Prompt provided by Fictionistas January’s Flashy Fiction Thread, with
and . It ended up a bit/very dark. Sorry.While dog-sitting, a tactless diplomat brings home an unexpected houseguest 1000 words or less.
Suggested soundtrack:
Adam and the Ants - Stand and Deliver
The Clown 945 words copyright Linnhe Harrison 2024
The Clown
I avoid the eyes of the paramedics as they lift the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, your bulbous tri-colour footwear proudly refusing the dignity a white fabric sheet is trying to offer you. I half expect to hear a comedic squeaker. Or a drum roll. I do know I’m not supposed to say things like that, at times like this.
A young cop puts one hand on my head, the other on my elbow, and guides my handcuffed self into the back of the patrol car. I tell the cop I can explain everything.
To explain everything, we need to go back in time. Only about two or three hours. It is quite remarkable how little time I needed to really fuck things up.
Who are you supposed to be? A shit Adam Ant?
This was getting old. As was my response of no, no, I’m an ambassador. The repetition was beginning to corrode my enthusiasm. I had taken to the tequila shots quite early.
It wasn’t easy – or cheap - to get my hands on an Ambassadors Full Dress Uniform. I’d been on eBay for weeks. Nearly gave up. But I thought they’d all get the joke – witty new boss from across the pond dresses as British diplomat for Halloween bash. The fun had barely got out of the starting blocks, and I’d already been one Russell Crowe circa Master and Commander, three times the artist formerly known as Prince and two shit Adam Ants. Single breasted tailcoat people, single. Not double. The clue was always there.
I had generously offered my swanky new apartment as the party venue, with the aim of starting this next chapter of my career on a high. I’d forgotten I was also supposed to be dog sitting the neighbour’s dog that night, but it was just one of those ratty Chihuahua things that could go back in its carrier if needed. The bloody thing wouldn’t stop yapping and pissing everywhere so the carrier confinement had happened within minutes of take-off.
You knocked at the door at about 9.20pm. The ratty dog creature yapped even harder.
There you were, wearing a crazy red wig, voluminous baggy nylon trousers, huge tri-colour shoes. Pretty good make up, especially if you did it all yourself. Wow, good call for Halloween, I said. Clowns are as creepy as fuck.
I asked if you had one of those joke guns that squirt flowers. You smiled and said I do actually. I think your true smile was quite small and tight, but it had been morphed into a manic grin by the makeup. And I laughed. Even though I think I knew your smile was not really a smile at all.
You asked if I was that singer dude from Adam and the Ants and I said sure, yeah, why not. You had a satchel type bag and you asked me if Dave was here.
I said I was quite new, not just to the town but the whole gawddamn country. I had tried to do an American drawl for the gawddamn and it sounded decent. I said I had yet to meet a Dave.
You raised two painted eyebrows and peered over my shoulder. It was very hard to estimate your age. I suspect I’ll discover you were older than I thought you’d be. Even in the cold of the stairwell, you were sweating. I could see beads of moisture bubbling up under your white face paint, like the edges of a frying egg.
I stood to one side, and proffered a low, booze powered bow to welcome you into my home. Please, do come in and look for Dave yourself. You said no no no, it’s ok. But I pulled you into the party anyway and shouted for a Dave.
I assumed the willowy man that loped out of the kitchen was your Dave. I didn’t recognise him, but I did fly low and loose with party invitations. I noticed that you gripped at your bag quite tight. The doggy rat was still yapping.
Dave loped forward and I heard him whisper not in here you fucking moron. You shuffled backwards in your clumsy comical clown shoes, and I put out my right arm to stop you from bailing. Why leave such a good shindig. My right hand felt the gun tucked into the waistband of your voluminous baggy nylon trousers. My left hand grabbed at an opened bottle of bourbon and my brain told me it would be a good idea to knock back the contents.
It also told me it would be a good idea to shout ALEXA!
The room fell quiet, other than the continuous yap yap fuckity yap from one of the bedrooms. The base of my Echo Dot glowed blue.
Play Adam and the Ants, Stand and Deliver.
The trumpeting opening bars filled my home and I grabbed the gun from your waistband. Held it above my head. So much blood drained from Dave’s face I thought he might pass out. Somewhere near the 43” Smart TV a girl screamed. Dave patted at the air in front of him, just put it down man. Just put the gun down.
You had your hands up and you were shaking your head. You were shaking your whole body, which was an admirable investment in character, but it just felt a step too far. I could see other people reaching for their phones. No one was laughing.
Christ’s sake, what the fuck is up with you miserable lot? It’s just a joke gun. See.
I pointed the barrel at your cracking, sweating, alabaster forehead.
I pulled the trigger.
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Great piece, and the song was perfect for it. A nice mix of comedic and chilling - when you mentioned the 'joke' gun I immediately thought, "Oh no...."