[ CW ] Start the story with the sentence , `` Have you ever seen a clown that looked better with the make-up on ? ''

Have you ever seen a clown that looked better with the make-up on? Because I have. Growing up petrified of clowns, I never thought I would say yes to this. I could n't bear to look at their caked make-up and hyperbolic grin. It showed that they were not quite human, something was off. That's what my therapist said I was thinking at least. 
 But my therapist could n't help me with what happened under the boardwalk July 15th, 2008. It took traumatic to a whole new level. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer day in Wildwood New Jersey. By far the best beach town in the state, it has an incredible boardwalk. I was 16 at the time, and me, being the adventurous kid that I was, set out to find a way under the boardwalk. Covered with boards or concealed by sandy blockades, most entrances were closed up. I ventured north until I escaped the main strip, and that was where I found my way inside. 
 
 Entering it was Tardis-like. You did n't expect it to be this roomy from the outside. The sand dipped away below and then leveled out, allowing me to stand comfortably without my head reaching the wood above. I headed back south to the main strip, and this is where I ran into a problem. I ran into a homeless camp. Now, I have nothing against the homeless, but these were the types of hobos that chase you out of the woods with assorted weapons. 
 
 I try to tiptoe through, but many were still awake, and although they were doped up out of their minds, they managed to notice me. Hobo # 1 begins slurring something about my health, and hobo # 2 began to rise from the Home Depot barrel he was using as a chair. He spoke clearer than the first, and told me not to explore any deeper, because I might not like what I find. He told me that further down was Horace's territory. Horace was an ex-circus performer, who then did private parties as a clown before his long battle with alcoholism. 
 
 I was too confident in myself to stop there. Hobo # 1 slid me a knife and wished me luck. I swallowed hard and trooped onwards, by now everything was sandy. I felt shitty, but kept moving forward. 
 
 That was when I saw him. A stomach split-open with entrails dangling. A head with empty space where the eyes should be. Gore splattered everywhere. I am not afraid to admit it, I hurled. Everywhere. Even on poor old Horace's corpse. The image of his body laying *in*, not just on, but *in* the sand haunts me to this day. It was as if his lifeless husk of a body and the sand were one.
