4 members
Space Clowns Anonymous / SPACECLOWN
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Freelancing -
Bounty Hunting
We are Space Clowns Anonymous, and we are here to make the ‘verse worse on purpose.
Your mining op? Ruined.
Your mercenary contract? Failed.
Your ship? Full of clowns screaming about how you just got clowned and launching railgun projectiles at the life support module.
The Jam? Pumped.
History
The true origins of Space Clowns Anonymous are unclear, mostly because everyone involved was either lying, hallucinating, or in the middle of trying to backflip a tank off a mining platform. Some say the group formed during a failed cargo mission when six idiots accidentally locked themselves in a storage bay with nothing but expired burritos and a portable speaker looping “Pump Up the Jam” at maximum volume. Others claim the first clown was born in the void between server crashes, mid-desync, blessed by the god of latency and cursed with infinite enthusiasm.
Early records were kept in crayon on napkins, most of which were later eaten or used to absorb energy drink spills. What little survives tells of the Great T-Pose Uprising of 2952, when seventeen members tried to overthrow a lawful org by repeatedly emoting “salute” in front of their hangar until someone rage-quit. That same year, a mission was launched to deliver 3,000 hotdogs to MicroTech. They made it halfway before being distracted by their own reflections on the ship’s glass and crashing into an orbital billboard advertising socks.
Notable moments in clown history include the accidental declaration of war against a tourism guild (they had similar logos), the failed attempt to launch a Cyclone into space using only grenades and denial, and the infamous Daymar Incident, where clowns surrounded an outpost, played “Pump Up the Jam” through proximity chat for six hours, and somehow converted two enemy players to the cause through sheer volume and nonsense.
Historians, if they existed, would agree: Space Clowns Anonymous has contributed nothing of value to the galaxy. And yet, somehow, they persist. Like a rash. Or jazz.
To this day, no one really knows how new members join. Some are invited. Some just show up. Some are born with the honk inside them. All are welcome. Except Bridger. You know what you did, Bridger.
Manifesto
§1: THE JAM IS ETERNAL
Pump up the jam.
Pump it. Pump it louder.
Do not ask what jam. Do not question its origin.
The jam knows. The jam watches. The jam judges not.
When the stars blink in rhythm,
When your ship drifts sideways for no reason,
That is the jam, speaking through malfunction.
If your feet aren’t stompin’? You’re already lost.
§2: DOWN WITH UP, UP WITH SIDEWAYS
We reject linearity. We reject productivity.
We reject chairs that do not spin.
A mission without screaming is a failed mission.
A plan without betrayal is just a boring suggestion.
We believe in:
Vertical barrel rolls in horizontal corridors.
Melee diplomacy.
Yelling “PUMP IT” before engaging quantum drives.
Wearing undersuits backwards because it feels right.
§3: DOGS ARE SHIPS AND SHIPS ARE DOGS
You may think a Greycat STV cannot fly.
We disagree.
You may think a Cutlass can’t drift dance to “Pump Up the Jam.”
You are wrong and afraid.
Reality is a suggestion.
We do not request landing clearance.
We announce our arrival via bassline and poor decision-making.
§4: THERE IS NO RANK BUT HONK
Clown is not a role. Clown is a state of being.
Leadership is determined by who last said something incredibly dumb with confidence.
Victory is measured in unnecessary explosions.
Initiation requires only one act:
Look someone in the eyes and scream “GET YOUR BOOTY ON THE FLOOR TONIGHT” with complete sincerity.
Then fire flares at nothing. The ritual is complete.
§5: THE FINAL TRUTH
One day, all ships will be banana yellow.
One day, “Pump Up the Jam” will echo from every station speaker.
One day, UEE high command will weep as a clown convoy drifts slowly across their radar, spelling rude words in formation.
Until that day, we shall honk.
We shall flail.
We shall pump.
And we shall jam.
We are Space Clowns Anonymous.
We do not make sense.
We do not make friends.
We make noise. And very bad landings.
Pump up the manifesto.
Charter
ARTICLE I — NAME AND PURPOSE
Name: The name of this organization shall be Space Clowns Anonymous.
Purpose:
The purpose of this guild is to spread chaos, laughter, confusion, and general disobedience across the known universe, often through means that are inefficient, embarrassing, and completely unnecessary—ideally while “Pump Up the Jam” is blasting at full volume from at least one functioning speaker.
We exist to:
Disrupt expectations (and occasionally subwoofers).
Undermine seriousness (with aggressive dance breaks).
Weaponize nonsense (preferably to a sick beat).
ARTICLE II — MEMBERSHIP
Eligibility:
Membership is open to any sentient being with a pulse (optional), a ship (preferably on fire), and absolutely no intent to behave responsibly, especially when the jam is, in fact, pumped.
Admission Process:
There is no process.
Just show up.
If you ask too many questions, you’re probably not the right fit.
Bonus points if you enter the room yelling “get your booty on the floor tonight.”
Member Responsibilities:
Members are expected to:
Do stupid things with style (and rhythm).
Assist fellow clowns in stupid things (with or without music).
Never apologize unless it’s really funny (or part of the chorus).
Always go left when the plan says go right, and pump the jam while doing it.
ARTICLE III — GOVERNANCE
Leadership Structure:
There isn’t one.
The closest thing we have to leadership is whoever yelled the loudest most recently, ideally over the intro to a 90s dance track.
Voting and Decision Making:
Decisions are made via chaotic yelling, accidental violence, or whoever moves first to the beat. Tie-breakers are resolved with rock-paper-shotgun while “Pump Up the Jam” plays faintly in the background.