CLOWNPOCOLYPSE

In the dim, twisted haze of an imagined—or perhaps real—Clownpocalypse, the air reeks of greasepaint and despair. A man, his face etched with the sores of syphilis, grips a roaring chainsaw as his only salvation. The world around him has unraveled into a circus of chaos, where clowns with maniacal grins and blood-stained ruffles swarm the streets. This isn’t a dream; it feels too visceral, too alive with the cackle of painted lips and the thud of oversized shoes.

He stumbles through the wreckage, the chainsaw’s growl his heartbeat, cutting through the night. Between him and his redemption lies a stack of normies—bland, oblivious souls caught in the crossfire, their mundane chatter a stark contrast to the carnival horror. They clutch coffee cups and scroll phones, unaware of the painted menace closing in. To him, they’re obstacles, a human buffer slowing his rampage against the clowns.

Is this real? The question gnaws at him as he revs the blade, slicing through a clown’s garish costume, splattering neon confetti and something darker. The normies scatter, screaming, but the clowns keep coming—endless, multiplying, a plague of jesters. His salvation hinges on the chainsaw, its teeth tearing through flesh and fear alike. Syphilis burns in his veins, a cruel irony, yet the weapon in his hands feels like destiny. Real or not, this is his war, and the normies, the clowns, the world—they’re all part of the stage.