Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

Winner, Daily Flash Fiction Challenge (use the words horn, yellow and scar)


“In Poland we have saying,” slurred Zozo the Clown in his heavy Slavic accent. He clumsily leaned back in his chair and flopped his oversized yellow shoes onto the interrogation room’s table. “It is this. ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys.’ You know this saying?”

Detective Greenwood shook his head, exasperated. Three hours they’d been at it, and all he’d gotten out of this drunken circus freak were denials and Eastern European idioms.

“It means ‘not my problem,” Zozo explained. “You have dead elephant. This is problem, yes. But not Zozo’s problem.” The clown honked a hand-held horn in defiance.

“Not dead,” the detective corrected. “Murdered. Drowned in seltzer water and suffocated with cream pies.” Greenwood slammed crime scene photos onto the table for the suspect to see. “Look at them, Zozo! Confetti? Face paint? Tire tracks from a ridiculously tiny car leaving the scene?!? A clown killed this pachyderm!”

“Yes, perhaps,” Zozo smiled knowingly. “But not this clown. I go now?” He asked.

Greenwood knew he had the right clown, but also that he’d never be able to prove it. Hanging his head in defeat, he opened the interrogation room’s door and gestured for the suspect to leave. Gloating, Zozo followed the detective down the hallway, where he paused at the reception room doors.

“By the way, Zozo, I’ve arranged you a ride back to the circus,” Greenwood said as he flung open the doors, revealing two extremely angry elephants waiting in the lobby. “You’ve met the deceased’s brothers, I take it? They certainly remember you,” smiled the detective. “But then, an elephant never forgets. Or forgives.”

Closing the door, Greenwood ignored the screams for help. Not my circus, not my monkeys, he thought, rubbing the childhood forehead scar given to him by a drunken birthday party clown.

300 Words