Klown

It started simply enough, just another day in high school, grade twelve, college looming in the distance, but not enough to make me worry yet. I went through the day same as always, joking laughing, enjoying having no issues. I went to football practice after school, and worked my ass off trying to make first line so my family could see me play once in awhile, Quarterback was a hard position to gun for. I worked myself to the bone for that team and got no recognition whatsoever. A kid who skipped practice to smoke pot got “best attitude” on that team. The coach never mentioned that his attitude could be due to the fact he was stoned all the time.
         I finished up the practice and limped my way to the parking lot to wait for my ride home. I was limping because during practice I had been sacked, and the guy stomped on my leg after in the scuffle. I tried not to show the pain I had felt, but by the end of practice it had stiffened up to where it was hard to walk. I waited in the parking lot with all my equipment for almost two hours waiting for my ride. I began to wonder what was going on, but I wasn't really worried yet. My mother wasn't the most reliable person in the world, not after my father had been imprisoned for murder.
          She was somewhat distracted by how she hadn't managed to notice she was sharing a house with a serial killer. “The Clown” is what the police called him, but that was alot more light-hearted than what actually happened.  He would kidnap his victims, randomly choosing them with a deck of cards. After he picked them up, he would bring them to a warehouse, but the inside was dressed like a funhouse, one you would have fond memories of playing in when you were a kid. He would lock them in there with a glass of water, spiked with a generous helping of LSD, and a lovingly prepared piece of pizza. My father was an amazing chef, and was always proud of his pizza recipe. This pizza's he fed his victims were specially made though, with another ingredient that he would never have given me. He would also spike the pizza with seven or eight slices of magic mushrooms. After the victim was hungry and thirsty enough to resort to taking food and water from his captor, they would begin to hallucinate, and they would be transported into a nightmare. After he saw they had started to hallucinate, he would project a laugh through the speaker, and evil, maniacal laugh that would make Satan's skin crawl. This laugh would instantly turn any good trips the victims were having into bad trips. Then he would don a clown mask; garnished with fake blood around the fangs he modified it with, and entered the funhouse with a knife. In his full clown suit he would then scream “Time to play!” and carnival music would pulse out the speakers. He would then hunt down the victim in this funhouse, and hack them to death. After that he would decapitate the body, carve a smile into his or her face, and stitch the card that determined their fate onto their tongue. Then he would express mail it to the victim's closest family, always from “Miles “Chuckles” Cyrus”. In court when he was confronted with what he did, he began laughing maniacally and couldn't stop. They pronounced him legally insane and he has been incarcerated in an asylum ever since. The official diagnosis was “psychopath”. Because of his mental illness, I have also been discriminated against in school, even though I've seen psychiatrists and they all said I was perfectly normal.
         My mother eventually showed up, and when she stepped out of the car I could tell something was wrong. I could see the marks where tears streaked her face, but she had a solid jaw, showing she had already accepted what happened. I saw the same face when my Dad was arrested, so I became very, very worried. “What is it Mom?” I asked, worried about the answer. “It's your sister.” She said this without looking at me. My sister was eight years old; her name was Amber, named after her birthstone. She was always a bit of a problem at school, and she was diagnosed with a minor case of psychosis and sociopath. I was worried she had hurt someone badly enough to screw up her life. “She's been diagnosed with cancer. But we caught it quick enough, we can cure it.” There was more to the story, I could tell, but I wasn't about to pressure her into telling me, she would on her own. “The country is refusing her health-care though. Free health-care, and they refuse to treat her because 'they are worried about how the cure will affect her mental state.” Basically they don't want to fix a potential killer by accident. They agreed to help her if we could pay all the expenses.” We were not a rich family by any stretch. My Mom and I both worked part time jobs to pay the bills, she worked two jobs and I worked one. Almost all of both our pay cheques goes to pay rent, and utilities. “How much is it?” I was willing to eat maybe one meal a day for a year to help my sister, but the actual cost was more like never eating ever again. “Five-Hundred thousand dollars. And they need it in a month to pay the bills.” I was shocked, I couldn't believe it. There was no chance that we could make that money in time, even if I quit school and worked three part time jobs, if I never slept. We would have to pour all our money into lottery tickets and hope for a miracle. It was a quite ride home after that.
         When I got home I rushed to my room. I needed to find a way to make that money; I couldn't lose another family member. I wasn't very close to my father, but I still loved him and missed him. I felt the walls closing in on me, a panic attack setting in from what I was about to do. I couldn't believe I even considered the notion of calling one of my father's old friends.
         When my father was arrested, my mother very quickly tried to cleanse the house of any memory of him, to purge herself of him forever. I always worried that in a spiritual sense she would never recover because I managed to get his address book and diary before she got to it. I hid them both in a loose floorboard in my room, same place I kept alcohol and pot. I opened it up today and almost reached for the bottle of vodka I had stowed, just looking for some strength to get me through the coming conversation. I instead grabbed my father's address book. I flipped to the first page. To anyone who didn't understand my father's genius, he used glue on the first two pages of the address book, it bound the pages together and hid anything written between them without tearing the pages and destroying the evidence. He used to hold it up to a light if he forgot the number of his source who kept him with a steady supply of LSD and mushrooms for his cruel hobby. I held it up to the light and after almost a half-hour of studying the paper (The light also showed number written on the outside, and it all became a jumbled mess if you didn't know what you were looking for) and eventually I got the number for Lance, my Dad's old dealer. I dialed the number slowly, breathing heavily, several times almost putting the phone down, but I also knew this was the one chance to save my sister.
         I picked up the phone and dialed the number, dreading the voice that would soon crackle out the other end. The phone rang five times, and a glimmer of hope passed through my mind that I had the wrong number or that the dealer had died. I just didn’t want to have to confront a person who was actively involved in my Dad’s past life. “Ugh? What… Who is this?” I heard Lance crackle out the other end. “It’s Cliff, I’m Jared’s son.” There was a pause on the end as the information processed its way through his drug-addled mind. “Who’s Jared?” I paused for a minute and took a deep breath before answering. I had never vocally acknowledged my father’s past. “Clown’s son.” I finally managed to murmur. There was a long pause where I was worried he would just hang up and try to forget I had called. “Yeah. All right. What’s up?” I very quickly told him about my predicament. I told him how much money I needed to make, and in how much time. He thought this over for awhile, and then finally came back with “You’ll get an envelope in the mail. You are in grade twelve right?” I told him “yes, I am”. He thought a couple seconds more. “Alright, the envelope will be addressed to you, from the University of California. Open it, and then destroy the note.” I was wondering why he couldn’t tell me on the phone, and he hadn’t made it clear how, or even if, he was going to help me. I thanked him quickly, and hung up the phone.
         The next day went by in slow motion, all of these events fighting for space in my brain. Wondering what I had gotten myself into. I tried to assure myself I had time to deal with all these thoughts, as there was no way that he could have had the envelope delivered to my house the very next day, especially after I only called him late the previous night. Then a jolt of shock ran through my body. I had never told him my address, and we had moved since my father’s incarceration. He had no way of knowing where to deliver the envelope. Still, when I got home, I went to the mailbox, dread soaking my mind as I opened it, the rusty hinge creaking.
         Sure enough there was an envelope in the mailbox, from the University of California. I hoped against all hope that it was actually from the University of California, and I wouldn’t actually have to deal with the consequences of asking my Dad’s old dealer for money. I brought it up to my room, and carefully unfolded the envelope. In it was all the money I needed, looked brand new, five-hundred thousand dollars, seperated into piles of fifties, each pile one hundred thousand dollars. I counted the money just to make sure, an uncertain grin slowly spreading across my face. When I finished, I just held the money in my hands; positive I would never see this much money again in my life. I wanted to memorize it, the feel of the paper, not regular paper, but slightly waited and textured, the smell of the newly minted money, the colour, the red fifties everywhere, eerily looking like twenties coated in blood, and most importantly the weight. The weight of all this money, more money than I could hold at one time.
         Then I looked at the envelope again, and picked it up to go dispose of it, so there would be no evidence. I felt the weight of the envelope and realized it wasn’t quite empty. I looked inside, and sure enough, in the little corner was a small black cellphone. I picked it up and studied it. It had a little camera on the front of it, and I studied it, there was a small red dot in the middle that was very odd.
         Then the phone started laughing, the same laugh my father let loose at the end of his trial, the exact same one. The one I assumed that all his victims also heard before they died. I was in shock and dropped the phone, and it skittered across the floor. I just watched it, listening to the laughter, never ending, and never stopping. When it finally did stop, an eternity later, I cautiously approached the phone and picked it up. I flipped it open and it said, “One Missed Call”. The bastard had made that laugh my ring-tone. My hands were shaking; part fear, part anger, and I hit the re-dial button. The phone rang, but was stopped very quickly. The first thing I said, just because it sounded so good in my head before, “You Bastard.” Lance jus laughed not the same evil laugh as before, just a snickering teasing laugh. Eventually his giggles subsided. “Alright Cliff, sorry about the joke, but there is a reason I’m called ‘Chuckles’” He laughed again, and I felt my face getting hot. “Alright Lance, what’s going on?” I finally said, slowly, deliberately, I didn’t want to seem too angry with him, after all he was a drug dealer and was friends with my father who was a serial killer. I wasn’t ready for what he said next. To put it briefly, he (and my father,) was part of an organized crime ring. They all called each other by nicknames all the time. Very few of them knew each other’s real names, my father and Lance being exceptions.
         And now me, because Lance also quickly told me I’d be running errands for this crime ring. Not like mail an envelope, more like deliver a suitcase full of heroin to some small-time high school kid who was a dealer. They thought it would be easy for me, considering that I was still in high school. “Cliff, one more thing. We’ll need you to meet with us tonight. The three heads of the organization and me, because I’m your ‘referral’. After that they will equip you with a nickname and a gun for running your operations.” He finished off and waited for me to respond. “What if I don’t.” There was a long pause, and then he said with intent just oozing out of every word. “Your Father was not our most dangerous man. Meet us, and destroy this phone.” And he hung up.
         I walked from my family’s apartment to the gathering. It was at an abandoned warehouse. I looked at the door, a faint idea of what I would find inside. I opened the door and sure enough the inside was a massive funhouse, much like you would see in a McDonalds Playplace. In the center there was a mushroom table, with five chairs’ four already occupied on one side, and on the other side one that I presumed was for me. “Hello Cliff.” The middle one said. He was wearing a mask that reminded me slightly of Barney, big and purple, but half the side was torn off, and you could see shiny bone underneath. I muttered a hello and walked over. I stood by the table nervously until Chuckles told me to sit down. Chuckles mask was a big mouth in a laugh; pointed teeth lined the gum-line of this mask. Inside was a very serious red face. The other two members were also wearing mask, one very closely resembling a porcelain doll, but with a single crack running down from the eye, right where the tear duct would be. The other mask was a phantom of the opera type mask, but instead of seeing his face on the other side, there was just torn skin and blood dripping down. I sat down, and in front of me was another mask. Chuckles very quickly introduced everyone, Barney, Doll, and Phantom. “That is your mask in front of you Cliff. Put it on for the meeting.” I held it up. While it was on the table I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, as it was very crumpled. Now it hung loosely from my hand and I could see it. The Clown’s mask, My father’s mask. Like a cross between Ronald McDonald and Bozo the clown but an insidious nature was lurking inside. That insidious nature used to be my father. “And now that insidious nature will be you.” Phantom said. I was shocked; it was as if he read my thoughts. Had I been talking out loud? How could he have known exactly what I was thinking?
         Phantom and the others quickly told me the actual story of my father. He was a Hitman for them. The cards stitched to the victim’s tongues weren’t what decided their fate, it was just so the police couldn’t link the murders to their cult. The victim’s weren’t random either; it was just the nature of this far-reaching gang, that it would seem random because so many people were involved. Whenever someone needed money this group would find a new recruit. “Like my Father…” I said. More a quiet recognition that he had not chosen to do those things he did. Then more explaining, the mob had only wanted simple hits, none of this card stitching decapitating nonsense. His father had done the first seven or eight hits normally but then decided to stretch his artistic talent. He eventually directed the hits to correlate with his nickname “Clown”; he wanted the police to see some other significance in the masks, to give them a puzzle to ponder over. “You’re our new Hitman Cliff. Your name when talking to anyone while doing an operation for us will be “Klown”. Spell it with a K, not a C, so there will be a difference between your father and you.” I was stunned, and tears started dwelling up in my eyes. I looked down at the mask I was still holding and it seemed to laugh at me, mocking my existence.
         I left after they briefed me on my first “errand”. They had given me an old style revolver, a six-shooter. My first hit was a priest, they said it was to test me. I asked if the priest had done anything wrong. Their response was “He worships a false god, isn’t that wrong enough?” I went into the church at two in the morning and waited. There was only one other guy there excluding my target. He seemed to be confessing something fairly serious, sounded like adultery but I couldn’t be sure. I also heard murmuring of “just a child” and “My own” but I could have just misheard. I waited till three while this guy poured his heart out to the priest and then decided I couldn’t wait anymore. After all I did have school tomorrow and I still planned to pass school after this whole gang scene was behind me. While I’m at it I may even be able to get tuition from them.
         I went to the bathroom and took out my gun. It had an antique look to it, very badass in a way, if you are into that kind of thing. I then pulled out the mask and slipped it onto my head. It’s hard to describe the feeling that came over me; it was like a different personality overcame me, a far eviler one. Almost without a will of my own I then entered the church, I saw the paralyzing fear coursing through the priest and his subject’s body. Without even thinking I started laughing and couldn’t stop, but it wasn’t my laughter, it was evil, high-pitched and maniacal. The man that was confessing his twisted sex life got up to bolt and I instantly narrowed my vision on him. Still laughing I pulled the trigger and a blast rang out through the church, echoing all around. Half the man’s face had been blown off and now was sprayed across the beautiful stained glass portrait of Jesus. Then my laughing slowly subsided and I walked over to the priest and pushed the gun to his temple. “Please, please don’t hurt me…” The priest whimpered like a stray dog, cornered and alone. “Where is your god now?” I growled at him, once again not my voice but a deep grumbling sound. I eyed him like a predator sizing up his prey. He looked like he was going to speak then he lashed out and ripped the gun away. The gun slid halfway across the room, but I already had a plan B. My fist connected squarely with his nose and he was on the ground bleeding. I grabbed the goblet filled with wine, and poured it in his eyes, and then bashed his skull in with it.
         After he was dead I ripped off the mask. I couldn’t believe the grotesques of the crime I had just committed. I ran all the way to the bridge and then threw the mask off; I never wanted to see it again. I felt sick to my stomach just thinking of that atrocity I had just committed, I couldn’t believe it. I then ran home and went to bed. That night I dreamed I was the priest, wondering why this man in front of me would do these things to his own child. Then I saw the Clown come out of the bathroom, gun drawn. Then I saw him start laughing. The coward in front of me tried to run, but then half his face became a decoration of the church. I remember thinking “God will protect me.” But he didn’t, not even in a dream.
         I woke up the next morning. I went down to breakfast and stared down at my cereal for a good half-hour. I wasn’t hungry. My Mom kept asking me if anything was wrong, but I didn’t answer her. Then she said something about a package arriving for me; I wasn’t really listening though, I just murmured to leave it on my bed. I went to school and kind of drifted through in a haze, not talking to anyone, not doing any work, just doodling crosses and blood all day, unable to get my mind off of anything else. I finally got home at the end of the day and went to my room, and that was when I first saw the package.
         It was wrapped like a birthday present, a big red bow adorning it. It was green with big red polka dots all over it. I ripped it open. Inside was the mask, the clown mask. They had found it, they knew I had thrown it away, and now they were going to kill me. Worse yet, I looked in my closet. The shoebox I had with the money in it had disappeared. I freaked, I didn’t know what else to do. They had to be stopped; they couldn’t go on like this. I decided in that moment to do something my father had never done, to put a stop to this underground cult. I grabbed my gun, left a note saying a simple good-bye, but left it deep in my closet in case I survived.
         I went to the abandoned warehouse and waited. After a couple hours I saw the door open and Chuckles came in. I slipped on the clown mask and let the personality possess me again. This time I would use it. I snuck up behind Chuckles, and slammed the hard metal gun into the back of his head. I heard a loud crack and he started bleeding. “Where are they?” I growled, shoving the gun in his mouth. Chuckles started laughing. I asked again “Where are they” And he kept laughing. I got very angry with this; he wasn’t taking me seriously. Then I heard sirens, and I heard a swat team assembling at the door.  I understood, I had been set up. I pulled the trigger, and Chuckles stopped laughing. Then the Swat team busts the door open, and daylight streamed in. I could only imagine what I must have looked like, blood covering my body, deranged clown mask, and once again I started laughing. The Swat team was yelling for me to put down my weapon, but instead I leant down and searched Chuckles coat. They kept yelling for me to stop, but I was laughing to hard to hear them. I found a grenade in one of his pockets, a happy face sloppily painted on. I pulled the pin, threw it and ran. I glanced behind me quickly and saw three Swat go down immediately, one with a sizable amount of shrapnel in his face.
         I ran into a back office I had spotted at the warehouse and ran inside. There was a vault at the back, but it had swung open. I assumed that was why Chuckles had come back. Inside was my money, the money they had stolen. I grabbed it and put it in my coat. One swat officer had got to the door, and was blocking my way out. “Move” I said, calmly, hoping he would. He raised his rifle and aimed it at my face. I let the mask take over again, and I pulled a switchblade out of my sleeve. It then threw it at the officer and it lodged itself in his eye. I stepped over the body and ran outside.
         I ran home and snuck upstairs. I left the money in my closet, buried deep so that they wouldn’t find it immediately.  I was hoping my mother would do the same thing to my room she did to my Dad’s after she found out about him. Then my sister could be cured, and she could live a productive life. I already knew that I had sacrificed my own life for her, and I didn’t feel an ounce of regret.
         I ran outside and went downtown, to a homeless shelter. I killed five people to draw attention. I hoped that those people would be thankful that I ended their miserable existence for them. That was all I could think to comfort myself. Eventually the police came, and I had a shoot-out with them. I downed a couple but eventually they shot me in the neck. I bled for awhile and blacked out. My last thought was that my sister would live. My next idea became clear. Maybe I could live too. If god had mercy I could escape the country, and my Mother wouldn’t have to suffer through another trial of someone she loved.

Epilogue
         When I woke up in the hospital, I escaped. I stole a Doctor’s clothes on my way out. IN the coat pocket was a wallet, with a credit card inside. I felt bad, but I figured he had enough money to cover my trip to Africa. I spent the next 43 years of my life fighting to stop the wars waging there, using all I had learned from my time as “Klown”. I even made myself a new mask. One thing I learned that was more powerful than any weapon was fear. I stopped four different wars, and saved countless lives doing so. Some had to die, but that’s life. I can only hope I redeemed myself in the eyes of God.
         My Mom did purge my room, and she found the money. She didn’t tell anyone where she found it, I don’t think she wanted anyone to know. She used it for my sister’s treatments, and she made a full recovery. She became a doctor and came to Africa to treat people who had contracted HIV. I met her, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. I haven’t told her how I saved her, and I don’t think Mom did either, but I’m fine with that. She eventually went back to Canada.
         Eventually my Mom got cancer, and they didn’t catch it fast enough to save her. I travelled back and visited her. I told her what had happened, and gave her the whole story, minus the priest. I didn’t want her to think of me as a bad person, I wanted her to die thinking she had raised a good son. If God condemns me for lying, so be it.
         Also the police did unveil the gang, and soon they had all either died or been imprisoned.
         And my Father, I went and broke him out. He said he always wanted to see Italy, so I gave him a ticket. I haven’t seen him ever again, but I assume he’s doing all right.
         I never finished High School and have been living poor my entire life, sometimes not eating for days, but I can die happy knowing how many people I helped in the process. Sometimes to do good, you have to be evil.