🚀 go-pugleaf

The Clown catches a deep, rasping breath, and gently crushes the head
of the cartoon mouse crouching between his legs.  "Is this all there
is?" he thinks.  He tries to clear his mind, then spots the blood on
his long, white fingers and absently wipes it on the silk sheets.  His
thoughts drift to his time, so long ago, at Hamburger U.; happy, halcyon
days, when he was just one of the boys, dreaming and scheming with
the others.  McCheese, brave and clear-headed, and the greasy, gangrenous
little fry-cook they'd christened the Hamburglar after he showed up in
Milkshake 206 one afternoon with Ray Kroc's push-up bra around his neck
like an ascot.  He thinks of the plans they made then, and of how they
all came true, and he thinks of the brilliant, joyous bursts of animal
clarity he'd been able to call forth almost at will; the last one almost
ten years ago now, fading to a black hum as he squatted over the
dismembered corpse of the bloated, flatulent ragdoll he'd called Wendy.
He knows it's slipping, careening wildly out of control, and none of it
means much to him anymore: not the money, not the power, not even the
mindless, poorly-animated groupies eager to share his every disease.
Still, he can't help but regret the shattered husk of McCheese, roaming
the halls in a sobbing stupor, calling for stray beef; and he can't help
wondering what might have happened to the Hamburglar, who hasn't been
seen on the grounds in days.  He can't help wishing that the latest
shipment of Special Sauce would arrive, and he can't help, frantically,
trying to get the smell of old semen out of the floppy shoes.  He
can't help grasping at straws.
But he knows it's too late.