A clown was dead on the front porch, his rubber nose filled with cocaine, and the pizza guy was late. The party was over. It had been a mistake, parties always are. It’s much better just to go to a bar, even a biker bar, but my roommates are idiots and as soon as I get this mess cleaned up, I’m moving out. I’ll sleep in the park if I have to. In fact, where’s my passport? I’m taking off to Korea to teach english or something.
But the matter at hand is the dead fucking clown. I start going through the house, looking for a shovel or an axe or a rug or a blanket. Something, anything. That clown is bad news. Who invited him?
Calm down. Think. People disappear all the time. I don’t know who he is, but maybe no one will miss him. He certainly is an asshole, busting in the front door, a-type personality, look at me, look at me, honking that stupid horn on his belt.
Dead now. Convulsed. Mouth full of puke. Skin probably turning blue underneath all the paint. Upstairs in Taiwan Bob’s room, I find an old sleeping bag on the floor of his closet. I go back downstairs to deal with the clown. I should probably just call the police. I didn’t kill the clown, drugs did, an overdose of cocaine and whatever else he was snorting. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t invite the police into this house. I was a wanted man.
Everything was going to shit. Escalation, a slippery slope. One thing leading to another. A scam gone bad, a foot chase, and now a dead clown. I used to be so straight laced. I used to be so suburban.
Frantic.
Get it together. You can do this.
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Zipping up the sleeping bag, I heard a car stopping in front of the house. The pizza guy showed up with a large pepperoni, with double cheese.
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