A message, indecipherable to the untrained ear, crackled on Joe’s radio. Something about incidents and public unrest around a building on the back streets. Some kind of funhouse. He stepped up his pace, muttering about carnival incomers messing up his patch.

Even with the limited description Joe knew he had found the right place, it was quiet at the moment but this was the place. He pushed the door that opened easily and stepped inside.

It took a while for Joe’s eyes to adjust to the gloom inside. He was standing at one end of a long corridor with regularly spaced doors on either wall. Joe’s instincts were on full alert, this place was trouble, but there was no way he was calling for backup he would sort this out his way. He weighed up his options and heard manic laughter that was clearly emanating from the far end of the corridor. He pulled his Colt 45 from its holster and, treading lightly, moved forward. His gun was not exactly regulation issue but it was a man’s weapon and had been his Pa’s and his Grandpop’s before that. It fitted Joe’s no nonsense attitude, his shoot first ask questions later approach to policing.

The laughter echoed down the corridor the volume rising as Joe approached the door at the end. Light flooded under the doorway swirling through a rainbow of colors its intensity seemingly oscillating with the hysterics on the other side.

The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as adrenalin coursed around his body. He did not know what was beyond that door but he knew he did not like it, not one bit. Joe’s training and experience of years on the beat kicked in. Taking half a step back he raised his gun and expertly kicked the door open. Stepping through in one motion he instantly reacted, rolling for cover, as he saw the figure through the dense smoke that filled the room. Joe did not even realise he had pulled the trigger as the colt in his hand bucked firing towards the armed figure. The laughter faded with the sound of the discharge but there was no cry, no sound of any impact at all. Joe cocked his trusty colt and shouted “Police drop your weapon”. His voice echoed for an inordinate length of time but there was no response. He peered through the smoke trying to survey his surroundings. His whole being jumped as a gunshot assaulted his ears, he had never been fired at before. A lesser man would have been scared but not Joe, the sweat pouring off him was just the heat and his exertions getting to him. A movement to his left, a gun pointed at him, he fired, cocked and fired again. Three rounds down and three left in the barrel, this punk was getting on Joe’s nerves. Seeking out the edge of the room Joe crept hunkered down looking for more substantial cover in the smokescreen. His pulse pounded in his eardrums, sweat dripped from his nose, two more shots pierced the soundscape. Joe, seeing the powder flashes, emptied the remainder of the barrel convinced he had nailed his man.

He fumbled at his belt, looking for more ammo, cursing his uniform remembering his trusty hunting belt did not fit with these regulation pants. Was it his imagination or had the room started to clear. With nowhere to hide he raised the now empty gun nervously jerking it from side to side. The smoke dissipated quickly as if it was being sucked out of the room through the floor. Joe saw he was alone standing in a large room with a huge grinning clown’s head at the far end. The only exit was the door he had entered by. Somehow the punk must have escaped through it. Glad of the opportunity to take stock Joe approached the hideously smiling figure.

His advance was immediately halted as the clown head began to rock awkwardly from side to side and the manic laughter again spewed from loud speakers enclosed within. If he had had any ammunition left he would have blasted the thing to pieces but he with an empty chamber that was not an option. Moving the gun to his right hand he slid the handle of his baton into the left, if nothing else he was going to silence this heap of junk. No sooner had he armed himself than the clown stopped rocking its eyes swiveled and its gaping crimson smile opened to reveal an oversized plastic replica of a colt 45 pointing straight at him.

Mesmerized Joe watched the hammer retract and the trigger slowly pull itself. The shot fired and Joe’s right wrist exploded in a flame of heat. The second shot hit his left hand before he had time to react. He had never been shot before and tried to process the lack of pain, was he in shock? Pulling his hands into his face he was astonished to discover they were not damaged, no wound no blood, but instead of a gun and a baton he now held an elaborate feather duster and an ornate dust pan. Bewildered he tried to drop them but his hands were encased in dainty white lace gloves, embellished with a pink satin ribbon firmly tied in a bow around his wrists. The gloves seemed to be preventing him from opening his hands. Try as he might they were not under his control anymore.

He looked up at the clown face saw the gun primed again and turned to flee to the door. He was never going to make it and the next two shots swept his feet from under him dumping him unceremoniously on his ass.  The legs stretched out in front were not a familiar sight. His blue uniform pants now stopped in a tattered mess at the mid thigh below which a pair of hairless legs dressed in white fishnet stockings that made them seem longer and more slender. Despite their attire the legs in question were still clearly his as were the feet that were now wearing a pair of heeled sandals with a closed toe of patent pink leather and held on with a thin double straps around his ankles.

He scrambled awkwardly to stand, wobbling uncertainly on his feet that were now forced by the heels into a tiptoed posture. His gloved hands waving around as he tried to gain a semblance of balance.  He looked at the almost comedic over sized pistol aimed directly at him. Four shots had been fired meaning the barrel had two left. He needed to get out of here. That was fine as a plan and given his proximity to the door it should not have been too much of a problem, except for one thing. He could not move his feet, the round toed shiny sandals were not in his control and no matter how he tried to turn and run he was firmly planted to the spot.

The clown’s smile mocked him as the hammer on the pistol jerkily eased back to strike again. The desperate attempts to move his feet gave an appearance of him dancing to the soulless tune of the clown’s repetitive laughter. His eyes fixed on the dark menacing hole at the end of the barrel he involuntarily flinched as the hammer struck home and a loud crack blasted his eardrums. But the bullet was not racing towards him at a thousand feet per second. Instead he could watch its progress in slowed motion. Unable to move he helplessly watched it draw near and dissolve into a black oily gel like substance that splattered harmlessly onto what remained of his uniform. His relief was short lived as the gel oozed over his torso and thighs obscuring the blue of his shirt and pants.

With no control over his hands or feet he could only watch, and feel, the strange substance metamorphose over him. The gel around his waist squeezed in a vice like grip forcing the breath from his lungs. Around his chest the gel swelled into voluminous breast like structures that jiggled with the slightest movement. He was no expert, being only a user and not an owner, but he guessed the gravity defying boobs were at least a D-cup and maybe even bigger. Although his view was obscured by the large attachments on his chest he knew something was happening down below, his manhood was being compressed against his body and a sensation of cool air was now circulating around the top of his thighs. With an audible pop the gel flicked outwards and formed a pouffed-out skirt that, like the breasts, quivered with every slight movement he made. The gel dissipated and he was left to deal with the oddness it had left behind. But before his brain could process the information his eyes were supplying to it, his attention was drawn to the clown head and sinister pistol it harbored in its smile. The hammer was moving again. The barrel had clicked the final cartridge into position and the firing mechanism was primed. The bullet moved slowly but deliberately towards him, this time aimed straight at his face. About an inch from his nose the liquidification process started and his whole head was engulfed in a sickly sweet smelling substance that obliterated his vision. He could feel it probing into his ears, nose and mouth running all over his head and dripping onto his shoulders.

The light returned as the gel evaporated from his skin but his nostrils were still full of the sweet sickly smell. A light flashed over his face and he turned to see a number of mirrors dotted around the room that were suspended from the ceiling. It all made sense, the shadowy figure, the other gunman, it was his reflection. Someone had manipulated the smoke and these mirrors to make a fool of him.

It was then he got a full glimpse of how successful they had been. Facing him in every mirror was a humiliation. It was his face alright but it was pale with white powder, his cheeks were embellished with bright red circles and his lips glistened with a cherry red sheen all puckered and pouty. Sparkling Blue eyeshadow coated his eyelids and his face was framed by a golden mane of curls that cascaded down onto his bare shoulders in spiral ringlets. Gone was his cop’s peaked blue hat replaced by a stiff peaked white maid’s headdress sitting within the blond maelstrom.

He was dressed head to toe as a pink French maid, perky bouncing breasts enveloped in pink satin, waist narrowed by a tight boned corset and his hips exaggerated by a lace trimmed skirt floating out from his body and held in place by layers and layers of stiff white petticoats. The ridiculously feminine ensemble ending in towering heels on his feet and pretty little gloves on his hands.

He was broken from his reverie by the creak of the door opening behind him. His he staggered backwards as the magnetic bind holding his heeled feet to the floor was released. Regaining some degree of stability he turned and scuttled, forced to take tiny tiptoe steps, to the exit. Each step created a cascade of synchronized movement from his head of bouncing ringlets, down to through the exaggerated breast forms and ending with the slow lollop of the petticoats that flashed a glimpse of his frilly pink panties with each rise and fall.  As he minced precariously out of the funhouse a voice boomed from behind him “Now go clean up this town”. The laughter teasing his painfully slow escape.

His progress was hampered further as with each step he now had to fight an overwhelming urge to clean. Everywhere he looked he saw dust that he needed to attend to, dirt that needed wiping up. It seemed that the uniform had got into his head and wanted him to act like a maid not just look like one. People he passed were staring and sniggering at him, wondering why this man had chosen such an elaborate and effeminate carnival costume and why he was wielding a feather duster with such vigour and enthusiasm. The embarrassment on Joe’s face may have been hidden by the garish make-up but inside, behind the compulsions to clean, every step was tormented by embarrassment and shame.