Episode 9 – Les larmes d'un clown | Guy Strange| Motel Disco Mbob – A Dark Comedy Podcast |Film noir parody. - Motel Disco Mbob.

What happens when the mask finally slips and the man behind it doesn't like what he sees?

Guy Strange has always been good at hiding. Behind paranoid eyes, bizarre identities, sharp-tongued observations and the familiar walls of his beloved motel. But a chance encounter with someone from his past delivers a devastating blow to his already fragile self-esteem.

An unexpected act of kindness exposes a side of Guy he desperately wants to keep hidden. Suddenly, his dreams of escape, his new friendship with Finto and his carefully constructed identities begin to unravel.

Is Guy finally confronting the truth about himself, or retreating further into the safety of his own delusions?

Featuring self-loathing, unlikely friendships, misplaced generosity, literary references, paranoid reflections and a particularly unfortunate encounter at a New York taxi stand.

Tears of a Clown is a darkly comic journey into loneliness, identity and the uncomfortable business of being yourself.

A surreal mystery wrapped in a film noir parody, with sharp dark humour and a psychologically unsettling thriller edge.

Sometimes the saddest clown isn't wearing any makeup.

Transcribed automatically by PodView

Episode 9 I love my house, I love my nest In all the world, my nest is best I was thinking back to something that Fintan had said in the bar. You are today. Not yesterday and not tomorrow. Today. It might have been some bullshit she had read in a book or magazine or heard on a dumb radio show, but it stuck with me. It really did. It resonated with me for some reason. She also said that old Earl Grey had nothing on me. I was as dull as dishwater. That didn't resonate as much, that's for sure. Give with one hand and take with the other.

Cheers, Finto. Anyway, old Hot Wheels had said our chat had helped her also. I don't understand how. But she said I was hiding behind paranoid eyes. I need to live for the day. It sounded like a song lyric to me, and I don't know how I could do that. I am not being phony or anything. I really don't. We had arranged to meet the same time and day the following week. I wasn't chasing this dame or anything. She wouldn't be interested in no fatty boom-boom with a face like a blind cobbler's thumb, a burst balloon with chat as bland as treacle.

I just enjoyed the company. It was good to have someone to talk to that wasn't fed up with my ways. Yet, it made a change. I was actually looking forward to it. It gave me a purpose. It really did. Mindfulness, I think they call it. That's what old Professor Rose had called it. I remember that for sure. Maybe I could show Finto the picture I made for the old Professor Rose. I was proud of that picture. It spoke to me somehow. It was a picture of me in a strange way. It really was. It wouldn't get hung in no gallery or museum full of phonies or anything.

But it meant a lot to me. Saying that, Finto would probably laugh out loud at it, look down on it, tear it apart artistically. She really would. She could be rough as a badger's arse with her chat. Swore like a docker seeing a banana for the first time, too. But it suited her. It wouldn't suit everyone, that's for sure. Anyway, I don't want you thinking that I opened up to Finto. I didn't. I wouldn't do that. I didn't give her the keys to the old motel. That was mine. I shared tales of my illness.

Nothing else. Nothing more. She still didn't know my real name, or about the silver coins. She was happy using Guy Strange as my monica. She didn't know about the library, the pen, Quebec, American submarines, Russian Klondikers, or basking sharks. She didn't need to know. Why would she? And why would she give a brass dime about any of it? I don't think she put a lot of ice on my other identities. old private investigator Matt Black, etc. Not worth a hill of cold beans or a bucket of warm piss to the Finto.

She shot the breeze about her issues. Blowed smoke up my ass about that. But there was a crossover and a connection in a lot of stupid areas. There really was. But she didn't go too deep. It wasn't woe is me or anything. Just facts. Just difficulties. The hatchet had spoken to me often, in stupid groups or on my own. But I didn't get anything from it. The old ice tits hadn't lived my experiences. Miss Finton had in some way. Maybe Nurse Ratchet wasn't all bad, but there was little connection. No synergy with the disingenuous Aardvark Dame.

Anyone could see, I would beat her hands down in a run-up a flight of stairs, even though I walked like a stoned penguin with a broken leg. But there were other things as well. Things I could relate to. Perhaps that's where the synergy came from. Similar shared experiences. As I have already said, she was the dog shit, and I was the paper bag Made sense in my head anyway It sure did But I still didn know what the old Finto needed from me that for sure I still had to puzzle that one out I really did So I pondered over scenarios during the long wee, dark hours.

Anyway, I don't like to be late. But I turned up half an hour early. Four, instead of half four. I couldn't go in till half four, could I? What would I do to kill the time? There were boxes piled up beside a trash can. My legs were painful after the journey, so I flattened a box, put it on the ground against a wall around the corner and sat down. It was beside a taxi stand, but out of sight of Finto's bar. I hunched my legs up as it was getting cold. It really was. My stick lay on the ground in front of me.

To be honest, I got a bit bored really quickly. I didn't know what to do to kill time. So what did old guy do? I balanced my stick on my forehead. I was getting real good at it now, that's for sure. It takes more concentration than you may think. I was in my own wee world. A place that I like to be in. Anyway, you will never believe this. Some dude dropped a dollar down at my feet. He didn't say a word. He just walked on. What was that all about? I wasn't a performing seal or a dancing bear. say.

Do you know they used to heat the floor of the cages up to make the bears dance? People thought it was because of the minstrel's music, but it really wasn't. It was the hot floor and under the old bear's feet. How clever was that? Anyway, I wasn't a bum, at least not yet anyway. So I ignored this dude and carried on. I was in the zone. I was enjoying it. But then more people added to the pot. They really did. I still can't believe that. I wasn't sure what to think. Was it because I was a bum or a performer?

Probably a mixture of both, to be honest. But leaning more to the bum. But in twenty minutes, old guy had made three dollars plus some shrapnel. I would have to analyze this later. I had a meeting to go to. With a hot Colleen in her carriage. Old Finto. I didn't want to be late. I had to be on time. I was struggling to get up off the ground where I had been sitting, legs stiff as boards. Next thing I know, someone offers me their hand, asking, Do you need a hand, Mr. Strange? How are you doing? We have missed your visits to the library.

We thought that you were away in Quebec. You are looking well. I didn't know you used a stick guy. Are you okay? That hit me like a goddamn guided missile. It hurt like a crazy missile too. It tore right through me. It cut me in two. Cut me to the bone. They had enjoyed my visits. They had. But now she had seen me at my lowest. I wasn't a big shot going to Quebec, learning French. I was begging on the sidewalk at a taxi stand with a stick. I never made it off the ground. I couldn't. This broke me.

I hunched down with my head in my hands and cried. I cried, blubbering like a goddamn child. I couldn't stop. I couldn't look up. I couldn't look at the library dame. It would break her to see me like this. So I didn't move. I didn't speak. She was asking if everything was okay. She knelt down beside me and held my hand. The library dame did that. She really did. This dame was an angel, that's for sure. This angel asked for someone to call an ambulance. One of the taxi drivers who had got out of his cab to see the commotions said, Leave him.

Just a drunken bum. Wasting your time. Sidewalk is where he belongs. Can you believe that? He was bald. In my limited experience, just over 55% of taxi drivers in New York were bald. That's quite high. But he was right. My angel told him to bolt. To disappear. I reached out my hand. My angel helped me up. The crowd dispersed, disappointed that I wasn't dying or nothing. I said, Sorry, it's not what it seems. It really isn't. I've got to go. I can thank you enough but everything is good You get along I will be fine I was still sobbing at the horror but also the beauty I grabbed my stick and stumbled away The angel let me go She could see that I was embarrassed I was embarrassed.

Mortified. I wish she had never seen me like this. I was a fraud, a phony, a no-good, no-purpose loser, a liability, a burden. She shouted after me, You have forgotten the money guy. Keep it, I said. Thanks for your help. I meant it. I just wanted to be back at the pen, back at my nest, where I could shake my head violently whenever a recollection of this horrible event fought to enter my mind. I would blink violently. I would twist my arms. I would balance my stick. I would ask Nurse Ratchet for medication.

I would tell Cruella I was back. Sign me in, please. Make sure I am safe. I had thought I didn't need them anymore. But I did. I would beg for their help. I need their help right now. I didn't want this recollection, ever. I needed a room at the very back of my motel for this one. And a strong lock. Hatchet could help me with this. She had before. She really had. I don't know how I got back to the pen, but I was cold and wet. Shivering. Tired. Sore. Very stiff and sore. So, my meeting with Hot Wheels didn't happen.

I stood her up. Can you believe that? I didn't want to. I was looking forward to seeing her. I had thought about her a lot in the long and weary nights. Not in a sleazy way. To chat with her. I had felt a chink of light with Finto. She might have helped me break away. To start anew. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I knew I couldn't leave. Maybe I was full of shit. A true phony. Maybe I would never leave. I hate phonies. Holden Caulfield. He was a true phony. He blew shit out his ass. He was never going out west to work in a dead-end job.

He sold us all a lie. He was always going home to money. I hate him for that lie. Hate him. Phony. Same as old keys popping on. Another liar. Phony. A killer. A crook. My ass. He gets robbed and falls to pieces. Phony. Full of bullshit. At least Ethan Hawley was true to his word. He didn't bottle it until it was too late. He followed it through. A hero. I was going to be true. I wasn't a phony. I wasn't going to pretend anymore. I belonged in the pen. I was a nobody. I really was. I ain't lying.

I ain't blowing shit no more. I now knew that the only way as I would leave the pen would be with a big, heavy chain and a large bottle of gut rot heading towards the Hudson. I would do it in the winter when it would be dark. I hated the cold. That would be the worst part. That's all that I dreaded. The cold. The dead, cold, watery grave. That's what I feared most. Not the dark, the cold. No wooden cross required. No hallowed ground. I hope the good Lord can find me on the last day. I really do.

He wasn't a phony. He followed it through to the end. He wasn't blowing out his holy ass. It's probably for the best. I know it's for the best. Finto didn't need a tangled, broken, dead weight like me in her life. No one does. I had grown to accept that, long ago. But I had forgotten in my ignorance. She would have realized that soon enough. It's just a shame I hadn't left her a potato. Not for Finto's sake, but for mine. For closure. She was a pretty dame. She really was. I thought about her a lot.

I might miss her for a while. A long while, maybe. I want to clear something up. To clarify something. I will be honest with you. I am not a bufty boy. Not light on my loafers. Or on the other buses, they say. I never cry. Never. Well, only on three separate occasions. For now. You don't need to know when or why. It's got nothing to do with you. It really doesn't. Sometimes with the old drink I can feel emotion Not always but sometimes It a strange feeling It really is I don want emotion It never comes on its own.

My mother read me a book when I was young, The Best Nest. The mother bird wasn't satisfied with her nest. She persuaded her husband to try different nests. Each one they tried was nicer, but always had a small issue. After trying four or five nests, the mother bird went back to her old nest. She appreciated it a lot more now. She loved her nest. That might be me with the pen. It really might be. So I have shaved my hair, back and sides, into the wood, a small quiff at the top. I was going to gym class on the dafty bus, playing the game.

I was back in my box, back where I belonged, only one way out now. It would be a wooden box soon enough. And if you are gone, let your song linger on In the heather, the rain and the air He's not coming, is he? What a shit. A total asshole. Nobody stands up, Fint and Fennessey. That no-good low-life bum. What an utter phony. Full of shit as usual. Where's that jukebox?

guitar solo I love my nest In all the world My nest is best Until next time, may your memories be kind, your candles burn brightly and your discombobulation remain manageable. Remember to like and subscribe and forward the Motel Disco and Bob tale to other like-minded people if there are any.

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