by Matt Drabble
“There is always a price to be paid for everything boy, didn’t your father ever teach you that? When you have been around as long as I have, you learn to pay your bills on time. I remember standing at the Pharaoh’s side and influencing his decisions,” the fat clown said sadly. “I remember the Mayans and their worshiping of us like Gods. I remember when you shaved apes fell from the trees and started walking upright for the first time. I remember when the world was ours.”
Richie stared at the fat clown sitting in a dirty robe spilling whisky from his glass. “Am I supposed to believe that you are some kind of God?” Richie laughed despite the clown’s lack of evident humor. “Are you supposed to be some kind of immortal being sitting there in your slippers?”
The fat clown moved faster than Richie could even see. One second he was ensconced in his armchair and the next his three fingered spongy gloved hand was wrapped around Richie’s throat.
“Insolent whelp!” The clown roared. “I should spill your blood for your arrogance; this world has no manners and no respect.”
Richie responded by coughing and spluttering. Behind the Mickey Mouse glove the fat man’s hand was all power. “What do you want with me?” Richie whispered hoarsely.
“I told you, there’s always a price to pay for our existence. We may live forever, but we must feed and the blood of the innocent is so much more nourishing we have found.”
Richie stared into the clown’s eyes, they were red pools of age and cruelty. His mouth was twisted into a ravenous gaping hole that stank of the grave. The clown pulled him in close as his feet kicked helplessly above the ground.
“I have already fed tonight boy, but when you’re as old as I am you are always hungry,” the clown hissed.
“Ok, Ok, I think that’s enough now,” a voice startled Richie from behind.
The clown grinned and lowered him to the floor. Richie turned to face his father whilst his mother stood nervously behind. “I didn’t want you to actually hurt him, that’s not what I was paying you for,” his father snapped.
“Sorry pal, guess I just got carried away,” the fat clown shrugged as he waddled away.
“Well that’s as may be,” his father blustered.
“Wait a minute you paid him? What for?” Richie demanded as he rubbed his sore neck.
“To make you grow up a little Richie. I mean you’re 12 years old for heaven’s sake and running around scared of clowns, it’s downright ridiculous,” his father answered.
“And how was this going to stop that?” Richie said incredulously.
“Immortal Gods, living through the ages feeding on children, can you think of anything more preposterous? Could you come up with a tale as bizarre? And now how do you feel?” His father asked.
“Stupid,” Richie freely admitted. He watched as the fat clown shambled back to the kitchenette counter to refill his glass. All of his nightmares about painted faces and the monsters that lurked beneath now seemed absurd. This was a clown in front of him and he was nothing but a sad old fat guy in a dirty vest. In spite of the receding fear that had wormed its way through his guts he had to admit that his father’s trick had done the job. “You paid him to pick me out of the audience didn’t you?
“Of course,” his father answered.
“We only wanted to help dear,” his mother said with clasped hands and hopeful eyes.
“I wasn’t sure that dragging you up on the stage would have done the trick, so I wanted to make absolutely sure,” his father said.
“You could have just had the guy talk to me,” Richie said sulkily.
“You are a strange child Richie,” his father replied. “The rules of logic don’t quite seem to apply to you now do they? Analyzing the problem I decided that a more, shall we say unorthodox solution was required. I don’t know where you get this strange behavior from Richie but it certainly isn’t from my side of the family.”
“Well it’s high time that we got you home and to bed,” his mother added in her most appeasing voice. “It is a school night after all.”
“Quite right,” his father interjected. “Here you are as agreed,” he said offering a fistful of notes to the fat clown.
The clown took the money and grunted.
“What about the hair band? The green one that I saw through the window earlier. The girl on stage was wearing it, the one with the pigtails,” Richie said suddenly remembering.
“Hair band?” His father enquired.
“Ah, so you did see it then,” the fat clown answered looking straight at Richie and ignoring his father. “I could try and tell you that you didn’t really see it, or that maybe she dropped it on stage and I picked it up. But somehow I don’t think that you would believe me would you?”” He said quizzically.
“Well we really must be going,” his father suddenly said as though picking up on a bad vibe, or smell.
Richie moved slowly towards the door that his parents were standing in front of. The fat clown now stood in the kitchenette off to the side of the exit. He still held a glass of whisky in his three fingered glove and Richie suddenly wondered why he hadn’t taken the padded gloves off. The clown’s eyes were full of suspicion and Richie wanted nothing more than to get outside and away. He slipped and stumbled in his haste and fell against a kitchen cabinet. A whisky bottle fell from the shelf and shattered on the counter spraying the clown in the face with golden liquid.
Richie’s mother was well trained in the domestic arts and stepped forward automatically. She deftly snatched up a cloth hanging on a rail. “Richie!” She scalded. “I’m so sorry,” she said addressing the clown as she mopped up the mess.
“Not to worry,” the fat clown answered as he took a paper towel and wiped his face. “Accidents will happen.”
Richie’s eyes locked with the clown and he couldn’t break away as his parents turned for the door. He stood there transfixed as the clown wiped his face and placed the damp towel on the counter. Richie knew that he shouldn’t look, he didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help it. He looked down at the towel and up again at the clown’s face. There was no white paint on the towel and the clown’s makeup hadn’t smudged.
“You’re sharp boy, maybe a little too sharp for your own good,” the clown smiled with a mouthful of sharp teeth.
“Why is this door locked?” Richie heard his father demand as though from some great distance away.
His own eyes were locked again with the clown. Whatever this thing was, it wore no makeup on its face, the round white surface and slashed red lipstick were its true visage. The clown slowly and deliberately pulled of its padded gloves and unfurled three long scaly claw tipped fingers. There was no time for Richie to ask any questions about the clown’s tale of immortality and how much was true before he was set upon with claws and fangs.
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The Winnebago’s suspension was tested to the limit as the home rocked violently and the screams were mercifully short. The female clown stood guard outside and rued her partner’s appetite and temper. Normally they would only feed intermittently, and only when they were about to be on the move. The pigtailed girl should have been enough for a while, but she knew that wouldn’t hold him for long. After all these years she should have known him better than to expect him to be disciplined.
Eventually when she heard the sound of bones being gnawed she headed inside for a feed, after all if he wasn’t worried about his figure, why should she worry about hers.
tale 2.
“late shift”
Della clocked in for her shift with a weary sigh. Denny’s Truck Stop promised fine dining with five star service, but she had yet to witness either during her short employment here. Denny himself was a short and pugnacious man with a protruding belly that threatened his waistband and more grease in his hair than the kitchen. He also had a case of wandering hands and she’d had to slap his away more than once. As a result she was stuck working the late shifts as the newest waitress for the last two weeks now. She was o
nly intending to stay long enough to pick up a little travelling money, but two weeks had already felt like a lifetime.
The truck stop was an identical twin of many bastardised offspring up and down the country with artery clogging fried food, cold beer and humming neon lights. The pay was lousy but at least it was cash in hand and off the books. There was a whole country to see out there and she didn’t want to be slowed down by endless paperwork anchors. There was no-one to miss her when she left, but she could at least pick up and go at a moment’s notice and without any entanglements.
She was 29 with a trim and athletic figure which owed more to the mystery of genes than any exercise regime. Her hair was a chestnut brown and styled short in a pixie cut for expediencies sake. Her eyes matched her hair and her cheeks were sprinkled with a flurry of freckles that made her look younger than her 29 years.
The Diner was deserted as the Budweiser clock read 11.33 pm. She was supposed to be working with a partner, but Barbara hadn’t shown up yet and she wasn’t holding out much hope. Barbara had laid the groundwork the previous day by surreptitiously coughing and moaning about feeling hot and tired. It hadn’t come as much of a surprise to find herself alone. Fortunately she considered herself a capable and intelligent woman and the hour of the shift didn’t faze her much; time was only hands on a clock after all.
It was a little late for the local drinkers and a little too early for the overnight passing truckers looking to pry their weary eyes open for a few miles more. She was on from 12-8 and the shift usually dragged by without many customers to keep her attention.
She wiped the counters down and swept the floor. It was her turn to do the bathrooms, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to venture into the dark stalls yet. It was one job that could wait a while.
She was checking the oil levels in the industrial sized fryers when the bell over the door rang to announce a visitor. She leaned around the corner to look out from the kitchen into the Diner. A man stood unsurely in the doorway as he looked around for service.
“Hello?” Della called out welcomingly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you were open or not,” the man called back.
“Sure we are hon,” Della beamed. She had learned quickly in the service industry that a friendly face and a warm greeting were the first steps on the road to big tips. “Come on in.”
The man walked towards the counter brushing the raindrops from his trench coat. He was slim and neat with a narrow face and a thin moustache. He removed his hat in a gentlemanly gesture and revealed a thinning pate and he smoothed down the remnants of the lost war. He looked in his mid forties and held a professional air that Della would have guessed at lawyer or accountant.
“Has the weather turned?” She asked, looking at his wet coat.
“I’m afraid so,” the man said removing his thin wire glasses and producing a small cloth from under his coat to wipe them. “I’m supposed to be meeting two other folks here, have they been in?”
“Not yet, you’re my first guest of the night,” Della smiled warmly. “What can I get you?”
“Um, I’ll just take a coffee for now,” the man said quietly. “Have you got a private booth?”
“Della looked out across the deserted diner. “We’ve got as many as you’d like,” she said kindly.
“Of course,” the man replied, blushing.
“The coffee’s probably a bit stewed by now, I’ll make you a fresh pot specially,” Della said. She had worked joints like this up and down the highways and had learned that some customers wanted a bit of flirt with their pie and some just wanted a friendly face.
“I’ll be over here waiting for my friends,” the man said as he shuffled away.
Della flushed the coffee pot out and stuck a fresh filled filter in and waited. She wasn’t fazed by working the usually quiet shift alone and the man seemed pleasant enough, if a little bashful.
The bell over the door rang again and she looked up to see a large man waddle through. She waved warmly and thought that this might be the first midnight rush hour that she’d ever witnessed. The man shook himself on the doormat like a grizzly bear. His hair was white and he wore a matching bushy beard. His face was red and round but his eyes were a sparkling blue.
“Good evening my dear,” he said genially as he crossed the floor towards the counter. “And some evening it is out there, might I say that you are a vision of loveliness on such a terrible night.”
“Well a good evening to you kind sir,” Della smiled as she curtseyed clumsily.
“Might I trouble you for a moment? I’m supposed to be meeting some friends here,” the man started.
“Donald,” the first man called from across the diner and from his booth on the far side of the room.
“Ah Raymond, I see that you have arrived in advance and facilitated a booth for our little rendezvous,” the big man rumbled warmly. “I shall take coffee my dear, as hot and as strong as you can manage and a menu to peruse,” Donald said to Della.
Della watched as the big man waddled over to the booth. He wore a huge black suit under his coat that seemed baggy even on his generous proportions. He seemed like a jolly man and he walked with the balance of man comfortable with his size.
She was waiting for the coffee to brew when the door rang a third time.
A woman entered. She was tall and skeletal thin. Skin like parchment paper was stretched across her bony face and her eyes were deep set and cruel. She looked to be anywhere between mid fifties to early sixties.
She marched across the diner floor towards the counter and Della found herself instantly uncomfortable. The woman’s hard glare bore into her and she took a step backwards without thinking. The woman wore a long stone colored waterproof coat and a white uniform beneath that Della thought to belong to a nurse, although she wouldn’t have wanted to find this grim angel standing over her bedside.
The woman didn’t speak to Della, only glanced quickly around the Diner. She spotted the two men in the far booth and suddenly detoured towards them.
Della didn’t take the snub to heart and poured the brewed fresh coffee into three cups and laid up a tray with creams, milk, and sugars. She grabbed three menus and stuck them under her arm as she walked to the booth.
The rather odd threesome all clammed up as she reached them; their low voices silenced as she set down the coffees and menus.
“Thank you,” Raymond, the small man mumbled.
“Much appreciated my dear,” Donald the much larger one beamed, “Just the thing to ward off cold demons on such a wild night.”
The woman didn’t say a word; her face was pinched as though annoyed at the interruption.
Della took the small pad and a pencil from her apron pocket as Donald viewed the menu hungrily and Raymond flicked listlessly through it. The woman left hers sitting on the table untouched.
“Are you not eating Rachael?” Donald enquired not looking up.
“I’m not hungry,” Rachael answered, her voice was hard and raspy.
“Nonsense my dear, look at you, you’re all skin and bones,” Donald said.
“I said I’m not hungry,” Rachael hissed.
“Oh but I insist,” Donald said. His voice was still warm and friendly, but his tone had hardened ever so slightly. “We wouldn’t want to be rude to our hostess now would we?”
Della felt the first tugs of tension and as much as she appreciated the big man’s attempt at chivalry, she could do without it.
“Two eggs over easy and two pieces of dry white toast,” Rachael said as her face was pinched tighter than ever.
Della watched as Donald’s face looked up from his menu and stared at the skeletal woman sitting across from him. “Please,” Rachael conceded.
“Excellent, and for you Raymond?” Donald asked the small delicate man looking awkward at the turn in the conversation.
“Oatmeal please,” Raymond said, barely above a whisper.
“And I shall have the steak rare, French f
ries and a side of onions rings,” Donald said as he snapped the menu shut with an exclamation point.
Della jotted down the order and moved away from the table hastily.
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“I don’t appreciate being spoken to that way Donald,” Rachael snapped as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.
“And I don’t appreciate scenes being made in public,” Donald answered commandingly. “These little gatherings of ours are risky enough without one of us becoming memorable.”
“Let’s just get on with it shall we?” Raymond spoke up shyly. “We don’t have much time.”
“Excellent idea,” Donald said jovially as his good nature flooded back. “Who’s first?”
“Well to BE honest I’m worried that if I go first then the night becomes redundant,” Rachael said smugly.
“Confidence from the lady,” Donald laughed. “Well by all means my dear Rachael, please do astound us with your brilliance.”
“17,” Rachael said confidently.
“We have an opening bid of 17,” Donald grinned. “And course you have all the necessary proof I assume?”
“Of course.”
“And you Raymond, what pray tell is your offering?” Donald asked.
“17,” Raymond answered downcast.
“Not bad Raymond, not bad at all. Don’t be so disheartened,” Donald commiserated.
“And you Donald? What is your number?” Rachael asked competitively.
“17,” Donald grinned.
“Bullshit,” Rachael snapped.
“Really, there is no need for such vulgarity,” Raymond chided.
“If you’ve both got 17 then I want to see the proof,” Rachael demanded.
“All in good time,” Donald said still smiling. “But believe me there are only two things that I never lie about, my faith in the lord and the number of bodies that I’ve buried.”
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Della worked the grill and kept an eye out on her three customers. Raymond and Donald seemed nice enough, but Rachael seemed like a right bitch. She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 11.49 pm. Working the night shift had moved her body clock around to the point that it still felt like the start of a new day instead of the end of an old one. Quite why these three people were meeting in a truck stop out in the middle of nowhere did actually seem quite odd. Neither of them were dressed like truckers and in fact all of them looked like smart professionals.
