CLOWN WARFARE PART III

It was bedlam. Everywhere you turned there was another brawl, Sad clown versus Happy, circus versus French, rodeo versus...well, everybody. Nobody liked a rodeo clown. I skulked down low on the far side of a burnt-out car, creeping past broken, battered clown body after body sprawled on the pavement. I had my eyes peeled in both directions, my ears peaked for the sinister honk of red rubber noses; but all I could hear were agonized screams, guttural grunts, the meaty thud of clown horn against flesh, the methodical squeak of a clown shoe against something heavy and soft. I thought I saw an alley I could scoot down, but when I rose up from my crouch to make a break for it I was spotted. A big, fat Sad clown in overalls, hefting a loaded rubber chicken in his fist. He saw me and smiled, the leering grin looking sickly against the broad red smile painted across his cheeks. He stated swinging his chicken like a medieval flail in the air, the weighted chicken feel whistling in the air as he turned it and he came for me.