Clown: someone who performs in a silly fashion
“If you’re going to wear a mask at least make it scary.”
The clown simply rocked back and forth on the floor, its grin locked in a grimace.
“Seriously, you’re wasting your time on me, I’m far too bitter, twisted, jaded, pragmatic, cynical, spiteful, angry… you want me to go on? It’s a long list, it really is.”
The clown cocked his head menacingly.
“I’m not even ticklish.”
The lights flickered, the room then plunging into darkness.
“Titty fucking Christ,” pulling his phone and hitting the flashlight button. The room illuminated and the clown was gone. Obviously. He shook his head, sighing. “I know you’re stood behind me, such a fucking cliché. I’m not even going to turn around.”
There was a sound, possibly something being drawn from a sheath, then the feel of hot breath on his neck.
“Is that a knife or a machete? Because my knife, although small, is accompanied by a will—not to mention a life-time guarantee—that, I state again, is bitter, twisted, jaded, pragmatic, cynical, spiteful and angry. You could probably take off my arm and I’d still come for you. Still hurt you. Probably kill you. Because I’m fuelled by apathy and annoyance and you’re… well, not. Not to this extent, I assure you.
“And you’re not a fucking ghost or some vengeful spirit, either, I know—I have to live in the real fucking world, which is far worse than any fucking nightmare fantasy you could conjure up—you’re just an asshole preying on people’s insecurities in a… well, to be fair,” a chuckle, “it looks pretty expensive… fancy dress costume. But,” a small shake of his head, “that doesn’t do it for me. I lost my parents. My family. I have a chronic illness—I’ve already been told I’m going to die, for fuck’s sake—and my ex glassed me in the face because I didn’t do the fucking washing up. So do you really think, in all your fucking wisdom, in all your evil capacity, your magnificently impeded splendour, that you deserve a shot? That you stand a chance? Because you don’t, you don’t even compare, don’t even come close—I mean, do you really think you’re scarier than reality, than my life? Than anyone’s fucking life? The world, if you haven’t noticed, has gone to a weird fucking place recently.”
Another movement; a shuffling sound.
“People pretend they’re scared of shit like this because it’s easy, a release, but it’s projection, a fake fear. Not real. We’re scared of clowns because the thought of being scared by reality is worse. Sometimes people forget that.” A smile. “But I don’t. So,” turning around, “what the fuck are you going to do about that, cuddles?”
© JR Bryden, 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from JR Bryden is strictly prohibited.