The Guild of Fallen Clowns

The Guild of Fallen Clowns

  Francis Xavier

  Copyright © 2011 Francis Xavier

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Francis Xavier.

  To: Kathy

  Subject: Book Dedication

  I know you probably shouldn’t see this before the book comes out, but you know me. I’m too impulsive and impatient to keep a secret. What do you think?

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my first wife, Kathy. Without her support and belief in my ability to pull it off, I never would have started writing this story. Even in the darkest of times, she never gave up on me. She truly deserves this dedication because The Guild of Fallen Clowns wouldn’t exist without her love. The Guild would still be floating around with dozens of other crazy ideas in my ADD-afflicted brain.

  So, for anyone who ends up having nightmares or creepy clown visitations in your dreams after reading this book, don’t blame me. It’s all Kathy’s fault. She’s responsible for unleashing Peepers and the guild of creepy clowns into our world. If it weren’t for her loving support, I’d still be the only person haunted by these spirits, and all of you would be sleeping much better. Blame Kathy.

  I love you, baby! Thanks for not trading me in (yet) for husband number two.

  Kathy’s reply:

  What does husband number two look like?

  Chapter 1

  The sad clown’s face wilted as his predicament became most dire. The imposing figure glaring down at him was that of Peepers— the dark clown—casually swinging his black sword from hand to hand, savoring the moment as he contemplated the fate of his wounded foe.

  Blood oozed from the open gash across Boogy’s thigh, dripping to the dirt floor of the big top. This once majestic leader found his only remaining support to be that of the center pole. Dazed and helpless, Boogy’s eyes rose to meet those of the dark clown. Peeper’s eyes widened; the sides of his cracked red lips tipped upward against the anemic backdrop of his face. His grin parted to a full-blown smile, exposing long, sharpened teeth. Boogy’s fear appeared to feed Peeper’s perverse hunger. It was much more than a power grab for this twisted challenger. His satiation came from drinking up every last expression of fright in the faces of his hopeless victims.

  In an attempt to extract maximum terror from his prey, Peepers made several lunges and half swings of his sword, stopping short of killing the sad clown.

  The torment became too much for Boogy. He barked a final plea. “Get it over with already. Kill me, you bastard!”

  Sadistic bliss washed over Peepers’ face. Towering at close to seven feet with his tattered top hat, the lanky frame of the creepy clown folded at the waist toward Boogy. Inches from his face, Peepers glared into Boogy’s eyes. His head tilted back and forth as he examined the source of the contentious command.

  Boogy’s eyes closed. “Stop playing games and show me what you’re here for!”

  The smug grin returned to Peepers’ monstrous face. “Peepers here to help you,” he whispered in a guttural voice.

  “Funny way of showing it,” Boogy said with his eyes still shut. “Just do it and stop toying with me.”

  “Help yes. Peepers free Boogy.”

  Boogy’s eyes opened to a squint. “After all this you’re going to let me go? I don’t understand.”

  “Boogy’s spirit strong. Peepers free Boogy. Grow strong together.”

  Boogy’s eyes opened. “You’ll spare me if I join you? No freaking way, you sick freak! Kill me now!”

  Still mere inches from Boogy’s piercing scowl, Peepers cracked a smile before returning his body upright. Breaking eye contact with his captive, he looked down at his hands gripping his broadsword, while its tip rocked in the dirt. He returned his focus on the sad clown and appeared pleased with Boogy’s decision. He hoisted the heavy sword above his head. Boogy’s eyes shut as he braced himself for what was to come.

  “Strong we both shall be,” Peepers said. Without hesitation, Peepers drove the sword with all his might through Boogy. His body offered little resistance as the lifeless halves fell in opposite directions.

  YOU LOSE!

  Please try your luck again in:

  CLOWN WORLD.

  *****

  Right as the words flashed across Alan’s computer screen, the phone on the table beside him rang, snapping him out of his virtual mindset. “Now what am I supposed to do?” he muttered to himself as he reached to answer the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Boogy, this is Cracky down at the carnival.”

  “Oh, hi, Cracky, what’s up?”

  “We was wondering if you might come out a day early. It’s lookin’ like tomorrow’s not gonna be a washout after all. And wid it being da first day, we think it might get a little crowded down here.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” Boogy—whose real name was Alan—said as he flipped his laptop closed and stood from the couch. “What time do you want me?”

  “Well, gates open at ten, so I was thinkin’ maybe a half hour early so I can give you da nickel tour before things get started.”

  Alan paused for a second. “Yeah, yeah, that should work— but my other job starts at four, so I’ll have to leave by three-thirty.”

  “Hey, no problem, Boogy. I’m just glad you can come out on such short notice and all. Hey, pal, we’ll see you in the AM then.” Cracky hung up, avoiding the customary good-bye.

  Alan’s body ached after his sedentary four-hour Clown World marathon. He stretched his stiffened muscles and returned the handset to its cradle. As he glanced back at the laptop resting beside a well-worn crater in the frayed, plaid couch, his mind returned to the game, in which moments earlier he was viewed as royalty. To him, other characters were real people just like him, living out their fantasies in front of similar computer screens around the world. His Boogy avatar wasn’t entirely fictional. He was a very real part of Alan’s existence. Now, thanks to this Peepers character, Alan was forced to mourn the death of his own virtual life.

  In his small apartment, it was a short walk from the couch/bed to the walk-in closet beside the bathroom. In typical bachelor fashion, Alan had little use for the hanging rods spanning three of the closet walls. Five identical pullover shirts were the only items taking up a small piece of real estate on one of the rods. The floor, however, had a couple of suitcases and stacked piles of loosely folded clothes beside an overflowing laundry basket. It looked as if someone was living in a temporary situation until the furniture arrived. Sadly, this wasn’t the case. These stacks, and unused rod space, had changed little during the twelve years Alan called the studio apartment home.

  He removed one of the green shirts from a hanger and placed it on the counter beside the sink. Next, he peeled off his faded, semi-transparent Hootie & the Blowfish T-shirt, listing tour dates from 1995, and tossed it toward the back wall of the closet, where it landed on top of the dirty clothes pile and continued to tumble to the floor before resting on overflows to the left side of the basket. His routine was down, and within a couple of minutes he emerged from the bathroom wearing his Vince’s Pizza shirt.

  Without looking, he grabbed his keys from a wall hook opposite the front door and peered through the peephole. His was the rear apartment on the second floor of the two-story building. An open-air stairwell separated two units on each side.

&n
bsp; All was clear, so he stepped outside, walking with the same stealth that a mother moves around a houseful of napping babies. As he approached the bottom of the stairs, the air began thumping from the sudden introduction of obnoxiously loud music coming from one of the apartments. He wasn’t able to distinguish which apartment, but due to the growing intensity and obvious lack of consideration for other tenants in the condensed complex, he knew the jarring noise could only come from one place, Lyle’s apartment.

  Lyle lived across the hall, in the front of the building. Alan continued toward the row of parked cars lined up in front of the building. As he moved from the stairwell, the noise grew louder. He glanced up, confirming his suspicion. It was Lyle playing the music. He was entertaining three friends on his balcony, with his stereo positioned so that it was pressed against the rails, facing out as they talked and drank beer.

  Alan continued toward his car, which was parked directly below Lyle’s apartment. The instant Lyle noticed him, the conversation stopped. Lyle stood and shouted out to his buddies, “Hey, guys, guys, watch this.”

  Alan purposely avoided looking up at them. It didn’t take long for him to discover what Lyle was alerting his friends to. Lyle’s car was parked less than a foot from the driver side of his own. Alan stopped to assess the situation as Lyle and his goons busted out in mocking laughter. Alan tried his best to ignore them.

  Still laughing, Lyle shouted, “Hey, BOOGER! Looks like you have a little problem there.” He snickered and added, “You better not touch my car, Booger. If you do, I’ll come down there and beat the snot out of you.” His pun was quickly acknowledged with a new round of howling laughter from the audience on the balcony.

  Alan sighed and continued on to the passenger side of his car. His decision to find the least confrontational solution to the problem at hand fed the amusement of his audience. He aimed his keys toward the door and pressed the “unlock” button on his remote. Clicking sounds came from inside the car. However, the passenger door of his old economy car remained locked. The roaring gallery found pleasure in Alan’s comical efforts to flee their taunting.

  Still avoiding eye contact, Alan unlocked the door with his key. He climbed in and started to work his way over the center column. The space was tight and difficult to maneuver. Just as he twisted his body over the shifter, his remote’s panic button accidentally activated, filling the air with the annoyingly loud, rhythmic honking of the car’s horn. This, combined with Lyle’s radio blasting and the chuckleheads’ hysterical laughing at Alan’s awkward dance into the driver’s seat, was a sight to behold. As a matter of fact, the commotion drew the attention of at least a half dozen onlooking residents of the Meadowbrook apartment complex.

  Alan deactivated the panic button and started the car without hesitation. Before he could shift to reverse, a half-empty can crashed against his windshield. Beer burst out, temporarily obstructing his view with foam. After a few swipes from the wipers, Alan could see Lyle looking down from his balcony, motioning Alan to roll down his window. He cracked it open enough to hear Lyle’s last bit of advice.

  “If you scratch my car, you’re a dead man. You best be careful, Booger!”

  Through clenched teeth and still lips, Alan rolled up the window and mumbled, “Yeah, right. Keep picking on Alan, why don’t you? You know I won’t fight back.” He cautiously backed his car out and drove away. In his rearview mirror, he saw Lyle and his friends still celebrating at his expense and public humiliation.

  Alan continued to let out his pent-up aggression. “Go on, laugh at me as I drive away in fear from you. Don’t you look tough, Lyle? I’m sure your friends think you’re some sort of big tough-ass punk for picking on someone bigger than yourself. That’s right, I know that I’m bigger than you. And if you ever push me too far, well, heaven help us both, because I don’t know what I’m capable of. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t fight back, Lyle. Maybe I’m not the wimp you think I am. Maybe the only thing I’m really afraid of is going to jail for killing your ass. Yeah, so you better back off, or things might get ugly. You really don’t want to see what might happen if you push Boogy too far. Did you hear that, Lyle? It’s Boogy, not Booger. Boogy!”

  *****

  Alan’s car disappeared from the complex as onlookers returned to their lives. One of the witnesses to the spectacle was an elderly man walking his dog. He glared up at the gang. Lyle noticed the look. He puffed out his chest and shouted, “What are you looking at, old man?”

  The older gentleman didn’t take his visual aim off Lyle. He simply shook his head and softly replied, “Nothing.” Returning attention to his dog, he continued on his walk. Lyle viewed it as a retreat and decided to let it go with a glib chuckle. Turning back to his cheering section, Lyle said, “Who wants another beer? I’m buying.”

  Chapter 2

  Bells above the glass door rang as Alan rushed into the shop.

  “You’re late!” Joe announced without taking his attention off the task of boxing a freshly baked pizza.

  “Sorry, Joe. I would have been here on time except—”

  Before Alan could finish his excuse, Joe cut in, “Let me guess, car trouble.”

  Alan paused to consider Joe’s explanation. “Uh, yeah, you could say that.”

  Still avoiding eye contact, Joe put his hand up, halting Alan from punching in. Alan froze as Joe grabbed a pizza peel and slid it under a baking pizza to check the crust. With a quick jerk, he shifted the pizza deeper in the oven and returned the peel.

  Wiping his hands in his apron, he looked directly at Alan. He didn’t say a word, but Alan knew from his expression that his late arrival wasn’t going to be overlooked. After a short pause, Joe simply tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, motioning Alan to follow him to his supply closet/office at the rear of the shop.

  As Alan followed, he tried in vain to apologize once more. “I’m really sorry, Joe, but I’m not even five minutes late.”

  Joe ignored his plea as they walked past three teenagers deeply focused on their tasks. After they passed, the young employees glanced at each other in shocked disbelief.

  Joe opened the door and motioned Alan to the five-gallon sauce bucket in front of his desk. Alan slid the bucket to a suitable location and sat on it. As soon as Joe closed the door behind them, Jamie’s voice came over the intercom. “Joe, your mother is on line one.”

  “I got it. Thanks, Jamie.” The phone rang once. Joe picked it up. “Hi, Mom, is everything okay?” He looked at Alan and held up his index finger, indicating this would only take a minute. Alan nodded and leaned against stacked cases of napkins behind him.

  Within seconds of listening to his mother, Joe’s stern expression turned to a frustrated smirk.

  “Ma, you’ll have to wait…no…no, listen—Ma. I can’t tell you how to do it—” He looked at Alan and rolled his eyes before trying to interject a second time. “No, Mom, hold on a second...Wait…please stop talking…so…” Another failed attempt. Joe lowered the handset to his desk and looked to Alan for sympathy. Alan grinned. Joe returned the phone to his ear.

  “Ma!” he snapped. This more forceful command acted like a needle being temporarily lifted from a spinning record. She instantly stopped chattering. Seizing the opportunity to be heard, he continued, “You know I can’t help you with this over the phone. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ll show you then, okay?”

  The needle returned to its place on her side of the conversation and she continued as if he said nothing. Joe placed his free hand over his forehead as his head snapped back.

  “Look, Ma, I can’t do this now. I gotta unload the truck. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.” He lowered the handset; her voice continued until he released it on the cradle.

  “Aaah!” Joe blurted out in frustration. “I love my mother, but she just doesn’t listen. I never should have bought her that computer. It’s my own fault. It’s my own fault. I knew this was going to happen. So what did I do? I bought her a freakin
’ computer. I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking?”

  Alan smiled. “Maybe you were thinking she wouldn’t call as often if she had another way of keeping in touch with you.”

  Joe nodded. “You know what, Alan? You might be right about that. Come to think of it, the first thing I showed her was how to send email. I can get through an email much faster than talking to her on the phone.”

  “So what was her problem?” Alan asked.

  “Oh, you’re gonna love this,” Joe said. “She wanted to send pictures to her sister, but she forgot how to get the pictures from her camera to the computer. And she forgot how to attach pictures to an email. I showed her this stuff fifteen times already. God love her.”

  Alan chuckled and Joe smiled.

  Joe’s expression instantly shifted to guilty embarrassment. “I’m not complaining, Alan. I really do love my mother and I appreciate the fact that she’s still around to give me agida. I don’t mean to disrespect your situation. I mean, I’m sure you must think—well, you know—if—”

  Alan quickly realized where Joe was going with this and cut in. “Oh— god no, Joe! No offense taken.”

  “Oh good,” Joe said. “I wasn’t thinking. Here I am hanging up on my mother with you sitting there wishing you could talk to yours again, rest her soul.”

  “Forget about it, Joe. I’m fine—really.”

  Joe put his hand over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, thank god, because I didn’t want to be mean to you twice in one day.”

  “Mean?” Alan asked.

  “Well, Alan, here’s the thing. You were late today.”

  “I was only a few minutes late.”

  “True as that may be, those few minutes happen a lot. Now, personally, I don’t really care about a few minutes here and there because you’re a good worker, but the problem isn’t about that. The problem is that the kids see you doing it, and then they start doing it. Only, for them, it’s ten or twenty minutes late. If I say anything to them, they ask why I never say anything to you. They think I’m showing favoritism—and I gotta say, they might be right.”

  Alan nodded. “I totally understand, Joe.”