The Shadowman
By
George Larson
The backlot was nearly empty as the man snuck up on the Joey in the dimming light. He had been planning this for some time, carefully gauging his chances of pulling off the crime without getting caught. The clown was caught up in his own thoughts about the show currently underway under the big top tent. He only had a fleeting time to get a bite to eat at the cookhouse before he had to get back to the main ring to perform his act. But it was not to be.
Coming out of the shadows, the man stealthily grabbed the clown from behind and burked him, suffocating him until he was dead. The Scotsman who first popularized this method of death should be congratulated. It was extremely effective by overpowering the victim, placing one hand over the mouth and nose, and cutting off the air supply. Death came quickly, in about a minute, a glorious asphyxiation. There was no murder weapon, just the hand. A strong one and the willingness to use it.
One miserable clown down but many more to go before this was finished. I was the Shadowman, a seeker of clowns and a hater of clownery.
***
It was summertime and the living was not easy. Not for us anyway. The circus had jumped to this Podunk last night. Our night riders had papered the town with fliers and posted handbills advertising the delights one could experience for the price of an ace note for general admission. All standard fare for us but not for the townies who were looking forward to the annual event. It was the highlight of their meager summer entertainment. It was more money in our poke if things went well.
My name was Griff, short for Griffith. But my handle was the Grifter. That was what I was called by my pals, my home boys. I had been with the circus for the past two seasons and getting better at my job with each passing one. There is no real money in working for the circus, just pride in doing so, being part of the action. It gets in your blood and stays. That was me, a thirty-year-old drifter who had finally found a home. That is why I joined Josepha’s Spectacular Amusements.
Joe’s circus was not the greatest show on earth, far from it. It was a middling show of down on their luck troupe of performers who could not, would not let go of the circus life. They were simply good people who refused to give up. And I understood since I was now one of them, part of the extended family.
We never knew if the circus would open a new season. Our lives and livelihoods were tenuous at best. Joe’s backers might throw in the towel or pull the plug as the expressions go. One bad season could result in a cash flow problem, and we might be out of business for good. Joe didn’t run a flea bag operation, a sleazy show, by any means. But the vagaries of weather and poor business acumen could shut us down permanently. It was all a crapshoot in the end. Yet we all rooted for the underdog, knowing well if the circus closed, we would all be out of a job.
***
The noon march had begun on Main Street, the typical start of our arrival in a town to advertise the show, to entice the natives to depart with some cash. It was a horse drawn street parade with female performers riding the backs of two elephants leading the way. They waived to the crowds of people lining the sides of the street, sometimes throwing candies or gimcracks at the kids along the route. The downtown wagon with red paint and gold trim followed with its calliope playing loudly for all to hear. The team of horses was dressed in full regalia. Lastly, the small parade had a cadre of Joeys in full costume and makeup, hamming it up for the onlookers as the entourage wended its way through town. It was all fun, pomp and circumstance.
***
It was not all glitz and glamour, not by a long shot. It took many men working long hours and hard labor to keep things running smoothly. That was one of my jobs as a roustabout or roustie, the physical labor. Along with others, I had to haul baggage to the venue, erect tents and booths and other structures. When it was over, I had to dismantle the kit and pack it for the next jump. After a long day, I could not wait to get back to my kip at night, and to start again bright and early the next day. It was especially difficult if we had several back-to-back one-night stands. But that was life as a roustie. A life I would never give up.
***
We were all saddened by Pigsty’s murder. He was a well-liked member of our troupe, a gentle man and gentleman in all respects, and a bright spot in the vocation of clownery. He would be missed by all who knew and loved him. Pigsty left the circus for a while and had only recently returned. His itchy feet were too powerful to stay away for long. He was a pro to his very core.
The news of the murder quickly spread throughout our small community. People were discussing who was responsible for the grisly murder. The consensus was that it could not be any of the regulars at the circus. No, that was not possible. How could that be? It had to be someone from the outside, someone like a day laborer hired locally, maybe a towner. The speculation ran rampant, endless gossip.
Just as the talk started, it ended abruptly. The show must go on. And it did.
***
Kingman, Arizona was our next jump. It was to be a four-day stand, giving all of us some time to unwind and relax. The one-day stands were simply brutal. This one would give us a breather, enough time to sort out ourselves. We even got access to the large municipal swimming pool courtesy of the local government, a great example of western hospitality.
In Kingman, we ran a clean Sunday school show with no graft or rigged games and no flesh. Also, there were no kickbacks to the authorities. It was totally on the up and up.
We expected the take to be big. We hoped for straw house performances, sellout crowds every night. Otherwise, Joe might not make his nut for the stand. So, we rolled out every sideshow, gaming booth, and freak emporium we had in inventory. The Big Top tent was the main attraction, and we threw everything into the acts.
Starting with a dog and pony routine to warm up the audience. It was a hit with the audience and a favorite among the clown acts. The dog would take the pony’s reins in its mouth and ceremoniously parade the animal around the ring. At various points, the dog would stop in front of the bleachers and drop the leads. The pony would then fold its front legs and kneel in front of the crowd all the while shaking its head as if to say hello to the patrons. The kids loved the act.
The main and two smaller rings were facing the four tier bleachers at either side of the tent. At the foot of the bleachers were the ring curves made of ropes or canvasses to separate the house patrons from the action.
Then it was up to the announcer to introduce the acts. The ringmaster next took over and was the key commentator for the entire show. He would interact with the performers and the audience alike, often exchanging jokes with the Joeys. Elephant balancing acts, dog and pony shows, trapeze acts, big cat tricks, and cowboy riders with their horses were the typical fare of our circus.
We were not in the same league as Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey.
***
Typically, we set up the opera, the entire show, on a plot of land at the edge of town. Our arrangements were the same. An entrance arch where the guests would pay the general admission fee of a buck per family to enter, followed the long midway with the carny joints and pit shows on either side and finally leading to the Big Top where the grinder would give his spiel about the magnificent wonders inside which could not be missed. Large, colorful Bally cloths adorned the Big Top and, at nighttime, flashing beams of light lit up the exterior of the tent. It was a truly marvelous sight.
The Kingman stand was a great success, both for us and the attendees. Joe was flushed with cash, and no patron was threatening to sue the circus over a slip and fall, real or imagined. A solid win-win situation for all concerned this time. We were not only good but lucky.
On our final night, the sky turned inky black, an ominous and obvious sign there was going to be a bad storm soon. As the clouds gathered overhead, the whole troupe became anxious as to what might happen, what was in store for the circus. And thunder and lightning soon followed. The uncertain, sketchy weather was downright frightening.
The show was shut down early, but not before the rubes were separated from their money. The rousties began tearing down the kit and packing it away just in time to avoid the worst of the storm. It began to rain, light at first and then a drenching downpour. The wind picked up making disassembling the Big Top difficult. The center pole of the large tent fell onto the big ring, but fortunately no one was injured in the mishap. And the rain continued to pour down making the ground a muddy patch. The joints and pits were quickly closed and hauled away. All in all, we did well, our gear was saved, and no one was injured in the catastrophe. Thankfully the lot lice, the Lookie Loos, who did not spend a single dime at the circus, had already scurried away, anticipating what was to come.
Turned out the storm was literally a gulley washer, with the arroyos flooding their banks and flooding some of the secondary roads. It was a hundred-year event and a record setter for Arizona. We had escaped the storm in the nick of time and with God’s good grace.
Following the conclusion of our gig in Kingman, it was time to fold the show and go into winter hibernation in Sarasota, Florida. Sarasota had been the winter headquarters for most circuses in the U.S. for more than one hundred years. Baraboo, Wisconsin had served the same purpose for many years prior. Nowadays, troupers always favor Sarasota for obvious reasons.
***
I rented a short-term studio apartment in Sarasota and quickly applied for unemployment insurance. It was the way the troupers and carny folks made ends meet during the off season. My place was a few blocks from the ocean, but it was fine by me. As expected, we all had plenty of time to socialize. And we socialized in large groups; touring Ca’d’Zan, the oceanfront mansion of John Ringling, trips to the beach and other leisurely activities. It was fine times, until.
Until there was another murder, right on the beach at night. Our cozy world was becoming a nightmare. There was a serial killer in our midst.
The Shadowman had been intently watching his prey walk slowly on the beach. His circus nom de plume was Baggy Britches, reflecting the clothes he wore as a clown. Overly large, checkered pants held up by suspenders with a matching checkered shirt, oversized floppy shoes and face makeup. At first, Shadowman did not recognize him in civvies, sans greasepaint. But then he did and it was over for the clown. Squirting flowers or hand buzzers or other gizmos from his bag of tricks would not save him, nothing could.
As the clown walked closer to the Shadowman’s position at the edge of the beach, he momentarily stopped and looked around to see. Perhaps a sort of sixth sense was warning him of something, his impending doom. But Baggy Britches seemed to shrug off the uneasy feeling and proceeded ahead. That was a fatal mistake he would never live to regret.
The Shadowman sprang into action, swiftly coming up behand the clown and reaching over his shoulder and slicing his throat open. Blood gushed from the wound and Baggy tried to stop the bleeding by holding his hands to his neck. It was too little, too late for the clown. He dropped to the sand and felt his life force drain from his body. Shadowman then finished off his handiwork by slashing the clown’s face repeatedly until it was nothing more than a bloody pulp. His rage now abated, he wiped his knife on his pantleg and went home to sleep soundly. To sleep the sleep of the dead.
The Miami Herald had a short story of the incident. It speculated that Mr. Britches had been robbed and killed while walking on the beach. Thankfully, no photo appeared of the victim’s face. Of course, the police were investigating, succinct and concise. So far, the cops had not connected the two clown murders, simply a matter of distance and time. No surprises there.
The next day an emergency meeting of the troupers was held to discuss what to do to protect ourselves. We decided that those who wished could arm themselves from attack. I thought that was a useless suggestion, but if it calmed jangled nerves then so be it. Then someone mentioned partnering up, singles with singles. The idea made sense. We could watch each other’s backs. So, the thirty or so troupers who liked the notion of protecting one another drew numbers from an ersatz hat.
I paired with Joni, an up-and-coming clown trainee who moved into my apartment the next day. It would be tight quarters, but only for a couple more weeks until we hit the road again. I could tough it out and suspected she could too. We were used to discomforts and if we did not get on each other’s nerves, things would be okay. Or so I thought at the time. But later, I would come to regret my decision. She brought too much damn baggage into my home and life.
Joni was an attractive young woman who had annoying habits. She incessantly played calliope music all day without the benefit of headphones. Even more infuriating was her habit of dressing in her clown getup, saying she needed to practice her routines. My anger was rising by the day. I spent less time in my, did I say my, apartment? The anger I was feeling was turning into something much worse, rage. I had to get out. She was driving me mad!
I had done two tours with the Army in Iraq as a combat soldier. I was thoroughly familiar with death, the kind that was up and close. The Army cut me loose towards the end of my second tour of duty saying I was suffering from PTSD and other mental issues which I had exhibited from time to time. That is when I joined the circus, to get away from all the horrible thoughts of killing. I needed to put that part of my life behind me for good. But that was my problem, I simply could not get the vivid scenes of death out of my mind. I had succumbed to the killing. That was my other problem.
Joni was prancing before the hall mirror in costume with the calliope music blaring in the background. It was too much noise and confusion for me to deal with. I moved towards her, grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face me. With all the muscle mass I gained as a roustie, I viciously and repeatedly punched her in the face. So much so that my knuckles were now skinned to the bone. This was despite the layers of thick greasepaint on her face. She dropped to the floor like a rag doll, and no longer a pretty one. One more clown had just died by my hands. I was overjoyed.
***
The Army shrinks strongly suggested I get counselling and medication for my conditions. They said I suffered from not only PTSD but from a fugue condition where I would occasionally lose track of time and memories, blacking out as it were. Moreover, they noted I had a medical condition, an acute phobia called coulrophobia, a fear of clowns. I learned coulrophobia brought on feelings of fear when I saw clowns or clown images.
I remember when I was a kid of six or seven years old, I went to a birthday party where a clown was performing. He scared me so much that I screamed, running to my mother and burying my face in her skirt, bawling like a baby. Ever since, I could not stand the sight of clowns. I broke out in sweats and became nauseous at seeing one.
So, why did I join the circus? To kill clowns of course!
Each time in Iraq, when I saw the face of the enemy in my rifle’s scope, I saw the face of a grinning clown. I never hesitated to pull the trigger.
***
The Shadowman patiently waited for the cops to arrive. Thinking back, he had a perfect trifecta of medical conditions: PTSD, a phobic fear of clowns and lapses into a fugue state. The combination of illnesses did not get any better for a crazy serial killer. Maybe some talk therapy would help. He enjoyed talking to clowns but only after they were dead!
Locking him away in an insane asylum was not so bad. Three hots and a cot, just like the circus.
George Larson retired as a special agent from the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State. He has written eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) in addition to fifteen short horror stories. He holds a BA degree in English (Nom Cum Laude).
By
George Larson
The backlot was nearly empty as the man snuck up on the Joey in the dimming light. He had been planning this for some time, carefully gauging his chances of pulling off the crime without getting caught. The clown was caught up in his own thoughts about the show currently underway under the big top tent. He only had a fleeting time to get a bite to eat at the cookhouse before he had to get back to the main ring to perform his act. But it was not to be.
Coming out of the shadows, the man stealthily grabbed the clown from behind and burked him, suffocating him until he was dead. The Scotsman who first popularized this method of death should be congratulated. It was extremely effective by overpowering the victim, placing one hand over the mouth and nose, and cutting off the air supply. Death came quickly, in about a minute, a glorious asphyxiation. There was no murder weapon, just the hand. A strong one and the willingness to use it.
One miserable clown down but many more to go before this was finished. I was the Shadowman, a seeker of clowns and a hater of clownery.
***
It was summertime and the living was not easy. Not for us anyway. The circus had jumped to this Podunk last night. Our night riders had papered the town with fliers and posted handbills advertising the delights one could experience for the price of an ace note for general admission. All standard fare for us but not for the townies who were looking forward to the annual event. It was the highlight of their meager summer entertainment. It was more money in our poke if things went well.
My name was Griff, short for Griffith. But my handle was the Grifter. That was what I was called by my pals, my home boys. I had been with the circus for the past two seasons and getting better at my job with each passing one. There is no real money in working for the circus, just pride in doing so, being part of the action. It gets in your blood and stays. That was me, a thirty-year-old drifter who had finally found a home. That is why I joined Josepha’s Spectacular Amusements.
Joe’s circus was not the greatest show on earth, far from it. It was a middling show of down on their luck troupe of performers who could not, would not let go of the circus life. They were simply good people who refused to give up. And I understood since I was now one of them, part of the extended family.
We never knew if the circus would open a new season. Our lives and livelihoods were tenuous at best. Joe’s backers might throw in the towel or pull the plug as the expressions go. One bad season could result in a cash flow problem, and we might be out of business for good. Joe didn’t run a flea bag operation, a sleazy show, by any means. But the vagaries of weather and poor business acumen could shut us down permanently. It was all a crapshoot in the end. Yet we all rooted for the underdog, knowing well if the circus closed, we would all be out of a job.
***
The noon march had begun on Main Street, the typical start of our arrival in a town to advertise the show, to entice the natives to depart with some cash. It was a horse drawn street parade with female performers riding the backs of two elephants leading the way. They waived to the crowds of people lining the sides of the street, sometimes throwing candies or gimcracks at the kids along the route. The downtown wagon with red paint and gold trim followed with its calliope playing loudly for all to hear. The team of horses was dressed in full regalia. Lastly, the small parade had a cadre of Joeys in full costume and makeup, hamming it up for the onlookers as the entourage wended its way through town. It was all fun, pomp and circumstance.
***
It was not all glitz and glamour, not by a long shot. It took many men working long hours and hard labor to keep things running smoothly. That was one of my jobs as a roustabout or roustie, the physical labor. Along with others, I had to haul baggage to the venue, erect tents and booths and other structures. When it was over, I had to dismantle the kit and pack it for the next jump. After a long day, I could not wait to get back to my kip at night, and to start again bright and early the next day. It was especially difficult if we had several back-to-back one-night stands. But that was life as a roustie. A life I would never give up.
***
We were all saddened by Pigsty’s murder. He was a well-liked member of our troupe, a gentle man and gentleman in all respects, and a bright spot in the vocation of clownery. He would be missed by all who knew and loved him. Pigsty left the circus for a while and had only recently returned. His itchy feet were too powerful to stay away for long. He was a pro to his very core.
The news of the murder quickly spread throughout our small community. People were discussing who was responsible for the grisly murder. The consensus was that it could not be any of the regulars at the circus. No, that was not possible. How could that be? It had to be someone from the outside, someone like a day laborer hired locally, maybe a towner. The speculation ran rampant, endless gossip.
Just as the talk started, it ended abruptly. The show must go on. And it did.
***
Kingman, Arizona was our next jump. It was to be a four-day stand, giving all of us some time to unwind and relax. The one-day stands were simply brutal. This one would give us a breather, enough time to sort out ourselves. We even got access to the large municipal swimming pool courtesy of the local government, a great example of western hospitality.
In Kingman, we ran a clean Sunday school show with no graft or rigged games and no flesh. Also, there were no kickbacks to the authorities. It was totally on the up and up.
We expected the take to be big. We hoped for straw house performances, sellout crowds every night. Otherwise, Joe might not make his nut for the stand. So, we rolled out every sideshow, gaming booth, and freak emporium we had in inventory. The Big Top tent was the main attraction, and we threw everything into the acts.
Starting with a dog and pony routine to warm up the audience. It was a hit with the audience and a favorite among the clown acts. The dog would take the pony’s reins in its mouth and ceremoniously parade the animal around the ring. At various points, the dog would stop in front of the bleachers and drop the leads. The pony would then fold its front legs and kneel in front of the crowd all the while shaking its head as if to say hello to the patrons. The kids loved the act.
The main and two smaller rings were facing the four tier bleachers at either side of the tent. At the foot of the bleachers were the ring curves made of ropes or canvasses to separate the house patrons from the action.
Then it was up to the announcer to introduce the acts. The ringmaster next took over and was the key commentator for the entire show. He would interact with the performers and the audience alike, often exchanging jokes with the Joeys. Elephant balancing acts, dog and pony shows, trapeze acts, big cat tricks, and cowboy riders with their horses were the typical fare of our circus.
We were not in the same league as Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey.
***
Typically, we set up the opera, the entire show, on a plot of land at the edge of town. Our arrangements were the same. An entrance arch where the guests would pay the general admission fee of a buck per family to enter, followed the long midway with the carny joints and pit shows on either side and finally leading to the Big Top where the grinder would give his spiel about the magnificent wonders inside which could not be missed. Large, colorful Bally cloths adorned the Big Top and, at nighttime, flashing beams of light lit up the exterior of the tent. It was a truly marvelous sight.
The Kingman stand was a great success, both for us and the attendees. Joe was flushed with cash, and no patron was threatening to sue the circus over a slip and fall, real or imagined. A solid win-win situation for all concerned this time. We were not only good but lucky.
On our final night, the sky turned inky black, an ominous and obvious sign there was going to be a bad storm soon. As the clouds gathered overhead, the whole troupe became anxious as to what might happen, what was in store for the circus. And thunder and lightning soon followed. The uncertain, sketchy weather was downright frightening.
The show was shut down early, but not before the rubes were separated from their money. The rousties began tearing down the kit and packing it away just in time to avoid the worst of the storm. It began to rain, light at first and then a drenching downpour. The wind picked up making disassembling the Big Top difficult. The center pole of the large tent fell onto the big ring, but fortunately no one was injured in the mishap. And the rain continued to pour down making the ground a muddy patch. The joints and pits were quickly closed and hauled away. All in all, we did well, our gear was saved, and no one was injured in the catastrophe. Thankfully the lot lice, the Lookie Loos, who did not spend a single dime at the circus, had already scurried away, anticipating what was to come.
Turned out the storm was literally a gulley washer, with the arroyos flooding their banks and flooding some of the secondary roads. It was a hundred-year event and a record setter for Arizona. We had escaped the storm in the nick of time and with God’s good grace.
Following the conclusion of our gig in Kingman, it was time to fold the show and go into winter hibernation in Sarasota, Florida. Sarasota had been the winter headquarters for most circuses in the U.S. for more than one hundred years. Baraboo, Wisconsin had served the same purpose for many years prior. Nowadays, troupers always favor Sarasota for obvious reasons.
***
I rented a short-term studio apartment in Sarasota and quickly applied for unemployment insurance. It was the way the troupers and carny folks made ends meet during the off season. My place was a few blocks from the ocean, but it was fine by me. As expected, we all had plenty of time to socialize. And we socialized in large groups; touring Ca’d’Zan, the oceanfront mansion of John Ringling, trips to the beach and other leisurely activities. It was fine times, until.
Until there was another murder, right on the beach at night. Our cozy world was becoming a nightmare. There was a serial killer in our midst.
The Shadowman had been intently watching his prey walk slowly on the beach. His circus nom de plume was Baggy Britches, reflecting the clothes he wore as a clown. Overly large, checkered pants held up by suspenders with a matching checkered shirt, oversized floppy shoes and face makeup. At first, Shadowman did not recognize him in civvies, sans greasepaint. But then he did and it was over for the clown. Squirting flowers or hand buzzers or other gizmos from his bag of tricks would not save him, nothing could.
As the clown walked closer to the Shadowman’s position at the edge of the beach, he momentarily stopped and looked around to see. Perhaps a sort of sixth sense was warning him of something, his impending doom. But Baggy Britches seemed to shrug off the uneasy feeling and proceeded ahead. That was a fatal mistake he would never live to regret.
The Shadowman sprang into action, swiftly coming up behand the clown and reaching over his shoulder and slicing his throat open. Blood gushed from the wound and Baggy tried to stop the bleeding by holding his hands to his neck. It was too little, too late for the clown. He dropped to the sand and felt his life force drain from his body. Shadowman then finished off his handiwork by slashing the clown’s face repeatedly until it was nothing more than a bloody pulp. His rage now abated, he wiped his knife on his pantleg and went home to sleep soundly. To sleep the sleep of the dead.
The Miami Herald had a short story of the incident. It speculated that Mr. Britches had been robbed and killed while walking on the beach. Thankfully, no photo appeared of the victim’s face. Of course, the police were investigating, succinct and concise. So far, the cops had not connected the two clown murders, simply a matter of distance and time. No surprises there.
The next day an emergency meeting of the troupers was held to discuss what to do to protect ourselves. We decided that those who wished could arm themselves from attack. I thought that was a useless suggestion, but if it calmed jangled nerves then so be it. Then someone mentioned partnering up, singles with singles. The idea made sense. We could watch each other’s backs. So, the thirty or so troupers who liked the notion of protecting one another drew numbers from an ersatz hat.
I paired with Joni, an up-and-coming clown trainee who moved into my apartment the next day. It would be tight quarters, but only for a couple more weeks until we hit the road again. I could tough it out and suspected she could too. We were used to discomforts and if we did not get on each other’s nerves, things would be okay. Or so I thought at the time. But later, I would come to regret my decision. She brought too much damn baggage into my home and life.
Joni was an attractive young woman who had annoying habits. She incessantly played calliope music all day without the benefit of headphones. Even more infuriating was her habit of dressing in her clown getup, saying she needed to practice her routines. My anger was rising by the day. I spent less time in my, did I say my, apartment? The anger I was feeling was turning into something much worse, rage. I had to get out. She was driving me mad!
I had done two tours with the Army in Iraq as a combat soldier. I was thoroughly familiar with death, the kind that was up and close. The Army cut me loose towards the end of my second tour of duty saying I was suffering from PTSD and other mental issues which I had exhibited from time to time. That is when I joined the circus, to get away from all the horrible thoughts of killing. I needed to put that part of my life behind me for good. But that was my problem, I simply could not get the vivid scenes of death out of my mind. I had succumbed to the killing. That was my other problem.
Joni was prancing before the hall mirror in costume with the calliope music blaring in the background. It was too much noise and confusion for me to deal with. I moved towards her, grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face me. With all the muscle mass I gained as a roustie, I viciously and repeatedly punched her in the face. So much so that my knuckles were now skinned to the bone. This was despite the layers of thick greasepaint on her face. She dropped to the floor like a rag doll, and no longer a pretty one. One more clown had just died by my hands. I was overjoyed.
***
The Army shrinks strongly suggested I get counselling and medication for my conditions. They said I suffered from not only PTSD but from a fugue condition where I would occasionally lose track of time and memories, blacking out as it were. Moreover, they noted I had a medical condition, an acute phobia called coulrophobia, a fear of clowns. I learned coulrophobia brought on feelings of fear when I saw clowns or clown images.
I remember when I was a kid of six or seven years old, I went to a birthday party where a clown was performing. He scared me so much that I screamed, running to my mother and burying my face in her skirt, bawling like a baby. Ever since, I could not stand the sight of clowns. I broke out in sweats and became nauseous at seeing one.
So, why did I join the circus? To kill clowns of course!
Each time in Iraq, when I saw the face of the enemy in my rifle’s scope, I saw the face of a grinning clown. I never hesitated to pull the trigger.
***
The Shadowman patiently waited for the cops to arrive. Thinking back, he had a perfect trifecta of medical conditions: PTSD, a phobic fear of clowns and lapses into a fugue state. The combination of illnesses did not get any better for a crazy serial killer. Maybe some talk therapy would help. He enjoyed talking to clowns but only after they were dead!
Locking him away in an insane asylum was not so bad. Three hots and a cot, just like the circus.
George Larson retired as a special agent from the Diplomatic Security Service, US Department of State. He has written eight novels (Dick Avery Adventure Stories) in addition to fifteen short horror stories. He holds a BA degree in English (Nom Cum Laude).