Metamfiezomaiophobia

[David Sanchez]

Metamfiezomaiophobia


I: The Ugly American
Wednesday 15th July, 15:35 – Circular Quay, Sydney, Australia

The scene opens up to a sizable art deco structure, its black and white brickwork towering upwards out of the ground like building blocks stacked atop one another. Unlike the other buildings in Sydney’s Circular Quay which are mostly constructed of sandstone brickwork this building appears to be somewhat out of place in this location. The Museum of Contemporary Art sticks out more than any other in this heritage area of the Rocks district, surrounded on both sides by buildings which appear much more fitting of the historical status which is thought of in this area. This marriage of the old and new building design is complimented by views of Port Jackson and most noticeably the gleaming, white-roofed magnificence of the Sydney Opera House.

True, there had been much controversy about these East Circular Quay buildings but pre-construction protests about them had not stopped their construction. The Museum of Contemporary Art is Australia's only major public museum dedicated to exhibiting, interpreting and collecting contemporary art from across Australia and around the world. Part of its attraction is a continually changing program of exhibitions. While the new annex of the Museum of Contemporary Art is described as a wing of the old building, and is known as the Mordant Wing in honor of the businessman philanthropist who donated the first fifteen million dollars to its construction, it is infact the clear, glass elevator which ferries it’s patron’s upwards to the top floor of the structure which we are drawn to today, and more particularly the contents of said elevator.

David Sanchez stands alone in one of these glass cubicles being lifted from the street below, high up into the sky. His eyes are wide with tourist wonder, never before had he ventured to this side of the world even for a holiday, much less for competitive purposes. Yet here he was, being paid by the World Championship Federation to take in these most beautiful of cultural locations. First it was Russia, last week China, this week Australia and should he be lucky enough to still be employed after his devious attack on Teo Del Sol, the trip would end in Japan for Ultimate Showdown. Unlike when he first struck and fines were issued a few days later, his punishment an agreed upon restriction and miniscule monetary penalty, this time he had been kept in the dark, no phone call from Seth Lerch to wish him the best of luck in his future endeavors, not even a follow up visit from Hank Brown to pry into the inner-workings of his mind in the wake of this assault. Nerves were building up in David with each day that passed, so much so he had already began to expect the worst. His wife Samm had phoned him the day after Slam to tell him that his son was not happy, he had been a fan and a follower of not only Del Sol but of the way in which Mr Sunshine conducted himself at all times. The fact he had disappointed his son had created a domino effect which ultimately pissed his wife off, and therefor angered him further due to being on the other side of the world and unable to rectify the problem. He had tried to explain his actions, but Samantha knew when he was lying. He felt no remorse for his actions, not against Teo and certainly not against the fan who had received a fractured nose due to his carelessness.

As the elevator slows to a halt at the top floor David exits his glass casing and travels down one of the Hallways which link the new and old structures so seamlessly that one could be on either side of the two buildings without noticing one had moved from one to the other. From the outside, the new structure is much more befitting the character of a showcase of contemporary art, whereas the older art deco building felt more of the past than of contemporary times. The Museum of Contemporary Art first opened its doors to the public in November nineteen ninety-one, funded initially by Australian expatriate artist John Power. Since John’s death in nineteen forty-three the University of Sydney has gained control of the fortune he left behind and used this wealth to constantly renovate this structure so that Australians will always have access to some of the most interesting and alluring visual art from around the globe.

“So let me get this straight? They released little Teddy from hospital? I’m glad he pulled through, it would be a shame for such a bright talent to be ripped from the world so soon after its inception. I’d like to take this time to offer my sincere apologies to the Del Sol family and the family of the man who was accidentally struck during our match last week. A man would like to add however that this is professional wrestling and if you buy a ringside seat only spend the whole event clawing and groping at the superstars in front of you then perhaps you should learn to expect a small measure of error in the execution of our moves.”

“While I am genuinely hurt by the accusations that I acted out of malice and dis-concern, I will not be sorry for the way that things have turned out. I got rid of that parasitic, faux-Mexican. He was nesting in your children’s minds and corrupting their up-bringing, cancelling out the hard work parents are putting in across the world with promises of bright futures and assurances that if you believe hard enough, and you want something enough then you will get it. I called him on this bullshit and I made my point perfectly clear. Last week Teo believed he could beat me and he wound up in the hospital with a severe concussion. Last week he wanted to help a little bird with a broken wing and ended up placing them in further harm’s way. Teo Del Sol, you have failed these people and perhaps you should let that thought swim around your cloudy brain as that fucking makeshift, used-car salesman of an agent spoon-feeds you custard and wipes the drool from your mouth.”

“I’m not a heartless man though Teddy and I’ll show you that on Sunday. I’ve went into my own pocket for a special parting gift to you, my brain-dead friend. So on Slam I invite you all to join me as we celebrate the life and times of Teo Del Sol as presented by, paid for and recalled by David Sanchez.”

The hall down which David now walks is the brainchild of Sydney-based architect Sam Marshall who drew up the plans that not only allowed for a complete refurbishment of building in two-thousand twelve but but also created an additional four-thousand, five-hundred square meters of space for three large new galleries; This being the most prolific of them. David was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt. A tie had once probably been in place around his collar but now the buttons lay apart, the harsh sun having caused it to be removed and stuffed into a pocket. He looked happy, perhaps for the first time since his arrival in the WCF. This was worrying, he did not suit the smile upon his face. It was almost manic. Still he continues down this hallway, like a dog who knows exactly where he wishes to bury a bone.

With every footstep David takes the lights begin to dim. A faint yellow light becoming more prominent as he steps, through a curtain and into a large circular room with a domed roof. The world was a much different place in here. Spotlights were shining in every direction possible. This caused the shadows of the many tourists in attendance to be cast onto an LED screen, upon which was already a still photograph in digital form of people facing back at the shadows. In essence it was simply a digital photograph of people but to admirers of Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, People-on-People was perhaps his masterpiece. The photograph surrounded the room, saturated in the shadows of people who sought to see its contents, it was just faces. Faces partially covered by the shadows of other faces.

David steps into the center of the room and beams at the sight in front of him. He always did have an attraction to seemingly high-brow art, anything that made him stand out from the society he so desperately loathed. The camera finds focus in front of the Black Rose and maintains an angle where Sanchez is the focal point of the recording but yet he is surrounded by shadows, shadows and faces, the faces and shadows of so many tourists and the works of Lozano-Hemmer.

“Faces. We all have faces: clocks have faces, hills have faces and animals have faces. Most of the products we buy in the supermarket have the face of a particular celebrity, something of an endorsement. Why do so many people wish to hide their face then? I ask this of my opponent on Sunday because honestly with Del Sol I would have found him equally as pathetic with or without the mask. So to you Chavis I leave the question of the face paint. You like to dress up as a clown and parade yourself in public as some sort of a circus act. I’ve never understood clowns, they always seemed like the perfect social camouflage for a paedophile, them and the people who play Santa Claus in supermarket grottos. Each to their own though Isaiah, I’m not here to judge your choices in life but simply question the logic behind them. The paint’s what I really want to understand though, I’ll cover the whole juggalo thing at a time when I care enough to read into it a bit further. Don’t think I’m going to question the logic behind being homosexual though, that’s your own choice and it’s never been a particular vendetta of mine. I will however, question the logic of being an openly gay clown. Isn’t that casting out a bit of a limited net? I mean, beggars can’t be choosers after-all and you sir, are not exactly playing the odds.”

“As I’ve said though, that is not the point I’m trying to make here. Behind me is a piece by Rafael Lozano-Hemmer known as People-On-People. Look at all the pretty people Chavis. Each of them has one thing in common with the other. They all have faces. Some of them are conventionally attractive, others are faulted in their own unique and beautiful way. Not one of them is ashamed of how they look, how they are to be seen by the hundreds of thousands of observers who look upon this contemporary wonder in any given year. I now pose a question to the viewers at home, what do you have to hide Isaiah? What can be so disgusting that you need to live behind all that paint? Why don’t we find out together on Sunday? Does that sound like a fun day for the whole family, or does the world need me wear a fucking red nose and a flower that squirts water before it takes me seriously?”

Stepping back from the camera slightly, David moves his own hand so that its shadow covers the face of one of the people upon the LED screen. He moves his hand over it and away again a few times in a very slow manner, highlighting the difference between a man with a face, seen laughing with his wife and that of a black emptiness. A faceless entity with no expression, no laughter, no purpose. Dropping his hand back to his side David looks back at the camera and smiles, his tongue licking at his lips a little before he concludes his statement and the camera fades to black.

“Faces Chuckles, we all have them and they’re all fragile things.”

II: Skippy, Get Out of the Water!
Thursday, 16th July, 04:32, Royal Harbor Hotel, Sydney, Australia

There is a prominent splashing, a distressed noise accompanied by the gargling noise as though somebody is drowning in very close proximity to where this footage is coming from. There is a smell of smoke, not the kind caused by an open flame but rather that which accumulates over a long period of heavy smoking. The smell of stale cigarette smoke with a hint of a man’s shower gel is all that the sense are allowed at this point in time, until the gargling starts up again and the thrashing becomes a little bit more panicked.

“Fucking, wake up you stupid cunt of a leg.”

The voice of one David Sanchez comes from behind a door that is thought to be near to the camera’s location, followed by more splashing and gargling noises.

“If you fucking die here, this is how they’ll tell Samantha they found you. Completely fucked out of your mind and drowning in a bath of what is by now, mostly your own piss”

The splashing subsides a little as David continues to argue with himself, that is until a dull thud is heard, accompanied by a grown of pain and the sound of draining water. The squeaking of wet flesh being dragged across ceramic takes over for a minute before finally the clicking of locks. We do not so much see Sanchez entering the room as hear him falling through the doorway. Landing hard on the floor with a crash before pulling himself back up the wall and flicking on a light switch. As he slips back down the wall and onto the floor the reason for his demise becomes visible, the bathroom from which he has crawled is strewn with potential causes. A tipped over, yet decisively empty bottle of Glenfidditch malt whiskey is the centerpiece of the marble floor whilst two empty foil packets of dihydrocodeine decorate the edge of the bathtub itself. Another successful evening of the fight against addiction it has evidently been.

“Just drag yourself into bed, throw on the television and sleep it off. Don’t you dare die in fucking Australia.”

The rest of this elegant five-hundred and fifty square foot guest room offers a kingsize bed and graceful alpine décor. A Deluxe room without question. Amenities include a coal fireplace, flat-panel TV, work desk, mini refrigerator, in-room safe, iron and ironing board, and humidifier. Yet here was David, happy to drink himself to death in the bath, high on a cocktail of painkillers and scotch. His body is clad in a courtesy dressing gown, still dripping wet from his brush with death a few moments ago in the bathtub. He pulls himself up with the foot of the bed and begin to shuffle across the mattress, unable to move his legs to a certain extent but instead slithering up the bed like some kind of snake. Finally he reaches the pillow and bites into hard, using the grip of his teeth to gain the required stability to pull himself into a more natural sleeping position. Satisfied that he is at least now somewhat positioned for a good night’s sleep he looks around the room, or tries to do so at least through the pinholes which are now the pupils of his eyes. Finally he identifies the item which he was searching for. The television remote control is on the bedside cabinet on the far side of the bed. He stretches his right arm out but it is his fingers which will not respond at first. He clenches and un-clenches his fist a few times before lunging towards the remote, failing the first time, and the second but finally securing this device on his third attempt.

“Okay, now just hit the power button. Let the background noise send you to sleep, hotel television never has anything good to offer. You’ll be asleep in minutes and before you know it, morning will be here and you’ll forget all about this.”

Believing his own bill of sale David rolls his body over so that now he faces the television, a pool of drool having already formed where his head was smothered into the pillow a moment ago. He fumbles with the controller for a few minutes, kicking his body under the indigo, silk bedsheets as he does so. After a few failed attempts the television finally bursts into life and it is not what he had hoped for at all. The controller slips from his wet hands and shoots across the room, landing on the floor more than ten feet away from the bed. Upset by this David lets out a moan that is soon drowned out as a scene from Stephen King’s IT occupies the television. For a few moments he just lies there still, unable to believe the extent of his bad luck. Pennywise stares back at him, his razor-sharp fangs glistening as the dancing clown promises Georgie a bounty of confectionery and balloons. Shuddering, David rolls over, unable to comprehend how this fictional clown has found it’s way into his life. Was somebody fucking with him? The paranoia gets the better of him as he covers his ears with a pillow and attempts to get some sleep, muttering all-the-while.

“Fuck… this… life.”

III: Metamfiezomaiophobia
(Met-am-feez-oh-my-oh-fo-bee-ah)
Friday 17th July, 21:45, Circus-Oz, Melbourne, Australia

“Metamfiezomaiophobia is the fear of clowns, mimes and disguises of any kind. Up until recently I never really understood this particular phobia. That is until I started paying closer attention to the world as it is deteriorating around us all. Some people fear dogs, heights or enclosed places and have these fears deemed as rational but yet for somebody to fear a man or woman who conceals their identity is considered to be irrational. Coulrophobia is a more common strain of this fear but it relates more specifically to clowns and today I’d like not to generalize my hatred towards the brothers of Ronald McDonald but expand out into the minds of anybody wearing any kind of mask, paint or hood which hides their face from view. While I’m not scared of you freaks and oddities I do have an intense hatred for each and every last one of you and sympathize with those who suffer from this condition”

The scene opens up to a pinstriped circus tent, its blue and red stripes towering up into the sky around a sign which reads “Circus Oz” a particular strand of the circus which was born in nineteen seventy-eight in Melbourne. Since then though this traveling band of misfits and outcasts has been to twenty-seven countries. From New York to some of the most dense of South American rainforests, Madrid to the near-by outbacks of rural Australia. Crowds of people, most of them with their children’s hands pour in through the entrance to the tent, one of them; David Sanchez speaking back into the camera which follows him, shooting the scene from over his shoulder as he walks into the grand marquis.

“I touched on the subject a few days ago Isaiah but if I’m honest I didn’t really want to consider you as much more than a stepping stone. Then I started thinking that if this was the case then why would I volunteer myself to take part in your little challenge of sorts? Perhaps I have found my purpose in ridding the world of you man-sized chameleons. Then I remembered that unfortunately for the good people of planet earth, I could not give a single seed donation in a baron field of fucks for the majority of this planet or its inhabitants. So back to the drawing board I went, if it wasn’t for the good of humanity then what possible excuse could I have for willingly lowering myself to your standards? Then it hit me, I was doing this for myself. Selfish I know, but humor me for a few minutes here. Clowns, mimes, masked men of any sort they all hide from sight. What are you planning underneath all of that, admittedly attention-drawing make-up? Do you all meet up at weekends like a devious group of super-villains planning your revenge against a society which has forced you to hide your true identity? Do you have a minibus that you take out on picnics together to discuss the pros and cons of an uprising against society? I needed to know these answers, and so I came here to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Standing now in the main foyer of the circus, surrounded by excited children and exhausted parents, David pauses for a second. Taking in the assortment of acts around him: A bearded lady, several mimes, several more clowns, stilt-walkers and fire-eaters. They all walked among the people as though they were normal. Mingling with the general public, happy to be leered at, poked and prodded by the children as they fumble through their various acts. Walking a few steps forward David is halted in his path by the greeting of a clown.

“Why the long face buddy?”

It takes Sanchez a few moments to accept that this jester is speaking to him, he could usually count on his sociopathic aura to prevent strangers from engaging him in conversation. Apparently not here in the happiest place this side of Disneyland though. Even after he acknowledges the clown’s conversation being aimed in his direction he looks this performer up and down, from green, curly wig to over-sized, red shoes. After a few seconds he responds, snarling through gritted teeth.

“Pedigree breeding, a healthy diet and no family history of incest. Why the fucking make-up and the Peter Pan syndrome?”

The clown’s painted smile turns South for a second before he regroups, noticing a group of children approaching. He replies, keeping his emotions in check and the act alive for the benefit of those around him.

“It’s time to turn that frown upside down.”

“If you down walk away from me I’m going to pull a handkerchief out of your pocket and use it to asphyxiate you in front of all these smiling faces, Bubbles.”

Waiting a few moments until the children have walked past and arrive at a suitable distance from this confrontation before he responds, the clown now shows an expression of actual anger, or at least tries to. The painted smile on his lips makes it a little hard to identify at first but as he begins to speak in a much less whimsical manner the rage in his voice becomes obvious.

“Listen buddy, this job doesn’t pay well. Gimme a break will you? I’m just trying to support my children here.”

Laughing for the first time since entering the marquis David leans forward and pats the clown on the shoulder in a patronizing manner. He shakes his head dis-approvingly at the man in front of him and utters only a few words as he walks to another side of the tent. Leaving this jester to contemplate the decisions he has made in life.

“And I’m sure your children are mighty proud of daddy the clown, I bet they don’t get bullied at all.”

With the sad clown left in the wake of David’s suggestions, the man himself walks amongst the circus crowd once more. Attracted from afar by a group of three mimes in the distance, surrounded by a flock of spectators who laugh and point at their antics. Approaching the scene Sanchez grows more apprehensive with each step, he turns back to the camera when he is just in front of the gesticulation of mime artists.

“Now this is just a dead art-form. We haven’t needed mimes since we stopped making silent movies. You may question my relevance of being here at all though and to a certain extent you would be right to do so. After-all Isaiah, you’re neither technically a mime, nor a clown. You are a part of a virus to the human race known only as juggalo. Some kind of abomination that mixes sportswear and make-up. As I’ve said already, each to their own, whatever may float your boat. Except when what floats your boat catches on and the rest of the world starts dressing that way, acting that way and listening to that garbage genre of music.”

“Now whether I refer to the common cases of theft, assault and robbery by the juggalo community or travel down the route where I bring up that whole connection to the Aryan Brotherhood... There really is no need for what you bring to society Isaiah, nothing good has ever come out of your particular class of freaks. Nothing ever will. All we have to do is look at Syko Sam. The man responsible for the Farmville murders in Virginia or to the untimely death of Michael Goucher who was stabbed twenty times with a cleaver by Ian Seagreaves and Shawn Freemore. An excellent image to be putting across. Yet, the idiots we attract still cheer for you.”

“Isaiah, I don’t have Metamfiezomaiophobia, but by the end of our match on Sunday, when I’m done exposing you as a common criminal in disguise as a loveable household character. Nobody ever will again.”

David shakes his head, first at the mimes themselves then the spectators which applaud him. The disappointment in his face lingers as the scene fades away. The sound of children’s laughter taking longer to disintegrate than the picture itself.