My name is Emma, and I'm petit bourgeois.

My name is Emma, and I'm petit bourgeois.

& my pantaloons felt grossly warm and wet. By the time I came back to reality, my painting I had been working on turned out 2 be a creepy, hysterical clown. It was mocking me, so I

threw a tarp over it. I'd had it up to *here* with creepy clowns. I'd just returned from Capt. Spaulding's, so I felt like I'd had the bejeezus scared out of me enough for one day.

To help me relax I put on a little night music. "Isn't it rich? Are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air.Send in the clowns..." Capt. Spaulding followed me home

to ensure I didn't pick up any streetclowns on the way. It was kind of him, very citizenly in this age of police cynicism. He understood weird addictions; Capt. Spaulding himself

had a way about him that suggested one. The story of it was notably imposed on me, one morning when I was coming back home in his squad car. He started the conversation calmly, by

deep inhalation through the nose, focusing on his breath, then uttering one word at a time. It was maddening. While he was calm it made all of us cops insane.

<deep breath> "The <noisy exhale> suspect <deep breath> has <exhale> been <deep breath> identified" <exhale> said the chief. Me and the cops were all getting antsy in our chairs

. "It's <gasp> IT"S." The chief grabbed at his chest and stumbled over backward from a heart attack. Behind us, a black robed figure with a sythe stepped forward. "IT"S ME."