Stuart R. West
Thumping woke me in the night. I slipped out of bed and tip-toed downstairs. A clown stood frozen at the back door, cradling my television.
Caught somewhere between fear and a dream-like state, I blinked, rubbed my eyes. Not the best response, I laughed.
He asked, "What's so funny? Do I look like a clown to you?"
His red, plastic nose squeaked when I planted a meat-cleaver into his face.
I pumped my fist like a rock-star to the resounding applause in my head. Always wanted to kill a clown.
Mimes are next. Then politicians and Kardashians.
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