White makeup in his beard. Abram considers the mirror: the clown, they say, cries inside, but what about the one crying outside too? Crying tears of blood? Holding an axe?

He hadn’t understood Mr. Johnson’s hidden smirk when they gave him the assignment: he’d felt confused but eager to serve the Bureau, to be trusted with undercover work. He did the research. He committed.

When, during his career as a false Juggalo, did mask and reality cease to diverge? Abram isn’t sure. But he knows purpose now: the thrill, the pride, the necessity of having Mr. Johnson’s head in one’s bookbag.