Tears of a Clown
Page 15
Soft Leather billfold. Crenshaw, his hand still shaking like a leaf, removes a stack of bills and offers it to sinister visitor.
“Here.”
The Clown surprisingly dashes it out of the mayor’s hand then, with a cheetah’s speed, grabs his right wrist, slams it up against a crossbeam, and shoves a long thin metal spike right through his palm to the wood.
The mayor screams in agony. The Clown does the same thing to the left hand on the other end of the crossbeam. Crenshaw, now resembling a crucified Roman, starts wailing. Urine begins cascading down his legs to the floor.
“Please,” he entreats his aggressor, “let me go.”
The Clown caresses the mayor’s face sympathetically then wipes his tears away.
“Big boys don’t cry,” he remarks.
Crenshaw kicks the carrier of carnage in the groin, causing him to recoil in pain.
“I got your big boys right here, you bitch!” the mayor yells, pointing to his own groin.
The angry Clown whips out his handclaw and, in one swift movement, buries it the mayor’s left knee and heaves out his kneecap. Crenshaw howls. The Clown caresses the crying anguished official’s face.
“Who’s got the last laugh now?”
He stabs his thumbs deep into Crenshaw’s eyes, burying them in till the mayor is lifeless. The Clown then jams his handclaw into the fuse box. It sparks and the lights go off again.
Out in the front of the house, Sheriff Torrance is knocking on the front door. No one answers. Peeking in a front window, he sees no one in the darkened house. He continually rings the bell but it makes no sound.
“Laurel? Open up. It’s Sheriff Torrance.”
Getting no answer, he jiggles the knob. The door opens. Torrance takes out his gun and enters. Groping in the darkness, he flicks the light switch several times. Nothing happens.
“Laurel? Where are you?”
Tiptoeing carefully through the living room, he doesn’t notice The Clown zip by quietly in the kitchen.
After looking through the immediate area, he pokes his head in the darkened kitchen.
“Laurel? Crenshaw? Where’s everybody?”
Noticing the basement door is ajar, he pulls it open. Laurel suddenly comes shrieking up the stairs and hits the startled sheriff in the head with a plank of wood. He falls.
“Get away!” she screams.
“Laurel? It’s me. Torrance.”
Laurel is hysterical. “They killed Crenshaw!!”
Torrance, getting up and holding his aching head, holsters his gun and takes her plank.
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“I heard some noise down here after Crenshaw came to fix the fuse. He was taking so long, so I came down, and now he’s…he’s…”
“Easy, Laurel. He’s what?”
“He’s nailed to the fucking wall!”
Torrance takes out his pistol again.
“Let me go check it out. You wait up here, okay?”
Laurel nods.
Just then, the lights and the radio playing Jean Lynwood’s ‘Your Voice Of Reason’ radio show in the living room come back on. Torrance takes Laurel by the elbow…”
“Let’s get out of here.”
…and escorts her towards the front door.
“I think it’d be safer if you stayed in my car for now,” he suggests. “Just honk if…”
Laurel screams, interrupting the sheriff’s spiel. Torrance, whipping around to see what caused her to yell out, darts away just in time to avoid taking The Clown’s descending handclaw in his skull.
Laurel dashes screaming out the front door. The Clown dives for her but is intercepted by Torrance at the entrance to the house. The handclaw flies out to the porch. Swiftly, the grease painted assailant kicks the gun out of the sheriff’s hand then grabs him and flings him like a ragdoll towards the staircase leading to the 2nd floor.
“Right about now,” he tells the law officer, “you must be asking yourself, ‘Why didn’t I go on vacation this week?’”
The Clown calmly strolls over, picks up the stunned sheriff and throws back him into the living room like he was a bean bag. Torrance smashes down in the center table sending shards of glass sprawling all over.
“Ouch,” the Clown expels sarcastically. “I felt that.”
Going to the porch, he scans the area, then retrieves his sharpened garden tool and returns to the downed sheriff.
“Oh, shit,” Torrance mutters, eyeing the handclaw. Immediately, he starts dragging himself backwards on the floor.
“You like it?” the carrion creator asks, displaying his deadly gadget. “It’s one of a kind.”
As the Clown nears the sheriff, the downed officer quickly grabs a shard of glass off the floor and slashes the maniac’s leg. The intruder, dropping his handclaw, hollers. Torrance rolls away as quickly as he can. The ghastly jester feels the blood dripping down his leg then shakes his finger at the lawman.
“This suit wasn’t paid for yet, sheriff,” he scolds him.
The Clown picks up his handclaw and, just as he was about to pounce at the sheriff, a hand trowel gets jammed deep into the jokester’s right shoulder. Dropping his handclaw once again, he screams in pain, then turns around and sees Laurel, breathing hard, standing defiantly by the couch.
Slowly, agonizingly, The Clown extracts the bloody triangular implement out of his shoulder like King Arthur freeing Excalibur from the stone.
He flings the trowel over to one side. “Lucky shot, bitch.”
Quickly bending down, he grabs the rug Laurel is standing and yanks it. The teenager loses her balance and flies backwards, crashing into the framed platinum record on the wall with such force that the glass shatters. Both Laurel and the record crash to the ground.
“Stay,” The Clown orders the motionless girl.
“Okay, now,” he asks himself, pointing to his temple in mock confusion, “where was I?” “You’re not gonna get away with this,” Torrance threatens him.
The Clown kicks the sheriff’s face. “I already am.”
The powerful assassin picks Torrance up like a box of sponges and throws him into a large glass étagère, sending broken porcelain decorations flying all over. The sheriff, bleeding from different areas, drops like a strand of al dente spaghetti. The Clown straddles and kneels over him, retrieves his fallen handclaw, and menacingly positions it at the lawman’s eyes.
“Any last words?” The Clown quizzes him.
“Yeah…” Laurel answers.
The assailant whips his head around to see the valedictorian standing there…
“…go fuck yourself!”
Then, unerringly using the platinum record in her hands, she slices right through the front of The Clown’s neck. Gagging and profusely bleeding, he falls towards Torrance who quickly kicks him to one side. The madman’s body quivers, then goes still, as his blood drains out on to the floor. Laurel stretches out her hand to help Torrance up.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Couldn’t be better.”
Torrance checks the misanthrope’s pulse. There isn’t any. He then pats him down for ID’s or other weapons but comes up empty handed. Standing, the upholder of justice removes his walkie-talkie and calls his dispatcher.
“Hey, Billy?”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Send two ambulances over to Laurel Canyon’s house, 461 Ocean Boulevard."
“No prob, sheriff.”
They hang up. Torrance turns to Laurel. “Can you bring a couple of wet paper towels?”
“Yeah,” she nods, then heads to the kitchen.
There is a knock on the front door. The goes over and sheriff opens it.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Julia, 7-Eleven bag in hand, greets him. “What are you doing here?”
“Your timing’s bad right now, Julia,” he informs her. “This is a crime scene.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I can’t discuss that right now. Police matter.”
“Okay,” he agrees, taking the bag then closing the door on the pianista.
Returning to the disheveled living room, Laurel enters with the wet paper towels. The sheriff takes the soaked items and stoops down next to The Clown. First, he removes his rubber nose then wipes the greasy black and white makeup off. Laurel gasps when she realizes the violent intruder is none other than KQVZ’s Voice of Reason…
“Jean Lynwood!” the astonished teen shouts.
“What the hell?” Julia asks, surprising Laurel and the sheriff who hadn’t seen her enter.
Laurel points to the radio broadcasting Jean's sermon. “So, that’s not live?”
All three listen to the radio and hear Jean’s voice buoyed by church music.
“…and the earth shall stretch forth its powerful jaw and swallow every heathen, every anti-Christ, every purveyor of inequity and decadence. This is Jean Lynwood, your voice of reason.”
Then, they hear what sounds like plastic, studio recording leader flapping continuously against the playback heads in the station’s old fashioned reel to reel recorder.
“It was taped,” Laurel realizes.
Sheriff Torrance crouches down and continues gazing deeply at Jean’s face. He looks puzzled, as if he’d seen her somewhere before.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he finally speaks up, his voice brimming with surprise.
“What?” Laurel questions him.
“I know this guy,” he reveals.
“Guy?” the perplexed Julia emotes.
“His name’s Matt Baldwin,” Torrance informs them. “We went to school together.”
Laurel is baffled. “His name?”
Minutes later, Julia and Laurel are on the busy sidewalk amidst the plethora of flashing red and blue lights wrapping up their interviews with law