after another, the others in the car followed suit and joined the intensified combat, with the last to emerge grinning widely as he brandished his new plastic halberd and stepped forward.

Cackles, giggles and animalistic screams of pain and desperation echoed and bounced off the brick-and-mortar walls of the surrounding buildings as the now outnumbered Six Richards found themselves in a fight for survival.

But, as with Gonzmo just a few short minutes earlier, the sheer numbers outweighed all other factors and the Clowns prevailed.

As the fighting ebbed, so too did the music slow to an end, the last notes dying in the slight breeze as the last of the Six died on the pavement.

All was quiet for a few moments, except for the labored breathing of the exhausted victors – martial exertions take a toll, even upon the winners – and then the few uninjured members of the Squad slowly trudged back to their vehicle, placing their dead in the trunk, helping the walking wounded to gently get inside and only then re-entering themselves.

Batty Roy, still standing on the grey sidewalk, used his puffy sleeve to wipe a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth, looked down at the still forms of the vanquished foes and then he harked up a big gob from deep within his lungs and spat it onto the ground beside the nearest battered body; the viscous glob splattered on the concrete, creating an interesting little pattern in the colors of infective sputum and strawberry jam.

“Fucking Dicks,” he muttered, and then turned and strode back to the car.

The horn of the small vehicle sounded a high-pitched, ‘Meep!  Meep!’, to no one in particular and the car sped unevenly away.