Q Lazzarus cued up. "Goodbye Horses" sounded throughout the tiny bathroom as The Van Man caked the clown white makeup onto one portion of his not-yet-famous mug. He looked into the mirror, carefully. The eyes and big, Roman nose were the same as when he was eighteen. But the hairline was not. Well, at least, Van Man was still fortunate to have some follicles left at thirty-five. And that grey smattered throughout his hair was fake, so he truly was lucky.
It was nearing showtime as Van Man spread the fishnet stockings over his face. It provided a nice pattern for the glitter. Of course, it was much better to spread women's legs over a Van Man's face than leggings, but it was only Friday.
The green glitter set nicely and the mascara ran. He peered at his reflection. Naked and painted. Van Man slid on the tights and walked out into the early evening. Time for the show. He locked the motel door and turned to find various residents staring at him. Their mouths slightly agape. Van Man smiled and nodded, his emerald face sparkled in the setting sun. He walked to the van.
Van Man was a freak to those uncultured fools. But he was unfiltered entertainment to the audience. Freak. Entertainment. Maybe they were the same thing? The Van Man adjusted his G-string, sipped some chamomile tea and drove on to the theatre. There was no time to think about such mysteries. It was showtime.