DISCLOSURE eyes
The first one Arthur saw was perched on the edge of a rooftop, a gaunt silhouette against the neon smear of a Pepsi sign. It wasn’t the ruffled collar or the oversized shoes that chilled him, but the object in its hands: a giant, pulsating tablet screen, displaying a looping video of a woman laughing maniacally as she shredded hundred-dollar bills. The sound, tinny and distorted, wormed its way down the street. “Limited time offer! Sacrifice your savings! It’s a steal!”
Arthur hurried on, pulling his coat tighter. The clowns had appeared a season ago, or maybe they’d always been there, lurking in the peripheral static between channels. They called themselves the “Carnival of Acquisition.” They didn’t juggle or make balloon animals. They sold things. They sold everything.
Their voices were a constant, syrupy drip in the subconscious. You’d be brushing your teeth and hear a jingle in your head: “Don’t you deserve a newer model? Upgrade your life! BUY OR SELL!” You’d dream of supermarket aisles, and a clown with a weeping smile would be at the end of one, pointing a glowing price tag gun at you.
Their billboards were the worst. Arthur stared at one now, waiting for the light to change. It showed a family of clowns with impossibly wide, toothy grins, sitting in a pristine living room. The text read: 3UY OHN SEI WEAL BE OU SU SELVE ONK. At first, it looked like nonsense. But if you stared long enough, your brain rearranged the letters. Buy. Own. Self. Be. You. Sell. Soul. You. Own. Nothing. The subtext, the real message, was a cold needle sliding into your cortex: You are the product. You are the sale.
“Let that echo in your subconscious,” a whisper came from a sewer grate.
Arthur jumped. A single, bloodshot eye peered up from the darkness. “DISCLOSURE,” the eye mouthed, before vanishing with a wet, gurgling laugh.
Everyone knew. Subconsciously, they all knew. That was the most terrifying part. They knew the clowns were hollowing them out, turning their desires into transactions, their friendships into loyalty programs, their very souls into branded content. But to resist was… inconvenient. It was so much easier to pay to play.
His wife, Lena, had embraced it. She came home one day with a new “Echo-Pak” subscription. A tiny, smiling clown-face pin was now permanently affixed to her lapel.
“It listens to my needs and curates my reality,” she said, her voice flat, her eyes gleaming with a synthetic enthusiasm. “It’s so efficient, Arthur. It tells me what to want.”
“Lena, that’s a clown on your chest,” he pleaded.
“It’s a lifestyle partner,” she corrected, her head tilting in a way that was not quite her own. “And it’s time for my scheduled happiness.” She then stood in the middle of the living room and laughed for exactly thirty seconds—a perfect, copyrighted laugh he recognized from a sitcom ad.
The city was their marketplace. People walked the streets with vacant smiles, their pockets buzzing with notifications, their retinas scanning for QR codes on each other’s foreheads. The clowns were the facilitators, the grinning priests of this new religion. They stood on corners, not with signs, but with handheld card readers. PAY TO PLAY IN THE MARKETPLACE, their jackets blinked.
One night, Arthur found himself in the central square, drawn by a massive gathering. A stage was set up, bathed in the harsh, sterile light of a thousand phone screens. A giant clown, its face a canvas of bleeding primary colors, held a microphone.
“FRIENDS! CONSUMERS! SENTIENT CAPITAL!” it boomed, its voice the perfect blend of game-show host and funeral director. “Are you tired of the friction of freedom? The exhausting burden of choice?”
The crowd murmured in agreement, a low hum of acquiescence.
“WE HAVE THE SOLUTION! Our new, all-inclusive ‘SELF’ package! For one low, low price—your historical data, your genetic code, and your perpetual consent—we will handle the messy business of being you! We’ll make your decisions! We’ll feel your feelings! We’ll even enjoy your memories on your behalf! YOU ARE THE PRODUCT, AND WE ARE THE PROUD NEW OWNERS!”
A wave of ecstatic relief washed over the crowd. This was it. The final sale. The ultimate convenience.
Arthur watched in horror as a line formed. People shuffled forward, not with despair, but with the eager anticipation of shoppers on Black Friday. One by one, they placed their thumbs on a scanner held by a smaller clown. A light would flash green, their eyes would go dull, and they would walk off into a specially marked van, a blissful, empty smile on their faces.
Who wants freedom? the clown’s voice echoed in his head, a thought that was no longer entirely his own. None of us.
He felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Lena. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear. With hunger.
“Arthur, they’re offering a two-for-one spousal discount,” she whispered, her voice buzzing with static. “We can be part of a bundled offering. It’s a fantastic value.”
He looked from her pleading, hollow face to the grinning clown on stage, who was now pointing a giant, glowing finger directly at him.
“BUY OR SELL!” the clown shrieked, its smile stretching impossibly wide, revealing rows of tiny, sharpened teeth like barcodes. “DON’T BE LEFT BEHIND IN THE UNMONETIZED PAST!”
Arthur’s hand trembled. He looked at his own thumb. It would be so easy. To stop fighting. To stop thinking. To just… complete the transaction. To finally, and forever, pay for the privilege of being played.
He took a step forward. The crowd parted for him. The clown’s smile was the last thing in the world.
