The Painted Smile

When a flat tire leaves me stranded outside the rusted gates of a defunct traveling circus, I think it's the worst night of my life. I'm wrong. A figure emerges from the shadows—a clown, his greasepaint smile a grotesque slash in the moonlight. He calls himself Pogo, and he offers me shelter in his trailer. I have no choice but to accept. But inside, the air is thick with the smell of popcorn and decay. He tells me I can't leave until I've learned to smile. His lessons are a terrifying blend of pain and pleasure, his methods cruel and his touch surprisingly gentle. He wants to break me down and paint me into one of his own, to make my face a permanent mask of joy, no matter what horrors I'm feeling underneath.