Bring on the Clowns
by Gary Clifton
“Break left, Smokey! Left, left, dammit!”
“Smokey” Tom Wafer, a husky, graying rodeo bullfighter-clown, had turned to the young rider. The bull, Lucifer, bred as hornless, had two-inch deformed horns extending from his four-inch “scurs” or clumps of scabby, bone-hard tissue where horns normally grew. The result was two ugly six-inch deadly weapons with which he intended to kill the kid he’d just thrown.
Smokey, twenty years a bull ring brawler and his partner — muscular, handsome Todd “Hoss” Martin — were signed with a barebones rodeo out of Dallas.
Both complained when the boss bought the battered cull. Rodeo bulls, usually female and part Brahman for their jumping tendencies, occasionally learn ring routine. An experienced bull can be deadly.
* * *
Red Elrod, rodeo manager, tall, fortyish, with a permanent forward stoop, sighed. “Boys, we ain’t got another bull or any cash to buy more. Hell, we ain’t got three hunnert ticketed nesters out there. Ain’t sure we got money to pay this farmer’s land fee or to meet the payroll. Got no barrel men tonight.”
Smokey said, “No matter, Red, that monster’s gonna kill somebody. He’s gotta go.”
“Boys, we gotta use him tonight. First thing tomorrow, I’ll put him down and call the dead wagon. Stay square tonight; nothin’ fancy.” He looked at his watch. “It’s show time, boys. Barrel riders are already up.”
As they jogged to the makeshift arena in clown garb, a whiskey-hoarse female voice shouted, “Smokey... Hoss, I’ll be a-waitin’!” A well-worn blonde, thirties going on sixty, waylaid them. She walked unsteadily on the rough ground in her pink, high-heeled boots and not quite matching pink miniskirt. “Then we can party in my trailer. Night cap... or three.” She tittered. In rodeo parlance, she was a Buckle Bunny, a groupie who pursued rodeo cowboys.
Smokey nodded. “We gotta go. See ya out front.” They jogged on.
Hoss said, “Don’t remember her name.”
“Jes’ call her ‘Babe.’ At least we’ll sleep inside tonight.”
“Ain’t sure I don’t prefer my truck bed.” Hoss puffed on.
* * *
The flaccid crowd booed a roper when his throw missed his calf. A saddle bronc rider was hurled back into the bucking chute, knocking it down. But when the bull riders came on, the crowd stood to watch.
One rider of the first five made the eight seconds. The other four bit the dust. Smokey and Hoss beat, kicked, waved their baggy pants and otherwise tempted disaster in distracting the angry giants. The flank strip, the soft rope tied around the bulls’ stomachs to encourage jumping, was close to the sensitive area that night.
Smokey and Hoss, tired, bathed in sweat, and concerned by Red’s no-pay suggestion, tensed up when Lucifer came up in the chute. After several minutes of thrashing inside, they heard the kid rider’s standard call: “Outside.”
Lucifer, red eyes matching his namesake and promising violent mayhem, came out spinning. He immediately bashed his rider into the arena fence and, in another spin, tore the kid off like an insect. The kid had asked a cowboy to reach down into the chute and help cinch the hand flank rope a bit tighter. His hand was trapped tight as Lucifer dangled him around in a frenzied whiplash.
Hoss piled into Lucifer headfirst, drawing deadly attention away from the trapped rider. Smokey dashed in, grappled the kid’s hand free and began dragging the boy clear. Lucifer turned, cat-quick, enraged and anxious to kill.
It was then Hoss shouted, “Break left.” Lucifer was on Smokey’s left shoulder.
Too late, Smokey, agility fading with age, spun. One of Lucifer’s scur-horns caught him in the left kidney. Smokey went down. The raging monster gored him repeatedly. A frantic assault by Hoss and several cowboys finally drove the behemoth out of the arena.
Smokey never regained consciousness. The local doc said the kidney had burst. He died just before midnight. Word spread: the Colossus was dead.
Hoss led, collecting enough for a plain burial in the Delbert Cemetery.
* * *
With bullfighter jobs scarce, Hoss stayed on. The rodeo shut down for three days, then, desperate for cash, set up 50 miles north, in Smackerville. Red hired a clown from Tulsa who claimed to be bullfighter-ready. Hoss was skeptical, but when the first show opened, the clown was in the ring, clothes and makeup in place.
Hoss was horrified to see the first bull out was Lucifer, alive and nowhere near the dead wagon. There was no time to complain. The bull threw the kid rider in one second, then began to kill him on the arena floor. The new bullfighter fled.
Hoss and a few cowboys began frantically trying to drive the animal through the makeshift gate. Lucifer smashed the section of fence fronting the thin crowd of patrons. Hoss and company were helpless when the bull charged into the screaming crowd.
Suddenly, a husky clown appeared, a shiny broadaxe in hand. Had the new clown returned? He landed a full swing dead center in the monster’s head. Lucifer shook it off and gored his attacker. The clown kept his feet and delivered another overhead. The big animal staggered, sank to his knees, then rolled on his side, dead.
After a half hour of repairs and treating wounded, someone asked, “Where’s that bullfighter... the hero?”
“Hell, he beat a trail back to Tulsa.”
A local newsie held up his cellular. “I got a shot of the hero close up.”
Red, voice trembling, said, “Great God, that’s Smokey. I was a pallbearer... helped bury him over at Delbert three days ago.”
“Halleluiah!” the Pink Buckle Bunny shouted. “Smokey come back to settle scores!”
Red blurted, “He couldn’t ’a come back.”
“Damn sure did,” she said, “at least in spirit.”
Hoss stood off alone, head bowed.
“He hurt?” asked a cowboy.
Red said softly, “Either talkin’ with the Lord or with a ghost. Maybe both. Best leave him be.”
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Clifton
