‘Guns, Klowns and Gory’

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It was the kind of middle-American town where no one locked doors. Kids’ bicycles left in carefully mowed yards stayed out overnight unmolested.

Harford High’s annual clash with Cookesville on the football field was the year's biggest drama.

In this quiet burg, the annual Fall Festival sponsored by the local volunteer fire company and Royal Farms was underway.

Vintage fire trucks in shades of red and yellow with freshly burnished chrome stood sentinel over the proceedings. Suspenders clenched tight over beer bellies, the firefighters waddled proudly by their gun raffle.

“Only twenty dollars, and you can win your own AR-15–perfect for home invasions or deer.”

Flynn, a man with a long greying beard and stinking of cheap beer, walked up. “But it’s safe here, right? I don’t hunt. Why would I need that?”

“You can never be too careful—a man’s home is sacred.” The raffle runner’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Besides, you never know what they’ll get up to these days.”

Hiccuping once, Flynn took two tickets.

That night, he walked home on foot, newly acquired AR-15 in hand. He was too drunk to drive but feared leaving his weapon in his truck.

Fallen sticks and branches marred the caliginous path through the old oak grove. Only a fingernail slice of moon lit the way. Flynn cursed as his foot connected with a branch and weaved sideways.

A harsh laugh sounded nearby.

Nursing his ankle, he hobbled faster toward home.

Two round bulbs spread meager light on the driveway in front of the modest yellow rancher. Flynn paused, wondering if Amber was there, but realized she was still down with her folks in Arkansas.

Turning the key in the lock, a gust of unseasonably cold air caused his neck hair to rise. He clutched the gun tighter and pushed inside with his shoulder.

Out of the darkness, a pair of golden orbs stared back. They leaped into the air, and he almost dropped the AR-15 as he moved to catch Mittens. Ignoring Flynn’s clumsiness, she landed on his shoulder and nuzzled his face.

“Hey, girl,” he said, placing the gun on the counter. “Let me rustle up some dinner for you. Sorry, it’s late.”

Mittens jumped off his shoulder onto the counter. She cocked her head as he spoke as if understanding before licking a paw and cleaning her face.

“You warsh up better than I do, girl. Here ya go.”

Flynn grabbed a bag of peas for his swelling ankle and settled into his off-brand La-Z-Boy.

Flipping through channels, he settled on an old favorite that was more terrible than scary—‘Killer Klowns from Outer Space.’

As alien clowns harvested and ate the human denizens of a small, sleepy town, Flynn’s eyelids grew heavy. Mittens curled on his lap, and he stroked her.

A metallic scratching sound against the living room window echoed through the room.

scritch Scritch SCRITCH

Flynn awoke with a snort. “Wuh-uh?”

SCRITCH

Waxen fingers smeared crimson across the glass.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Stupid kids,” he muttered.

Glancing at the TV screen, a hand smeared blood down the glass and then smudged it clear.

A makeup-caked white face peered out, red eyebrows furrowed menacingly. “Flynn, it’s time.”

“Wow. Pranks are getting more high-tech these days. Wonder how they did it?”

“Flynn, wake up.”

He pinched himself and grimaced.

Flynn’s nervous laughter echoed in the room. “I’m a-awake. This mu-ust be the biggest practical joke ever. Whoever you are, you can come out now.”

“It’s not a joke, I promise you. Your destiny is nigh.”

“Wha-at?”

“The Klowns have arrived.”

“I’ve officially lost it.” Flynn slapped himself and groaned. “I’m awake, aren’t I?”

“Yes. And we have much to do to defeat the Klown invasion.”

“Bu-ut I’ve never killed anyone.”

“They’re aliens, not people. And if you don’t get them first, they’ll get you. Besides, in the right situation, we are all capable of the most terrible crimes.”

A bright orange-and-black striped circus ball crashed through the window. Lurid green smoke pulsed forth.

“Hurry. Grab your gun!”

Flynn glanced at the weapon and fumbled for bullets. There were none.

Hoisting the AR-15 like a baseball bat, he sprinted to the door just as it opened with a screech.

A curly red wig peered around its corner, breaching the doorway without knocking. “I see yooooou.”

Flynn swung and connected. Rivulets of radioactive orange blood and bluish brain matter mingled against its frame and oozed to the floor.

Looking past the gore, Flynn smiled. “Now, I see through you too.”

“One down, Flynn. Only a few hundred to go,” the TV encouraged.

Frowning, Flynn pulled the door open and saw legions of clowns scrambling toward his house. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth.”

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WC: 788

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