She finished applying her lip gloss with an adept hand that was not shaken by the taxi-ride. She smacked her ruby-red lips while looking into her pocket mirror and checked to make sure her mascara was immaculate. When she was certain that it was, she adjusted her small hat a touch, then snapped the mirror closed with her white, silk-gloved fingers. Seeing that she had reached her destination, she paid the driver with some cash and a playful look that made him blush. She daintily stepped out onto the side-walk and made her way up to the entrance of a large hall.

There was a swift, yet elegant, style in her stride which attracted the attention of nearby onlookers. Okay, maybe their attention was caught by more than just the movement of her legs if one were to understand my meaning. She wore a cute pair of shiny blue-grey heels each decorated with a neat, little bow. She wore a long skirt which, despite going just past the knee, did nothing to lessen the appeal of her legs. In fact, the visible part from the bottom of her flapping skirt to her shoes was so well-formed and pristine that it could not help but excite the imagination as to what slender beauty the skirt concealed. She wore a button-up jacket of the same color as her skirt--that being a dark navy blue--which gave her beauty a flavor of formality.

The tall, slender woman was both proud and confident in stride and style. It was clear that she was on a mission which would not tolerate any obstacles. Yet, her neat, white gloves, fashionable fascinator-hat, long locks of curled, dark-brown hair and playful looks shot at passersby indicated a personality less than formal. Could it be that her style was an alloy of business and pleasure--entertaining the fancies and whims of a wide-eyed, spirited girl while also encompassing a woman passionate for her profession? Or was it a tool in her professional arsenal of exacting all the information she required from her many male victims? One cannot be certain. All one was certain of regarding Brooke was that she was the embodiment of two words: charm and elegance.

And where might such a woman be going on a blistering summer day in the city in such a state? She wondered what lay in store, herself, when she thought back on the assignment she had been given that morning.

"Bailey, I need you to go down to the Bergman Convention Hall to cover a pie fight between the alum of two clown colleges. Martin won't be able to cover it."

"Did you say, 'pie fight?'"

"Yeah. Some colleges have football. These clowns have pies."

Pies. It was an intriguing concept to Brooke. She had seen people get pies in the face in old movies, television shows, and cartoons. Yet, she had never understood why people find the act funny--she just didn't get it. And it was in that misunderstanding that she saw an opportunity--an opportunity to explore the deeper experience and meaning for those who hurl cream pies at each other. Why do people throw pies at each other? Why do people find it funny? The answer to these questions and more lay inside the Bergman Convention Hall.

The moment Brooke stepped through the door and inside the hall, her face narrowly missed a direct hit from a pie that hit the wall next to the door. Tiny drops of cream and filling had grazed Brooke's left shoulder. She gently brushed them off and took in the scene around her. There was a constant crashing of pies as they splattered over people and objects at high velocity all throughout the large hall. The tins echoed as they fell to the floor after use. One could hear a lively polka played from speakers to underscore the madness.

It was a simple set-up. On one side of the hall was a long row of tables used as a barrier for one school of graduate clowns with a row behind them of baking racks wall-to-wall loaded with hundreds of pies. Clowns ran back and forth between the racks and the table with pies to hurl across the hall. They were all aiming for clowns behind an identical barrier throwing pies from an identical rack.

Every surface was getting more and more covered in a creamy, sticky mess. The walls were covered in missed shots--leaving large, round splatters behind and occasionally a tin sliding slowly downward. The floor was littered with empty tins--having discarded their payloads of cream, custard, and crust. Aside from the dominant white of the whipped cream, a rainbow of brightly colored creams and various fillings painted the hall. Dripping splatters of dark, purple blueberry, shiny red cherry, light yellow coconut pudding, rich brown chocolate, and many many more covered the walls, floor, tables, and clowns in the hall. The smell was incredible. Despite all the chaos and heat, the whole hall exuded that sweet smell that every dessert-bakery exudes with its fresh-baked goods.

Brooke was was spell-bound at the sight of the pies flying across the room. Shouts and laughter mingled with the smashing of pies and silly polka. There was a lively, care-free cadence to the event--not the complete anarchy she had expected. She smiled for a moment to see such comedic merriment, then quickly stepped out the the way to avoid a stray pie which would have hit her feet.

At the moment, she did not wish to be hit by any pies. While she had planned to dodge the pies, she also had not expected the fight to be so large a battle. She slowly made her way down the aisle behind one of the rows of clowns. The floor was covered in pie-goop and tins. Brooke treaded carefully to avoid directly stepping in piles of spilled pie. Some patches could be sticky and others were quite slippery. If she were to make the slightest mistake, she could trip and fall onto the messy floor--a mistake that would leave her covered head-to-toe in a rainbow of discarded dessert-stuffs.

As she slowly weaved her way across the floor, she narrowly avoided being hit by several pies while doing so. It is uncertain if these were just randomly thrown pies which missed their clown targets and almost got lucky on Brooke or if the clowns across the hall saw the smartly dressed news-lady and were aiming to spoil her neat outfit and clean appearance. So many types of pies came within inches of hitting her. Some, she saw coming and evaded, while others she narrowly dodged unintentionally while trying to get from one relatively clean patch of ground to the next. Some slowly arc-ed their way through the air while others whizzed by at high speed.

She finally came to the end of the row and saw a clown carefully aiming a pie he was readying to lob across the hall. Brooke eagerly addressed him.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm a reporter for the Daily paper and I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer some questions for me," she said in a direct tone. The clown didn't even turn to look at her. He lunged forward to throw the pie, then snapped around to walk over to the rack to select his next pie. Despite being at the end of the row, he was covered in pie. While he must have been preoccupied throwing pies, he must have heard Lizzy, because he answered without turning to look,

"Sure, ask away."

"This is quite an event, would you mind telling me which school you and your teammates represent?"

"Clown National University of Minnesota."

"Tell me, have you been looking forward to this...pie fight?"

"Oh yeah! As a clown, it's very rare to be in a full-on pie fight with real pies. For our routines, we typically use a couple of pies made from shaving foam. Woah! Watch out!"

Brooke ducked at the clown's instruction and narrowly missed a direct blueberry pie to the side of her face.

"Thanks! So, real pies, huh? What kind of pies are you all throwing and how many did you start out with?"

"Well, all kinds of pie. Banana, coconut, chocolate, cherry, strawberry, peanut butter, blueberry, butterscotch, custard, blackberry, and mostly cream. We have several different colors of whipping cream to decorate the pies. And how many? Believe it or not, we are throwing 4,000 pies here, today. 2,000 per side."

Suddenly, a cream pie struck the man square in the face. Brooke gave a slight gasp and held her hand up to her mouth, saying,

"Oh my!"

The clown took two fingers and slowly wiped the pie out of his eyes, licked his lips, then went on as if nothing had happened.

"Mmm, coconut cream," he said.

"So, I really want to know, what is it about a pie fight that clowns see as funny? What is it like to both throw pies and be hit by them? Why do you all do it?"

He looked slightly annoyed now, but said,

"You know who you oughta ask? Joe Flipps--he specialized in pie-throwing. He's down that way. Wearing a chef costume."

"Oh, thank you so much for your help!"

"No problem, lady," he said as a French silk pie exploded across the side of his face.

Brooke made her way back down the aisle once more narrowly dodging pies. She saw a clown covered in pie wearing what must have been a chef-costume at some point. She asked,

"Excuse me, are you Joe Flipps?"

"Yeah, who are you, lady?" He said as he turned around. He looked her in the eye and seemed much more engaged in talking to her.

"My name is Bailey--Brooke Bailey, I'm a reporter for the Daily paper, and I wanted to ask you some questions about the pie-fight."

"Why certainly. I've always got time for the press," he said as a banana cream pie crashed into the back of his head. Brooke asked,

"So, what is the whole deal with clowns and pies? What makes throwing a pie or getting a pie in the face funny? I, personally, don't understand."

"Oh, I see. Well, ya see, pies are an ancient tradition of the clown. It starts off with either an innocent mistake or clown wanting to humiliate another. Once a clown is pied, they'll take their own pie and seek revenge. Then, an accident can send the pie careening into the face of an innocent bystander, and slowly, it grows into a massive pie-fight such as this."

"What does it feel like to get a pie in the face?"

"Well, it's quite an amazing sensation--a key moment of humiliation perfected. Ummm...lemme ask, have you, miss, ever had a pie in your face?"

"Who? Me? Oh, no! Not at all."

"Well, would you like a demonstration?" He said as he picked up a fresh cherry pie and held it in a menacing way.

"Oh, No no no! Thanks for the offer, but I'm good. Just taking down comments right now. I'm totally fine."

"Awright, I see. Just know that seeing someone get hit with a pie when they aren't expecting it is the key to the pie's humor. Surprise is the key. And humiliation is another key. The more dignified and proper a person is, the funnier it is to see all their dignity removed with a simple, sloppy pie in their face."

"Got it, thank you, sir. Our photographer will be along shortly to take pictures."

"Oh, and one more thing," he said as Brooke walked away, "No one walks into a pie fight and comes out clean. The cleaner they try to stay, the messier they typically get."

Brooke walked away with his warning on her mind. She had come this far without being hit. All she had to do was ask questions from at least one clown with the other college, then she'd be done. She did her best to cross over to the other side as quickly as she could without falling. This no-mans-land between the clowns was the most intense area of the fight. The closer she came to the other side, the harder it became to dodge the dozens of cream pies thrown directly at her. Yet, somehow, she made it through the barrage unscathed to the other side. As she adjusted her hat, she thought to herself,

"I made it through! Now I just have to interview one of these clowns and I'll have made it!"

Yet, as she thought about which clown to ask, she realized that she still didn't understand what made the pie-in-the-face so funny. Then, she got an idea. She put away her notebook and walked over to the pie rack. She found a banana cream pie and carefully picked it up. She spotted one clown busy trying to aim a pie at the front. She slowly came up behind him and tapped his shoulder from behind--too late to turn back now. As soon as he spun around, Brooke smashed the pie as hard as she could into his face! And in that moment, as the clown stumbled backward with a pie-tin in his face and banana filling running down his clothes, Brooke began to laugh. After the tin fell off, the clown wiped the pie out of his face and gasped in indignation. Brooke began to laugh a lot now! She had finally gotten it--pies in the face were funny.

She immediately ceased to laugh as the clown went and picked up a strawberry pie from the rack and walked towards Brooke. She panicked as he prepared to throw the pie into her face. Yet just as the pie was about to hit her, she ducked, and it hit the clown behind her. The clown behind her took the pie he was about to throw and nailed the first clown in the face with it. Brooke stepped back to enjoy the mini-feud she had started. More clowns joined in, and Brooke lost herself laughing at the brightly colored comedians getting pie all over them. But, just as she was laughing at the predicament, she felt a tap at her shoulder. She instinctively turned around without thinking, then SPLAT!

Everything went dark. A cold, slimy feeling enveloped her face. She felt goop Dripping down her chin and onto her jacket. All she could taste or smell was the light, sweet taste of coconut. She lifted her fingers to her face and felt the solid metal of a pie tin firmly in place. It slowly slid off the goop and fell to the floor with a clatter. She still couldn't see, so she carefully wiped the crust, cream, and filling out of her eyes. She could now see and hear several clowns laughing at her. She gasped in anger, but before she could grab a pie, another pie hit her right in the face--a French silk. And this was immediately followed by two pies to the sides of her head--two more coconut creams. And it was topped off with a peanut butter cream pie on top of her head--over her small hat.

Blinded, Brooke tried to run away--away from the direction of the pies. But, just when she had run a short distance, she wiped the chocolate goop out of her face and saw that she had walked right into the middle of the crossfire zone. She couldn't dodge the pies this time, and all the clowns on both sides decided to aim directly for her. It was an unrelenting barrage of custard pies. They exploded all over her. And within seconds, she was covered head-to-toe in every flavor of pie. They exploded all over her as she stumbled about blindly flailing for mercy. She was caked with cream and crust from every side.

She stumbled out of the hall covered completely in pies. She must have been hit by 500. And as onlookers laughed at her, she tried to wipe the goop out of her face, and she smiled. She could now understand what made the pie-in-the-face so funny. But now, the joke was on her and so were the pies. She ran back inside to join the remainder of the pie fight--getting as messy and pied as possible.