"Mr. Pritt?"

"What is it Sheila?" Ordean Pritt was a busy man. As talent director of the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama, he had a ton of responsibilities resting on his shoulders.

"It's Dirty Clown, Jr."

"Wait two minutes, Sheila. Then let him in."

"OK," Sheila said. "He looks a little like his father."

"What did you just say?" Pritt said. The lines on his forehead deepened and, yes, there it was, his recurring facial tic! She hadn't seen that in a while. It was not a good sign.

"Dirty Clown, Jr. He looks a bit like - "

"Get out," Pritt said. She looked at him for a moment. that poor jealous man. Then she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Pritt was incensed. He stood. He took a deep breath, held it in, and exhaled loudly. Then, he turned to look at a faded black and white photograph that was hanging, slightly askew, on his office wall. He straightened it, but he hadn't much sense of line. It was probably more crooked than it was before. He wondered why he could never get it right.

It was an 8x10 promo shot of That Dirty Clown. Pritt hated him. Couldn't stand him, in fact. Seems Sheila had gotten a little too friendly with Dirty Clown not all that long ago. In fact, she'd gotten real friendly, and suddenly she knew an awful lot about the scandalous goings-on inside Dirty Clown's squalid little tent. To make matters worse, Pritt was also well aware that Dirty Clown had stolen towels from the Clown-O-Rama dressing room! To his reasoning, the photo on his office wall served as a little reminder, never to forget or forgive That Dirty Clown .

Dirty Clown starred many times on the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama, and every time he appeared, he knocked them out! He was easily the Clown-O-Rama's most popular guest. But, after what happened with Sheila (the memory of it stuck to Pritt like the stink of an old dog) he vowed to never book Dirty Clown again. He would have fired Sheila, too, had he not had such a deep ardor for her. And now, here he was, the son of Dirty Clown and the heir to all his regional glory. He had never met the kid, but he already didn't like him. Pritt had him all figured out in advance.

"Yes, here comes another blowhard, horn-honking, no-account idiot with a stolen unicycle and a pocket full of confetti."

The latch clicked and the door swung open. In strode young Dirty Clown, Jr., and it was true. He was wholesome and handsome and stood proud and erect. His clown outfit was new and clean and cardinal red, and it was gaily festooned with bright white dots that played queer tricks on the eyes. It wreaked havoc on a man's ability to discern depth of field. Why, if you looked at them long enough, they could draw you in to the point where you were a l m o s t h y p n o-

"Mr. Pritt?" Pritt blinked, then he rallied quickly and convincingly.

"Welcome! Welcome Dirty Clown, Jr.! Won't you sit down? Cigar?" Pritt opened his arms wide and feigned kindness ever-so-masterfully. After all, he too was in show business, though of a different sort. The two shook hands and Dirty Clown, Jr. took the seat he had been offered. He took the time to fluff out the bagginess that had gathered around his lap, and then he spoke.

"I certainly am honored, Mr. ...uh ... "

"Ordean," Pritt said, "Please call me, Ordean." Pritt smiled a reptilian smile that seemed to make his eyes much smaller ... beadier. He was perspiring profusely, and the wet gleam of it ricocheted between Pritt's face and the flourescent light overhead. Dirty Clown, Jr. looked up there and saw old dead bugs that couldn't find their way out of the plastic light cover. It made him sad.

"I am honored ... Ordean, to have been invited here today. I am a great fan of the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama. I watch it on TV whenever I can."

"Why, thank you so much." Pritt said, with a voice so saccharine that it seemed to drip contemptuously from the walls. "How nice to hear those kind words coming from you, knowing the great clowning heritage of your family."

"Thank you," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. Although, to be honest, it's not the family you might imagine. I haven't seen my mother since I was a young boy and I have never met my father. Why, he doesn't know that I even exist."

Pritt leaned forward in his big leather chair and drew his face nearer to Dirty Clown, Jr's. The esteemed Talent Director of the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama smelled of Old Jim cologne and soggy basement.

"He'll know you soon enough, Pritt said. "You're a clown on the rise, and you share his name. Word travels fast in these parts.

"I don't know," Dirty Clown, Jr, said. "I understand that he is out of work and that he hasn't been seen in a while. Some people say he is destitute and perpetually drunk. Some even say ... he is dead." Dirty Clown, Jr. paused. At such a moment, a man might have the right to weaken and cry. He certainly wanted to. He wanted to unleash great torrents of tears in gilded golden buckets. But, if such an emotional dike were breached, he feared he might not be able to stop the flood of it, and that he might drown in the sprawling immensity of all those dark, churning waters. "I suppose you're wondering why I don't seek him out ... perhaps, save him," said Dirty Clown, Jr.

"It's a tragedy about your father, Pritt said, "I love him dearly. And it's a shame that he doesn't know about you. Why, I'll wager someday you'll be far more famous than him!"

Pritt snatched an imaginary fly from the air. An odd habit of his. Perhaps it was a way of metaphorically capturing the virtues which always eluded him. "Did you know that your father was a dear friend of mine? Yes, a dear, dear friend. You can see his picture behind me on the wall." Pritt pointed towards the dusty promotional 8x10. For a moment, both men studied the man in the photograph. The great Dirty Clown! To Dirty Clown, Jr., he was the father he'd never known. To Pritt, That Dirty Clown was the symbol of everything wrong with his miserable, awful life. To both, he was a towering legend who had breathed the sweet rarified air of regional triumph. True, he was not dead. But, he would never be as he was in his prime, the leaping, crooning cajoler who wowed them from Dunlap to Des Moines and back again.

So there they sat, Dirty Clown, Jr. and Ordean Pritt, and there hung old Dirty Clown, glowering down from his place of enshrinement. He made his presence very much known, even though he was just a fading image, trapped in a dime-store frame.

"It's kind of you to keep him in your memories and prayers, Mr. Pritt."

"Ordean."

"Ordean."

"Well, enough with the unpleasantness, Dirty Clown, Jr.," Pritt said, and with that he got on the horn to Sheila and asked her to bring in some coffee and maybe a few of those delicious Pecan Sandies™. "We'll have coffee and we'll talk for a while," Pritt said. "Yes. It'll do us both a world of good."

"That sounds very nice," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

Sheila brought in the cofee and the Pecan Sandies™ while Pritt eyed her carefully. Would she flirt with Dirty Clown, Jr.? Yes, she would! Would her eyes close half-way and would her voice soften into that gutteral purr all full of implications? Yes, they would! He knew it!

"I love the yellow ball on your clown hat, Dirty Clown, Jr." she said, as she bent low to pour his coffee.

"Shiela!" Pritt stood and pointed towards the door. Dirty Clown, Jr. was so alarmed by his sudden outburst that he spilled some hot coffee on his new outfit.

"Oh! Let me help you with that." Sheila said, ignoring Pritt's directive to leave. "Let me get a towel on that right away!"

"Don't give him any towels, Sheila! Out .... NOW!" Pritt was trembling with anger.

"All right, all right," Sheila said. She shut the door hard when she left.

"Really, Ordean, it's no trouble," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, concerned that Sheila might be in hot water with her boss. "I'm just a bit clumsy is all." Pritt sat back down and collected himself as best he could, but his mind was a writhing pink worm of insecurity and fear, its undulating segments swathed in a slime-coat of jealousy and hatred.

"Let's ... get down to business, shall we? Pritt said. They'll be time for idle chit-chat later. I have a little proposition for you."

"A proposition? Oh, please, I'd like to hear it," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. But, before Pritt revealed the gist of his proposition, he took the time to inhale deeply. He held the air in for quite a while, certainly longer than any normal man would. It was strange, actually, this breathing ritual of his. Pritt's quirks were well known, but they were accepted because he was a man of considerable position and influence in the county. Finally, when his face was as red as a beet and the veins were standing out on his neck, Pritt exhaled a great out-rushing gust of sour air. "Pshoooooooooooooooooooo." And then, he spoke.

"I'd like to hire you. I'd like you to have your very own TV special. I'd like you to star in next week's Carroll County Clown-O-Rama!"

"M - Me? On the Clown-O-Rama? My very own ... TV Special?" Dirty Clown, Jr. wriggled in his seat. It was all he could do to contain his volcanic glee. He felt like doing half-jacks! Heck, he felt like doing a Tarkio Soufflet! Truth was, for a local clown like him, the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama was the BIGTIME!

Despite his happiness, he remained calm. He allowed only a polite smile to cross his face. That's all. He knew he must begin to adopt some of the protocols of professionalism. He knew he must learn to internalize his silly feelings and focus only on work, work, work! Yes, after this, everything would change. The entire county was opening its arms to embrace him and he must not let them down. He had a legacy to rescue, and this was his mission, his purpose.

"You've impressed me," Pritt said, fiddling with his custom-made Carroll County Clown-O-Rama belt-buckle. "See, it says, CCC. Bub Ott made it for me down at the craft barn. He does nice turquoise work, too. Beautiful, beautiful work, isn't it?"

"Beautiful work, "Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "Work, work, work."

"I've watched you over the past few months, Pritt said. "I've charted your progress, you might say."

"My ... progress?" Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

"Yes, yes," Pritt continued, "Marvelous really. Your audiences have steadily grown. You really got folks talking after your appreance at the Hy-Valu Supermarket grand opening. Sheila says they're still gabbing about it down at the beauty parlor. The thing is, Dirty Clown, Jr., you do a respectable show. It's all good clean fun. The grown-ups enjoy your wonderful clowning skills and the youngsters, well, like your get-up and the free candy cigarettes. The big thing is, all-in-all there's been no trouble." Pritt let those words linger, and then he said them again. "No trouble."

"No ... trouble," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

"Right. Right," Pritt said, and then he took a dainty bite of a Pecan Sandy™. Bits of crumbs fell from his nibbled cookie and others remained stuck, half-masticated, to his glistening lips. Pritt brushed some from his desktop to the floor and then cleaned some ornery clinging crumbs from his suit sleeve. "Damn fine Sandies, aren't they?"

"They certainly are, Ordean," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, politely.

"By the way, Dirty Clown, Jr.," Pritt said, as he jotted something in a notebook with his pencil, "that nose of yours is different ... it's very unusual."

"It's rubber," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "I was born with it."

"It's rubber? Pritt held up his hand to stifle a laugh, but he couldn't help himself. "Ha ha haaaaaaaa. A rubber nose! Why look! I've misspelled a word here. Can you erase it for me?"

"Wha- what, sir?" Dirty Clown. Jr. was confused.

"With your rubber nose," Pritt said, laughing hysterically. "Can you erase this misspelled word for me .... ha-haaaa ha ha - with your nose? Ha-haaaaah ha-haaaa-haaaaaa."

Dirty Clown, Jr. detested this type of teasing. He'd survived many years of it, but, he wanted to be on the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama so badly that he betrayed his feelings and laughed right along with Mr. Pritt.

"Hee hee hee hee hee," Dirty Clown, Jr. laughed. "Hee hee hee hee hee."

You, you sound just like your father," Pritt said, his mood suddenly changing when he heard that eerily familiar laughter.

"Yes I, ... I've been told that many times before," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

"Hmmm, well, yes," Pritt said. "Such a distinctive laugh, isn't it? Why, I dare say it's hardly the sound of a laugh at all!"

Dirty Clown, Jr. said nothing in response.

Uncomfortable, and wishing to change the subject, Pritt altered the course of the conversation. "I'll give you two-hundred dollars for your appearance on the Clown-O-Rama. That ought to be fair, wouldn't you say?"

"Two-hundred dollars?!!" Dirty Clown, Jr, was nonplussed. "Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Pritt!"

"Yes, well, I do expect a good show from you. If you do a good show, then I will pay you in full."

"Oh, I'll do a good show," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "In fact, I've got a very special trick I've been practicing!"

"Special trick, eh?" Pritt struck a match and attempted to light one of his bulbous, premium-quality cigars. He sucked and puffed away until little billows of acrid smoke emerged and rose up to swirl around the dead bugs in the light globe. Dirty Clown watched the smoke swirrling and curling. S w i r r l i n g a n d C u r r r l i n g ....

"Clown!" Mr. Pritt said it loudly.

"Oh, oh. Sorry. I was just-

"Losing your concentration. Daydreaming! That's what you were doing, and I won't stand for it. Not here, and certainly not on my Clown-O-Rama stage."

"I ... I am sorry." Dirty Clown, Jr. lowered his head and his dangling hat made sad shadows on his face.

"Yes, well, two-hundred dollars then. Oh, and ... this trick. Please tell me what it is." Pritt drew long on his cigar and leaned back in his leather chair.

"I'm afraid I can't reveal the tri -"

"Tell me! Tell me now!" Pritt rose to his feet pointed at Dirty Clown, Jr. threateningly. "Tell me now or the deal is off. I mean it!"

"But, I -"

"Dirty Clown, Jr.," Pritt said, a tone of reason returning to his voice. "Dirty Clown, Jr. I need to know about your special trick, for safety considerations, ... uh, ... so that I might advise our stage hands as to your unique needs and requirements for this ... this little trick of yours."

"Well," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, "If you must know, it involves juggling."

"Juggling, eh?" Pritt sat again in his chair and rested his chin on his clasped hands. " I'm telling you right now, you'd better have something better for me than juggling. Especially if you want that two-hundred dollars! Any Johnny-come-lately clown can juggle balls. Can I tell you something, Mr. Dirty Clown, Jr.? I hate juggling. Can't stand it! Not much talent needed there. Not a speck of it."

"I see," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "Well, I also intend to incorporate a blindfold into this trick."

"Hmm, a blindfold," Pritt said, considering it. "Still not enough! It's a modern world out there, Dirty Clown, Jr. A new and modern world. Even juggling blindfolded won't do these days. I'm afraid the deal is -"

"I am going to wear ice-skates on my feet." There was a long silence. Pritt jotted in his notebook again. He wrote so hard that it broke the lead in his pencil.

"Dammit," Pritt said. "Dammit, I've broken it." He picked up his telephone and dialed a couple of numbers. "Get in here, Sheila. Bring me a pencil at once."

"I may have a pencil for you, Ordean," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

"No, NO," Pritt hissed. I don't want YOUR pencil! Sheila! Sheila, get in here!"

Sheila entered in a huff and stomped over to Pritts desk. She reeled back and threw a pencil at him as hard as she could. It bounced off of his chest and fell to the floor. "There!" Sheila was screaming at him. "There's your stupid pencil!"

"Sheila, my sweet, calm down," Pritt said.

"Oh, I'll calm down," Sheila said. I'll calm down because I won't have to see you anymore. I quit, Pritt! Do you hear me? I QUIT!!!" Having made her message clear, she turned her gaze to Dirty Clown, Jr. "And, as for you, honey" she said, "I'll see you at one of your shows." Then she bent down and kissed Dirty Clown, Jr. on his cheek.

"NO!" Pritt was enraged. "No! Do not kiss him! I won't have it!"

"YOU," Sheila said, suddenly speaking in a voice that caused Pritt to shrink meekly back into his chair," YOU don't tell ME what to do, understand?" Pritt nodded obediently. "Now I told you I quit, and this time I mean it!"

"But, Sheila, I -"

"It's too late. I quit. Goodbye, Mr. Pritt. Goodbye Dirty Clown, Jr." She left the room.

"Ohhh! Sheila, don't leave me!" Mr. Pritt was sobbing now, sobbing and pounding his desk each time he said her name. "Sheila! Sheila! Sheila! Please don't go!"

"I'm sorry about all of this," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, and Mr. Pritt looked at him. His face had gone blank and emotionless in an instant. His was a volatile countenance that could change like the weather at a moment's notice. This time, he left the remainder of his rage bottled and stored for some bigger outburst down the line.

"You ... SHOULD ... be ... sorry," Pritt said. "I want you to leave right now, clown. Right this minute."

"Yes, sir," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, as he rose to his comic-booted feet.

"I expect you to report for dress rehearsal at six p.m. sharp on the night before your performance. Bring your little juggling balls and your blindfold and your stupid ice skates and BE ON TIME!"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'll be on time."

"See that you are, or you get nothing, clown. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Hey! Wait a minute," Pritt said, as he attempted to re-light his cigar. Pwaah pwaah pwaah. "Wait a minute." Pritt got his cigar going again and he continued to speak. "Juggling balls. Ice Skates. Blindfolds. Hmmm. I mean, that's it? On second thought, clown. I don't like this. Let me call Slappy Madsen instead."

"Slappy Madsen!" Dirty Clown couldn't believe his ears. Now, he was never one to belittle a fellow clown, but Slappy Madsen??? He was a two-ball juggler with a homemade costume who hadn't even gotten beyond the church basement circuit!

"Slappy Madsen? He can't even get birthday party work!" Dirty Clown, Jr. spoke with sudden authority. Pritt was a more than a bit taken aback. He didn't think Dirty Clown, Jr. had a backbone, yet, here this young upstart was, raising his voice to him and Pritt didn't like it, not one bit.

"Quiet down, clown," Pritt said. "Don't get your puffballs bunched. Let's work this out."

"Yes. Let's work this out right now," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, and he remained standing. He looked Pritt straight in the eye and did not flinch or blink.

"OK, OK, no Slappy Madsen," Pritt said. "But, we need something more. We need something BIG! For the ratings. For the Clown-O-Rama. It's not just any old show, you know? It's a tradition in these parts." He ground out the coal of his cigar in the ashtray and picked up a tiny framed picture of Sheila that he always kept within reach. As he looked at her, the tears began to well again. How Pritt wished he hadn't forgotten to tuck a hankie in his coat pocket.

"Well," Dirty Clown. Jr. said, "as a matter of fact there IS an additional twist to this trick that I've been considering." Pritt's eyebrows raised.

"What is it, clown? What is it?"

"Mr. Pritt," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, not wishing to call him by his first name anymore, "Mr. Pritt, I want you to address me as Dirty Clown, Jr. I do not like being called, clown."

"Easy. Easy there, Dirty Clown, Jr.," Pritt said. "I call all of my clowns, clown. No offense meant."

Just the same," Dirty Clown, Jr. said, "I don't like it."

"Yes. Yes," Pritt said. "I, uh ... I, uhh ..."

"Yes, Mr. Pritt?

"Oh, dammit. I apologize," Pritt said, and he slammed down Sheila's little photograph on his desk, hard enough to crack the glass in the frame. "Now see what you've made me go and do?!"

Dirty Clown, Jr. ignored Pritt's outburst.

"I will attempt to walk across the high-wire while blindfolded. I will also wear ice skates on my feet and, as a special bonus, I will set my juggling balls aflame. That's it, Mr. Pritt. That's the trick."

"Blindfolded?" Pritt said it quietly.

"Yes," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.

"Hmmm," Pritt said. "Juggling balls set aflame, eh?"

"Yes. Juggling balls set aflame."

"Ice Skates?" Pritt had dollar-sign eyes and his mind was busy adding tens and twenties.

"Yes," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "Jumbo, clown-sized ice skates."

"Jumbo, eh? Clown-sized. I like it. And then the -"

"The high-wire, Mr. Pritt."

"High-wire, yes, yes," Pritt said. "I do like it, I do!"

"Very good then," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "So ... we have a deal?"

"Yes, yes of course," Pritt said, and he rose and shook Dirty Clown, Jr.'s hand. "I see no reason why this can't be the start of a lucrative and, uh ... friendly ... business association between us."

"Good," Dirty Clown, Jr. said. "I'll see you at dress rehearsal. Six p.m. sharp." He gave another cursory nod and then he exited. Just a moment later, Pritt could hear laughter in the next room. It was Sheila and Dirty Clown, Jr.! That son-of-a ... must have walked right past her as she was packing the last of the corrective ribbon and what-not from her desk drawers. Pritt ran it through his mind. Sheila ... and Dirty Clown, Jr. ... together ....... "No!"

He sprang for the door. His angry hand wrapped itself around the doorknob and then turned it. Wait! ... Stop! A better idea had just turned a doorknob in his mind. An idea that even he himself was not able comprehend just yet. One that was larval, half-baked and unformulated. What was it? What should he do?

"Tell me," Pritt whispered, to no one on this earth. "Tell me."

Again, laughter from the next room. Silly, happy laughter. If he hadn't been so upset before, Pritt might have recognized it for what it was. Friendly laughter. The laughter of a young man with a nostalgic admirer and an older woman charmed by the simple presence of a handsome young fellow. Nothing tawdry. After all, Dirty Clown, Jr. was not the type to engage in conjugal dalliances. Rather, he spent his time perfecting the sweet art of clowning, sometimes spending the wee hours of the night juggling or studying from the classic joke and pratfall manuals.

He was even known to rehearse his comic dance routines with only his own shadow for a partner. All he needed was a wall and a good lantern. The scary part was, sometimes late at night when he was practicing alone, his shadow would suddenly change shape and grow taller and wider of its own accord, until it became a hovering and malevolent thing. As if ... it were not HIS shadow at all! Frightened when this would occur, Dirty Clown, Jr. never spoke of it to anyone.

Pritt!

Pritt relaxed, and though he heard their cloying laughter in the next room, he did not intervene, chastise or threaten. Instead, he casually reclined on his office davenport and kicked off his wing-tips. He let his body rest against the plump, welcoming cushions.

"Aaaghhh," he said, "I'm feeling better now." Faintly, he heard the front door of the office close. Dirty Clown, Jr. was gone, probably with Sheila. It didn't matter now. Not anymore. Gears were turning in his head. Gears that turned the steel wheels of destiny towards a depot named death. It was just up ahead. He stretched his body lengthwise and felt his bones crack and pop. "Aaghhhh."
He rubbed his eyes and scratched his scalp and itched his chest and his rump, then he lolled placidly for a moment before rolling over on his side. As was is way, each act of piggish pleasure brought forth from him that familiar sound ... "Aaaghhhhhhh."

And when at last he was comfortable, he closed his eyes and he fell asleep. It wasn't long before he had a dream, and in this dream he was a clown. Only, why was his costume gray? Why were there no pretty polka-dots, no playful paisleys or sunny stripes on his outfit? No brightly- checkered squares? His costume was a lifeless gray, and though he did the same things the other clowns did, no one was laughing. The Clown-O-Rama orchestra was playing out of tune. The tuba made a sound like a drowning walrus, trapped under water and unable to find a hole in the ice. It was a profound, gaseous, deep Doppler™-ized, noise, sub-sonic and evil. He watched in horror as the horrible Tubalrus paddled frantically and floundered for its very life, and he watched as its polished brass skin caught and reflected one final glint of surface light before the doomed thing went spiraling down, down, down, down, down ... to sink forever in a bottomless sea. .

And the powerful Clown-O-Rama spotlights? They were snake's heads now, coiling back on spindly bodies, shooting out hot sprays of toxic illumination, all tinted that horrid shade of "doctor's office" green. The color of sickness, fear and death. Green, like artificial mints. Green, like the lining of his dear wife's casket.

"Jane," Pritt whispered desperately in his tormented sleep ... "Jane."

These were the kinds of memories the mind keeps hidden in skeletal annexes that dreams so carelessly access. Better they were buried themselves, to moulder and shrink in the dirt.

He could hear footsteps coming up a flight of stairs somewhere far in the distance. The sound of abject terror from someplace long ago. The recurring sound of someone coming to get him. Pritt wanted to call out for his mother, but the paralysis of fear choked and stifled his voice.

KERPOWWW! The Carroll County Clown-O-Rama Comedy Cannon! Ladies and gentlemen, here come the FREAKS!

Real-life freaks are folks just like everybody else, mostly kind and accepting of their lot. They make a living the best way they know how. But, Pritt's dream-freaks were a different matter. They used leather straps to tie him down on a rough wooden board and then they stood vigilant guard over him. They stared at him with their mis-matched, inbred eyes and brushed biting horseflies from their gnarled torsos. They were not there to protect him. When the head freak barked his unintelligible command, they raised him aloft and offered Pritt up to the crowd. They situated him so that he was directly facing the waiting audience. Looking out, he saw a macabre gallery of drooping, bored, miserable, pain-infested patrons. He could feel their malignant hatred for him.

"I just wanted to be a clown!" He yelled at them, in his dream. "I just wanted to try it ... just once." Pritt started to cry. In the waking world, he thrashed and flailed about on the davenport. He even knocked a nik-nak from the coffee table and cut himself, but it failed to wake him and now he was bleeding ...

... bleeding from the binding leather straps that held him to the board. They were too tight around his ankles and his hips and his chest. They were digging at him and hurting him.

"Let me down," he cried. "Let me down, I don't want to be here!" The freaks all leaned in closer to him. He could see all of their sores and their lesions, their blackheads and their boils and their ingrown hairs. He could smell the stink of death that festered inside of them. They laughed at him and they snorted with one-nostriled noses and beige latex hoses while bits of spittle flew from their rotten-toothed mouths and rained down on his face.

It started low at first, in the back rows. You couldn't even see the people's faces way back there.

"I just wanted to be a clown," Pritt cried. "I wanted her to love me! Don't you see?"

"Kill him. Kill Him. Kill him." The crowd was saying it in unison. "Kill him. Kill him. Kill him."

Pritt realized what they were saying and he began to thrash harder, trying to escape what was coming. As the nightmare reached its climax and the air grew thick with dread, the freaks joined in the slow-building chant.

"Kill Him. Kill him. Kill Him." They were standing now, all of them, and their bodies were bloated and full of cheap candy and popcorn and Frosty Malts™. The little ones had pug faces and urp stains on their bibs. Their parents were zombified, dangerously ignorant and venemous. The old folks were all shriveled and infirmed, and they waved their rubber-tipped canes and their prosthetic limbs at him.

The dull chant suddenly ignited into one mass, spiteful, deafening chorus ...

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

Now the freaks lowered him down and released him from the constricting straps. They held onto him firmly, their twisted bodies rubbing against him saliciously, and their filthy yellowed nails drawing crescents of blood as they pierced his skin. They yanked him violently from side to side as the crowd continued to chant.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

Then, the freaks threw him hard to the ground. They withdrew knives and swords from their mildewed sheathes and they raised them high above their heads. Pritt covered his face with his hands and curled up into a ball, awaiting impalement and death. Through a crack between his fingers, he saw the knives and swords coming down.

"NO!!!!!"



Pritt opened his eyes. He was still for a moment and then he spoke again, that one word. "No."

He sat up on the edge of the davenport. The freaks and the angry crowd were gone and turned to mist, leaving him only the re-assuring sight of his desk and his chair ... and ... that picture on the wall.

He was awake now and though he could no longer see them, the chant of the crowd still echoed in his head. He couldn't make it stop.

"Kill him. Kill him. Kill him."

"Yes," Pritt said. Yes."

He picked up the phone and dialed ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 1. It rang twice on the other end.

"Frank, I need you to come by my office right away.

Yes, it's very important.

Dammit. I don't care about the diving donkeys right now! Let Leonard handle it.

I need you to make special arrangements for Dirty Clown, Jrs. appearance on the Clown-O-Rama.

Yes, he's really going to be on the show.

No, I can't get you an autograph.

Listen to me.

LISTEN TO ME, DAMMIT!

I need to discuss certain ... adjustments ... that I want you to make on the high-wire cable.

Yes.

Uh-huh.

All right.

Five minutes."


Across the street in the park, Dirty Clown, Jr. was feeding the pigeons. He was thinking about the night his mother was taken away to an institution when he was little. They wouldn't let him see her. Wouldn't let him send her letters or cards. Said it was for his own good. But, there was nothing good about it. Where was she now? He missed her so much.

And his father? Where was he? Was he alive? He wished that he could tell him about the Carroll County Clown-O-Rama. He wished that he could make his father proud.

"My very own, TV Special," Dirty Clown, Jr. said.