Strange Yarns

Clown Killer

I slipped around the dunk tank and saw it. A clown. Laughing way too hard and grabbing it's stuffed belly as children danced around it. It squatted, slapped its knees and chuckled into the air. It wore a yellow onesie with green and red polkadots. It had red gashes painted over its eyes; a face of the two of diamonds. My stomach churned. Beads of sweat boiled on my skin. Was I going to kill someone? No! I was going to kill a clown. There is a difference.   

Part of me played devil's advocate: this is just some weird librarian or crossing guard in make-up. There's a human underneath that paint and nose. Then I reminded myself of my sixth birthday and my tormentor. I had no way of knowing if this clown was the same, but did it matter? I gripped my Ginsu paring knife and waited.

I followed the clown as he goofed his way from booth to booth, finding his prey of laughing children. I let myself melt in with the corndogs and barkers and old hippy women selling braided hemp bracelets. 

Finally the clown dipped between two stalls and into a narrow alley in between Mulligan and Ride's Toy Emporium and that terrible restaurant Vegasaurus Tex. The lights from the midway made tall shadows in the alley. I crept slow. Finally the clown stopped. It leaned against a dumpster and reached into its balloon bag and pulled out a cigarette. "Gyhuck Hyuck Hyuck" rang in my head.

#

All my emotions have been poured into a blender and pureed. Glee, fright, guilt, elation, fear - they all infused into a shifting hummus that pressed on the inner wall of my skull and leaked out my sinuses. I must have stabbed that clown's face... I don't know how many times. But each time I plunged that small knife in the hideous Gyhuck hyuck hyuck of my clown seemed further away. There was a certain sense of achievement when the blade slid into a softer part of the face like under the cheek or the eye socket. And when it clinked off a hard part like the forehead it emboldened me to stab more. Oh what a night! Finding purpose is beautiful. Finding validation in that purpose is heaven.

After the deed was done I ran. I ran away from my demon clown and for the first time I felt like I was getting some distance. It wasn't entirely gleeful. I also felt like paper wasps of guilt maniacally stung my head. I killed someone. It was not my clown. But more than guilt I felt fear. Fear of getting caught. If I was put in jail, there would be nothing to stop my clown from getting me. Logic suggests that's ludicrous, but I assure you it is not. 

# 

I didn't hunt again for two years. My clown had been quieter than ever before. The frequency remained constant, but the volume lowered to near inaudible. The murder at the Hilltop Harvest Festival made the news and there was a mild panic. Sheriff Crickets was quoted in the Hilltop Herald that this could be the first of many murders.  But it wasn't. And the clown I killed was a man named Harold Spinks. He had a gambling problem and a problem controlling himself around younger boys. He wasn't missed and eventually the whole thing was forgotten about. I should say the town forgot about it. I thought about it insistently. The initial guilt I had felt washed away quickly. I knew I had done the right thing. I was set on cleansing this world of all clowns. My life depended upon it. For two years after the harvest festival I was in hibernation. 

On my eighteenth birthday I dreamt of my six birthday. I dreamt of my clown. I heard his sing-song voice, "On the night you turn twenty I'm going to find you and kill you." In my dreams my clown was a soft blur of painted white skin and mossy green hair. If only I could see my clown clearly I might be able to narrow down my hunt. I awoke an eighteen year old. Only two more years. 730 days until he comes for me unless I come for him first. I had bitten my tongue in my sleep and bled on my pillow. The white pillow and a big maroon splotch in the middle looked like clown with a big red nose. I had work to do.