He was so tired. So damn tired of the fighting.

He was so tired. So damn tired of the fighting. He had been stuck in the mud and rain for what feels like weeks. Constant shelling filled the air with smoke. Those foster kids...

needed their Bozo the Clown. He weaved through the trenches hoping the razor wire wouldm't cut his polyester polka dots. He entered the bombed-out orphanage. "Hey, Kids!" "BOZO!"

The kids were quiet but smiling from ear-to-ear when he left them. He never regretted taking the assignment with "Clowns without Borders" even with the risks of entering a warzone

armed with naught but a squirt gun. He moved quickly from crater to crater, explosions bracketing him as he moved. Holding his rainbow wig, he dove behind some rubble when

shrapnel tore through his big red squeaky nose and caused his bow tie to spin. He knew this was the end: the world had declared war on clowns, and he was the only one left. Nothing

must end the flow of flying pies! A mob encircled him and, defiant, he squeaked a war-horn in their faces. He tore a floppy shoe from his feet and

blew his whistle. Suddenly a minature car flew around the corner and colorful misfits spilled out, each one armed with fierce baloon weapons, determined to win the fight.

"Crap!" Nelson shouted. "The Sane Clown Posse is here. And they're armed!" His platoon dropped back, as balloons began to fall around them. The loud bangs of popping rubber

were heard for miles 'round, as they were filled with a deadly neurotoxin which caused brave Captain Nelson's men to scream at the top of their lungs in agony as they died slowly.