donning a rainbow wig. The pedophile clowns who, thanks to
overzealous cops with no search warrant, got away with raping a young boy. The
ones she punished with an edited sentence of penile dismemberment.
She wanted to scream, call the cops. Do something, anything
to put them away. To prevent them from ruining another child’s life. But she
was riveted to the floor. All she could do was stab them in the crotch with an
imaginary red pen, powerless to complete the act in real life.
The rainbow-wigged one slapped the other on the back and
laughed. They climbed into the van and pulled into traffic.
Billie ran to the bathroom, pushed open a stall door, fell
to her knees, and vomited her chicken Caesar wrap into the toilet. She called
silently to God and apologized for her murderous intentions. She was going way
over their unspoken agreed-to allotment of dark thoughts.
As usual, God ignored her.
Maybe it was time to update that agreement. After all, she
wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore. She was a chicken-shit woman.
Roger the Clown
“I AM SO SICK of fucking
toddlers. Man, I need a beer.” Roger yanked his rainbow wig from his head and
scratched his bald scalp.
“Maybe birthday clown wasn’t your best career choice, you
stupid fuck.”
Roger kicked Colin in the butt of his oversized polka dot
pants. “Shut yer trap.” Roger lit a cigarette and watched a group of four boys
ride by on their bikes. “The work sucks, but you can’t beat the side benefits.”
He tapped Colin with the back of his hand and pointed half a block up the
street. “Ready?”
“Always ready.”
Roger dropped his cigarette to the pavement and ground it
out with the toe of his giant, red shoe. He set his wig back on and tugged it
over his ears, his eyes trained on a fifth boy, a straggler who kept falling
farther back from his friends.
“Come on, Alan, pedal faster.” The volume of the boys’ calls
dropped with each block of distance they put between them and the slowpoke.
Roger grinned. There was always one left behind. The weakest
member of the pack. Easy pickings. No marines, these kids.
Semper fucking fi.
Roger scanned the street. It was long past suppertime, the
sunlight waning. Families were inside prepping for lights out. The
neighbourhood was quiet, almost in stasis. The perfect hunting time. No one to
hear the muffled screams of the sole weak link.
He stepped into the road and tossed a glance over his
shoulder. Where the hell did Colin disappear to? And why wasn’t the van door
open and ready? “Colin,” he hissed. “Haul ass.” He ran his hands down the apple
pattern that dotted his pants and strutted his wide-legged clown walk diagonally
down the street toward the boy.
The kid had dismounted his bike and was walking it up the
inclined sidewalk. Ten yards away, he stopped and smiled at Roger. Then he
smirked. “Nice wig.”
Little shit. Mocking the clown. He’d soon learn.
Never. Mock. The clown.
A guttural moan cut through the silence, then a dull thud.
Roger eyed the boy, his groin throbbed and ached. He looked back at the van.
Through the passenger window, Colin’s rubber baldhead and polyester spun hair
hit the windshield. A scream split the night.
“Colin!” Roger turned back to the boy and mentally groped
his untouched, soft, naïve flesh. “Damn it.”
The kid’s smile had melted into a look of wide-eyed horror,
his eyes pinned on the van. He put his feet on his pedals and found the
adrenaline-fueled strength to speed his bike up the sidewalk.
Roger grabbed his wig with both hands and ripped it from his
head, watched his victim put too much distance between them to catch up. He
couldn’t race after him. Not in clown shoes. “Shit!” Kid was right there, a
sitting duck. So close he could taste him. Fucking Colin, probably just a clap
scream. Another painful piss.
Roger spun around. “Damn it, Colin.” Roger lifted his knees
high and managed a comical jog. He stopped short at the
overzealous cops with no search warrant, got away with raping a young boy. The
ones she punished with an edited sentence of penile dismemberment.
She wanted to scream, call the cops. Do something, anything
to put them away. To prevent them from ruining another child’s life. But she
was riveted to the floor. All she could do was stab them in the crotch with an
imaginary red pen, powerless to complete the act in real life.
The rainbow-wigged one slapped the other on the back and
laughed. They climbed into the van and pulled into traffic.
Billie ran to the bathroom, pushed open a stall door, fell
to her knees, and vomited her chicken Caesar wrap into the toilet. She called
silently to God and apologized for her murderous intentions. She was going way
over their unspoken agreed-to allotment of dark thoughts.
As usual, God ignored her.
Maybe it was time to update that agreement. After all, she
wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore. She was a chicken-shit woman.
Roger the Clown
“I AM SO SICK of fucking
toddlers. Man, I need a beer.” Roger yanked his rainbow wig from his head and
scratched his bald scalp.
“Maybe birthday clown wasn’t your best career choice, you
stupid fuck.”
Roger kicked Colin in the butt of his oversized polka dot
pants. “Shut yer trap.” Roger lit a cigarette and watched a group of four boys
ride by on their bikes. “The work sucks, but you can’t beat the side benefits.”
He tapped Colin with the back of his hand and pointed half a block up the
street. “Ready?”
“Always ready.”
Roger dropped his cigarette to the pavement and ground it
out with the toe of his giant, red shoe. He set his wig back on and tugged it
over his ears, his eyes trained on a fifth boy, a straggler who kept falling
farther back from his friends.
“Come on, Alan, pedal faster.” The volume of the boys’ calls
dropped with each block of distance they put between them and the slowpoke.
Roger grinned. There was always one left behind. The weakest
member of the pack. Easy pickings. No marines, these kids.
Semper fucking fi.
Roger scanned the street. It was long past suppertime, the
sunlight waning. Families were inside prepping for lights out. The
neighbourhood was quiet, almost in stasis. The perfect hunting time. No one to
hear the muffled screams of the sole weak link.
He stepped into the road and tossed a glance over his
shoulder. Where the hell did Colin disappear to? And why wasn’t the van door
open and ready? “Colin,” he hissed. “Haul ass.” He ran his hands down the apple
pattern that dotted his pants and strutted his wide-legged clown walk diagonally
down the street toward the boy.
The kid had dismounted his bike and was walking it up the
inclined sidewalk. Ten yards away, he stopped and smiled at Roger. Then he
smirked. “Nice wig.”
Little shit. Mocking the clown. He’d soon learn.
Never. Mock. The clown.
A guttural moan cut through the silence, then a dull thud.
Roger eyed the boy, his groin throbbed and ached. He looked back at the van.
Through the passenger window, Colin’s rubber baldhead and polyester spun hair
hit the windshield. A scream split the night.
“Colin!” Roger turned back to the boy and mentally groped
his untouched, soft, naïve flesh. “Damn it.”
The kid’s smile had melted into a look of wide-eyed horror,
his eyes pinned on the van. He put his feet on his pedals and found the
adrenaline-fueled strength to speed his bike up the sidewalk.
Roger grabbed his wig with both hands and ripped it from his
head, watched his victim put too much distance between them to catch up. He
couldn’t race after him. Not in clown shoes. “Shit!” Kid was right there, a
sitting duck. So close he could taste him. Fucking Colin, probably just a clap
scream. Another painful piss.
Roger spun around. “Damn it, Colin.” Roger lifted his knees
high and managed a comical jog. He stopped short at the
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