Laughter in the Sole
The Origin of the Red Nosed Reapers
Before he was known as Chuckles the Clown, he was simply *Charles Vane*, a carnival painter with a gift for colour and a curse for taste. While others decorated signs and happy faces, Charles preferred the grotesque—grins stretched too wide, eyes that followed you, reds that bled too easily into the skin. He didn’t *paint joy*, he painted *truth*. And it terrified people.
The carnival fired him after the incident with the laughing mirror and the twins. No one speaks of it now. Charles disappeared into the forgotten parts of town, where the alleys hum with static and broken toys whisper after dark. That’s where he 'heard it'. The voice. The one behind the greasepaint.
It said: “You were never meant to make clowns laugh. You were meant to make them walk.”
From that night on, Chuckles was born. Not as a jester, but a shoemaker. He didn't craft comfort—he forged vengeance. His first pair of 'Red Nosed Reapers' was sewn from old canvas, cracked leather, and crimson dye that mysteriously never dried. They weren’t shoes. They were warnings. Walk in them, and you 'feel' something follow. Run in them, and you’ll find your path loops back on itself.
Each pair is a tribute to the lives that laughed at him, and then... stopped laughing.
The red nose? It’s not a joke—it’s a mask.
The blood? It’s not paint—it’s a promise.
Chuckles says he doesn’t remember how many he’s made.
Or how many 'wearers' have vanished.
But every so often, if you see a stranger in the shadows—grinning, limping, whispering "Shhh…"—
look down.
If they’re wearing **Reapers**, you’re already too close.
Before he was known as Chuckles the Clown, he was simply *Charles Vane*, a carnival painter with a gift for colour and a curse for taste. While others decorated signs and happy faces, Charles preferred the grotesque—grins stretched too wide, eyes that followed you, reds that bled too easily into the skin. He didn’t *paint joy*, he painted *truth*. And it terrified people.
The carnival fired him after the incident with the laughing mirror and the twins. No one speaks of it now. Charles disappeared into the forgotten parts of town, where the alleys hum with static and broken toys whisper after dark. That’s where he 'heard it'. The voice. The one behind the greasepaint.
It said: “You were never meant to make clowns laugh. You were meant to make them walk.”
From that night on, Chuckles was born. Not as a jester, but a shoemaker. He didn't craft comfort—he forged vengeance. His first pair of 'Red Nosed Reapers' was sewn from old canvas, cracked leather, and crimson dye that mysteriously never dried. They weren’t shoes. They were warnings. Walk in them, and you 'feel' something follow. Run in them, and you’ll find your path loops back on itself.
Each pair is a tribute to the lives that laughed at him, and then... stopped laughing.
The red nose? It’s not a joke—it’s a mask.
The blood? It’s not paint—it’s a promise.
Chuckles says he doesn’t remember how many he’s made.
Or how many 'wearers' have vanished.
But every so often, if you see a stranger in the shadows—grinning, limping, whispering "Shhh…"—
look down.
If they’re wearing **Reapers**, you’re already too close.
