Black Friday Matters

            It was dark when Frank woke up. He looked at the clock. 6:00. Still early, he thought. He climbed off the couch and walked into the kitchen. His roommate, Reggie, was eating a TV dinner. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. “What are you doing up so early?” Frank asked him. “And why are you eating a turkey dinner for breakfast?”

            “Jesus, Frank, it’s six o’clock at night.” Reggie stuffed a fork full of mush into his mouth. “You must have really tied one on last night.”

            “Six o’clock at night?” Franks said in a panicked voice. He ran back into the living room and searched for his jacket. “Have you seen my jacket?” he yelled to Reggie.

            “Isn’t it hanging on the back of the couch?”

            Frank checked the back of the couch. Nothing. Behind it. Nothing. Underneath. Bingo! He wondered how it got there as he searched the pockets. Half a pack of smokes. Two disposable lighters. A ripped piece of paper with a phone number on it. A tiny plastic bag coated in white residue. A token for a free beverage at a place called “Marty’s Hole in the Wall.” A nickel. Four dimes. His flip phone. Bingo!

            He checked for missed calls. Seven. All from the same number. Junior! He had promised his son that he would make him Thanksgiving dinner. His refrigerator was filled with all the ingredients.  Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Corn. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. He said he would pick him up at noon.

            Frank pressed the “Call” button on his phone. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

            “Goddamn it Frank!” It wasn’t his son’s voice.

            “I can explain.”

            “I don’t want to hear it. This was the last time. Please don’t call here anymore.”

            “Just let me…”

The line went dead. Ring tone. Frank flipped the phone shut. “Hey Reggie,” he yelled.

“Yeah?”

“What time does that store open?”

“Which store?”

“The one with the big Black Friday sale?”

“Eight o’clock, I think. Why?”

Frank swung his jacket over his shoulders and jolted out the door of the trailer. The rain pounded the windshield of his Pontiac as drove across town. He arrived at the store an hour before it opened. There were already over a hundred people in line. He waited. In the pouring rain.

There was a mad rush to the toy section when the doors opened. Everyone was after the same thing. Snatchimals. Frank didn’t even know what the fuck a Snatchimal was. But he needed one.

The shelf was empty.

“Excuse me, miss.” Frank approached an elderly woman who was holding one of the prized possessions. “I know how this must sound, but I need that toy.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But I can’t part with it.”

Frank pulled out his wallet. “You don’t understand. I really need it. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars? These things are going for hundreds on the internet.”

“Please, just do me a favor.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t.” The woman headed toward the cash register.

Frank walked out the front door and waited. In the pouring rain. The woman came out. Frank followed her to her car. “Excuse me, miss…”

“You again! I said no…”

Frank punched her in the nose. She tried to yell. Frank punched her again. And again. And again. Until she fell to the ground. He grabbed her shopping bag and walked to his car.

He drove to a spot he knew next to the old mill. A spot that was secluded. He climbed into the back seat. He crossed his arms. He closed his eyes.

When daylight broke, he drove to his ex-wife’s house. He rang the doorbell. His son answered.

“Peter!”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to bring you this.” Frank handed his son the bag.

Peter opened it and pulled out a Snatchimal. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the new toy. The one everybody wants.”

“I’m fifteen fucking years old. Why the fuck would I want a Snatchimal?” The door slammed shut.

Frank left the toy on the porch. He drove toward home. He pulled into the trailer park. Two cop cars were idling in front of his home. He turned around. He drove away. In the pouring rain.

           

Playing the Trump Card

            Richard woke to a jackhammer striking the inside of his skull. And his mouth, it felt like it was filled with cotton. Or was it cat shit? It didn’t matter. He needed water. But that meant getting up. And getting up meant moving. And he was in no condition to move.

            He tried to fall back to sleep, but the pounding in his head screamed “NO!” Weed would help, he thought. So he rolled over and grabbed a joint off his nightstand, lit it, and took a long drag. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and took another hit. And that’s when he heard the moan. He turned around to find a motionless body resting on the far side of his bed. Who was this? He thought, I don’t recall bringing anyone to bed last night.

            He quickly scanned his memory as if it was a rolodex of blurry Polaroids: shots, lines of cocaine, more shots, bongs, the bar, after party at the frat house, more shots, keg stand…and that was all he could remember. He took another hit from the joint and that’s when the paranoia slithered into his consciousness.

            He sprung to his feet and began pacing back and forth across his room. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Did he rape this girl? What if he did? She was in his bed. He must have. And even if he didn’t, what if she thinks he did. That’s all it took these days—just one girl to accuse you. Just one stupid girl to ruin your life. But whatever happened already happened. Didn’t it? Why should two lives be ruined?

He could figure his way out of this. Couldn’t he? Let’s see. He could say he was never there. His frat brothers would give him an alibi, wouldn’t they? But that wouldn’t work—too many people saw him last night. Plus, the DNA. Fuck! The DNA! Okay, so he needed an excuse. Not an excuse—a reason. A psychological reason. He was a psychology major after all. But who was he kidding? He never went to class.

That’s when he saw the newspaper laying on his desk. Yes! That’s it! That’s his way out. The election! We elected a president who was clearly a sexual predator. And he received the majority of the women’s vote, so, if they voted for him, then that meant it must be okay to sexually assault a woman. Yes! That was the answer! The new president would get him off! He knew there was a reason he voted for him.

             But would he really? Richard began to panic. There’s no way that would actually work, would it? I’m so fucked, he thought, just like that swimmer from Stanford.

But wait, what was this? He noticed a tattoo on the woman’s back. He recognized the ink. He rolled the woman over. Thank God! It was only his sister! He didn’t rape anyone!

A sense of relief immediately filled Richard, until he looked down to find a condom hanging from his flaccid penis…

Infected

You wake up to a number. Only thirteen today, your wife says. Only. You remember when thirteen was a magnificently large number, worthy of a week or more of headline news stories. Now it’s only thirteen because yesterday seventy-three were killed in Columbus when a man walked into a movie theater and blew himself up with a homemade bomb. The day before that it was twenty-seven in Davis, where an elderly woman poisoned the mashed potatoes at all-you-can-eat buffet. Not a day goes by when you don’t wake up to a number.

It used to be terrorists you were afraid of. The darker-skinned religious radicals. The ones that only showed their eyes. They were easy to profile. Easy to avoid. But then it was some white middle-class teenager in Tallahassee. And then a Native-American woman in Boise. And then an elderly black man in Atlanta. Profiling was suddenly useless. They would strike anytime. Anywhere. No warning signs. Almost always on suicide missions. And when they are captured alive, they always have the same empty look in their eyes. Like deer caught in the headlights. And they always say the same thing: They deserved it. We all deserve it.

They tried a ban on guns. That’s when the bombs started. And the knives, axes, swords. It only got worse. So you blamed the President. You helped to elect him out of office. You blamed the gun ban. You helped to get it overturned. And then you bought a semi-automatic assault rifle. For protection. Years ago you wouldn’t have cared. But now you have a wife. A daughter. A responsibility to protect them. So you take them to the firing range. You teach them how to use the weapon. You teach them how to protect themselves. But you pray that they’ll never have to.

You hear it on the radio. The breaking news story you’ve been dreading. There’s been a mass shooting at your daughter’s middle school. You drop whatever you’re doing and rush to the scene. You’re stopped at the yellow police tape. An FBI Agent has questions for you. Do you own a semi-automatic assault rifle? Did your daughter have access to it? At first, you’re confused. Why are they you asking you these questions? And then you notice everyone is staring at you. The police. The victims’ parents. The news crews.

You must have known. There must have been warning signs. The FBI tears apart your house. They question everyone you know. The news people won’t leave you alone. Your phone won’t stop ringing. They camp out in front of your home. Your work. They demand answers. Until the story dies down. Until a college basketball player blows up his home arena during the third quarter of a close game. Over 1,200 dead. Instant ratings bait.

Even after they’ve gone, they’re still there. Your phone is tapped. Your computer monitored. Your guns apprehended. You’ve lost your job. Your wife has left. And you can’t stop thinking about your daughter. Why did she do what she did? What did she know that you don’t? There must be something. There’s no way a thirteen year old girl would murder her entire class unless she had a good reason. Did they deserve it? you wonder. Do we all deserve it? You start thinking about your next move. Your daughter took out twenty-two. Could you do double that? Triple? You fall asleep dreaming of numbers.

The Pitch

The Pitch

Setting: modern times, in a world similar to ours, though one that makes much more sense

Characters: the Producer, the Writer

The Producer is sitting in his office, at his desk, reading through papers, when there’s a knock at the door.

The Producer Come in.

Enter the Writer

The Writer Good day sir, thank you in advance for seeing me.

The Producer Make this quick. I don’t have much time.

The Writer Absolutely. Here’s the pitch: An hour long drama that revolves around a Presidential election.

The Producer Not another political thriller…

The Writer Hold on, just hear me out, this one is different.

The Producer You’ve got sixty seconds.

The Writer The show’s pilot starts one year before election night. The front runner on the Democratic side is the wife of an ex-president whose term in office was full of scandal. I mean a real sleaze ball—the guy is having sex with his interns and things like that. On the Republican side, a reality television star—an ignorant, racist, sexist, foul-mouthed billionaire. The show follows their turbulent campaigns. On one side, we have this woman who is absolutely corrupt. She’s leaking confidential information to foreign countries in exchange for cash contributions to her campaign. She’s sending paid-actors into her competitor’s rallies to stir up violence. She might even be involved in murders to cover up her wrong-doings. On the other side, we have this megalomaniac who is running a Hitleresque campaign based almost entirely on fear. He’s insulting people left and right—immigrants, Muslims, women, the handicapped—nobody is off limits. He might even be working closely with the Russian Government, using them to spy on his opponent. And yet, people love him. He builds a huge following, supporters that are willing to do anything to get him elected. So, now we have this country divided down the middle, set up for the most epic election in the history of the nation, and just a few episodes before the season finale, the Republican candidate is hit with a sex scandal where he’s caught on tape admitting to repeatedly sexually insulting women. At this point, the viewers think it’s over, that the Democrats have an easy path to victory, but then, in the second to last episode, there’s a huge turn of events. You see, there’s this disgraced politician, this pervert who got caught sexting with underage girls, his name, get this, Anthony Weiner…

The Producer (looking at his wristwatch): Wait! Hold on! Minutes up! There is no way this show will ever get made!

The Writer Why not?

The Producer You’re pitching a political thriller that involves presidential candidates who are tangled up in sex scandals, Russian espionage, fear mongering, and a pervert named “Weiner”? What else do I have to say?

The Writer But I haven’t even told you about the finale yet. You won’t believe what happens on election night…

The Producer I don’t need to know! I’ve heard enough! Nobody will ever believe any of this! Perhaps it will work as a comic book. Maybe a blog post. But I’m sorry, it’s just too far-fetched for television.

The Heckler

              I swear to the baseball gods this is a true story. It was early in the new millennium, post-9/11, but pre-Obama, and my good friend Damian and I, as we often found ourselves doing in those days, decided to attend a baseball game in downtown Buffalo, New York. Buffalo, which at one point in the 1800’s was the second largest city in the United States, hasn’t seen a major league team since 1915, when the Buffalo Blues (also known as the BufFeds) called the then prosperous city their home. On several occasions Buffalo tried to lure a Major League club to their fair city with no success, though since 1979 they have supported a thriving minor league team, the Buffalo Bisons, who at the time of this story, was the AAA affiliate to the Cleveland Indians (they have since switched affiliates, first to the New York Mets, and most recently, the Toronto Blue Jays). A quick side note of interest: though the Buffalos Blues found little success in the short lived Federal League, they did have a player named Ed Porray on their roster, who has the strange honor of being the only Major League Baseball player in history whose birthplace is not a place in a traditional sense, but rather noted as “on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.” Anyway, enough about history, back to the story…

            Dunn Tire Park (since renamed Coca-Cola Field) felt nearly empty that night, as many minor league stadiums do during weekday games. Our seats were down the third base line, past the dugout, a dozen or so rows above the left field grass. I don’t even remember who the Bisons were playing that night, and it doesn’t really matter, because this story isn’t about the game. It’s about the heckler who was sitting about thirty feet in front of us, in the row of seats closest to the field. He had to be in his late twenties, early thirties, and was wearing the Buffalo Sabers jersey of Vaclav Varada, a Czechoslavakian winger who was popular among fans in the late-90’s (not the classic jersey with the crossed swords and charging buffalo that is undeniably one of the greatest logos in the history of sports, or the yellow snail that is undeniably one of the most horrendous, but rather the severed buffalo head from when the franchise made the incomprehensible decision to not only change their design but also the teams entire color scheme). Anyway, enough about jerseys, back to the story…

            As soon as the game started Varada (the heckler, not the athlete) began laying into the left fielder. Now, it’s not out of the ordinary for fans to heckle baseball players from the visiting team, but this guy took heckling to an entirely new extreme. Ordinarily, heckles can be as simple as “You suck!,” clever, like “Hurry and get to the ball Cinderella!” slightly insulting, “You play baseball like a girl!” (Authors Note: personally, I don’t believe there is anything wrong with girls playing baseball. In fact, I encourage all females to pursue whichever athletics they desire.) or, more specific to minor league games, discouraging, “You’ll never make it to the majors playing like that!” But Varada was no ordinary heckler. He seemed to have been summoned from the depths of heckling hell for one sole reason: to make certain the visiting left fielder had a miserable evening. “You’re a child molester!” he yelled at the poor guy. “You like taking little boys into the woods and raping them!” All the other fans in listening distance began looking around at one another, thinking Is this guy for real? Mothers scurried up their children, pressing their hands over their little ears, as they led them to other parts of the stadium, to seats that were out of Varada’s shouting range. Before we knew it, all the other fans in the area were gone, leaving only Varada, a couple of his buddies, who never once attempted to quiet their friend down, and Damian and I. And since we were the only fans left in the vicinity, Varada suddenly felt that we were there to watch him and not the ball game. Every time he yelled an utterly inappropriate remark he would turn around to us and smile, as if we were granting him approval simply by not changing seats. And just when we thought the words coming out of his mouth couldn’t possibly get any more inappropriate…

            Imagine there’s a locker room, and the team inside that locker room are engaging in “locker room talk,” and that team consists of Donald Trump, Billy Bush, Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton, Andrew Dice Clay, Michael Jackson, Jared from Subway, Cartman from South Park, The Jerky Boys from the 90’s, and every other foul mouthed celebrity, rapist, child molester, and degenerate you can think of. Imagine the things that would be coming out of their mouths. That’s what Varada sounded like for a solid nine innings. Things I would never repeat in person, let alone on this page. And at the end of the game, when the Bisons won, Varada celebrated as if he was the sole reason for victory. As if his nine innings of spewing oral diarrhea was the deciding factor in the game. But I’ll tell you what, that left fielder played a hell of a game, never once letting Varada get to his psyche; no errors, and if I remember correctly, he even had a couple of solid hits. You have to give the guy credit, I mean, in what other profession would anyone have to tolerate such abuse. Could you imagine going to your job and having some douche bag accuse you of molesting children for the entirety of your work day? 

            And that was the game in which I finally understood why baseball players get paid so much money.

Name-Droppin'

           Oh, yes, I remember that night well. That was the night I took Hannah Montana home. Not the Hannah Montana, of course, but the actress who played her on television, you know, the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart’s daughter. 

           I was in Kansas City, Kansas—not to be mistaken with the much larger and much more pretentious Kansas City, Missouri, just across the state line—enjoying a drink at a bar called “The Hitching Post.” Or was it “The Hole in the Wall”? Either way, it doesn’t really matter. I was on my third, or was it my fifth, bottle of Schlitz when that son of a bitch walked through the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, what the hell was he doing in a place like this?  

            I was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, how could he? We were a thousand or more miles from our hometown. I was twenty years older and a hundred pounds lighter than the last time we had seen each other at our high school graduation. There was no way he was going to recognize me. And then I heard those words: “Pat Walcock? “Fat” Pat Walcock, is that you?”

            I turned my head to find Jordan Prescott saddled right up next to my stool. And damn if he didn’t look great. He was the star quarterback/homecoming king/class president/ prom king of our senior class, and somehow, in the two decades since I’d seen him last, he had gotten taller, more muscular, his teeth whiter, his skin tanner, and hair thicker. “Pat Walcock—that is you!”

            “Jordan Prescott,” I said as he clasped my hand firmly and gave it a good shake, “how’ve you been.”

            “Great,” he replied. “No. Never mind. Better than great. How about you?”

            “Never been better.”

            “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. “Please, let me buy you a drink.”

            “No. Let me buy you a drink. I insist.”

            “Thanks.” He waved the bartender over. “I’ll have two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue Label, neat, please.”

            Fingers? Neat? I didn’t know what any of that even meant, but I played along like I did. “Make that two,” I said.

            The bartender poured us our drinks and set them down in front of us. When he said, “That’ll be a hundred dollars,” I nearly choked on my drink. I nonchalantly slid my debit card across the bar, knowing that I had just spent one-fifth of all the money I had.

            “So what the hell are you doing in Kansas City?” Jordan wanted to know.

            I couldn’t admit that I lived here now, with my mother, in a trailer park, so I quickly turned the question on him. “I was about to ask you the same damn question.”

            “Business,” he said. “My firm is buying up a bunch of small businesses, mostly to liquidate inventory, layoff employees, and use the losses for tax write-off purposes.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “And you?”

            “Also business,” I replied.

            “Oh yeah, what kind of business are you in?”

            I needed to come up with something quick. I shifted my eyes around the room until they landed on an old television sitting in the corner. On it, an old movie from the 90’s was playing: To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything, something something… “I’m in the film industry,” I said. “I’m actually here scouting out locations for a new movie.”

            “Really? Wow! That’s absolutely fascinating. What’s the movie about? Who’s going to be in it? Anybody I’ve heard of?”

            I couldn’t believe it! Jordan Prescott—the Jordan Prescott—was intrigued by me. “Ever heard of Mark Ruffalo?”

            “Mark Ruffalo? Of course I’ve heard of Mark Ruffalo.”

            “Well, he’s playing a down on his luck guy in Kansas City. Lives in a trailer park. With his mother.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “What happens? What’s the plot?”

            “He runs into an old adversary at a bar and…well, I don’t want to give anything away.”

            “What’s it called?”

            “Ruffalo’s Revenge.”

            “Wait a second. Mark Ruffalo is starring in a movie called Ruffalo’s Revenge?”

            “It’s meta.”

            A confused, suspicious look took over Jordan’s face. “So, you know a lot of movie stars, do you?”

“Don’t know if I would use the words “a lot,” but yeah, I get around. Lifted weights with Lou Ferrigno last week, if that tells you anything.”

Jordan’s look of suspicion immediately morphed into a fierce look of competition. “So, dig this,” he said, “I played golf with John Stamos a couple of months ago. He’s an old friend of one of the firm’s partners. Shoots a seven handicap.”

            “Oh yeah,” I replied. “I sold weed to Patrick Duffy once.”

            Suddenly, it was on.

            “I had dinner with Maria Shriver.”

            “I did cocaine with Courtney Love.”

            “Went bowling with David Hasselhoff.”

            “Played euchre with Bob Ueker.”

            By this point it didn’t even matter who was saying what.

            “Went six rounds with Mickey Rourke.”

            “Rode on a rollercoaster next to Mark Paul Gosselaar.”

            “Did improve with Parker Posey.”

            “Rode a tandem bicycle with the bassist from Bel Biv DeVoe.”

            “Roller-skated with the guy who played “Bull” on Night Court.”

            “Roller-bladed with Patrick Swayze’s brother, Don.”

            “Went skydiving with two-thirds of Tony Toni Tone.”

            “Played catch with Donovan McNabb.”

            “Threw a Frisbee with Don Cheadle.”

            “Played Twister with the Olsen Twins.”

            “Oh yeah, well, I fucked Hannah Montana!”

            And that was the one that left Jordan speechless. After finishing his two fingers of Johnny Walker, he finally found some words. “You’re going to stand there and tell me that you fucked Hannah Montana? The daughter of the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart?”

            “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

            “Prove it.”

            “Prove it?” I laughed. “Now, how the hell can I prove it?”

            “She just walked through the door.”

            I turned my head and couldn’t believe my eyes: Hannah fucking Montana had just walked through the door. What were the fucking chances? Well, I did the only thing a man could do in this situation: I finished my two fingers of Johnny Walker, slammed the glass on the bar, and walked across the room towards her. I did have a reputation to keep after all. As I got within a few feet of her, I realized that she wasn’t Hannah Montana after all, but rather just some buck toothed girl with a boy’s haircut. I quickly recognized that from a distance, most of the girls in the bar— and most of the girls in Kansas City, Kansas for that matter — looked strikingly similar to Hannah Montana. “Excuse me,” I said to the Hannah Montana lookalike, “this might seem like a strange request, but I will give you two-hundred dollars if you simply smile, grab my hand, and walk out of this bar with me right now. After we get outside, you can go wherever you want. You’ll never see me again.”

            “Is this a joke?”

            “No joke. Just trying to win a friendly bet with my friend across the room.” I turned around and waved at Jordan.

            “I’ll do it for four-hundred.”

            “There’s an ATM next door,” I said as I led her out the front door.

            I withdrew the last four hundred dollars to my name and handed it to the girl before she disappeared into the night. I was flat broke, but it didn’t matter, because for the rest of his life, even though chances were that I’d never see him again, Jordan Prescott would believe that “Fat” Pat Walcock was a better man than he, and you can’t put a price tag on something like that.

           

           

           

            

Not the Best Time to be a Clown

            Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Hilario the Clown’s smile widened as she practiced her laugh in the bathroom mirror. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! She finished rubbing white makeup onto her chin, placed a red ball over her nose, and covered her blond hair with a rainbow covered wig. Satisfied with her appearance, she smiled again, shook her cheeks, widened her eyes, and let out one last laugh. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe!

            BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! Whitey Oldman pulled the trigger on his Glock 19 in rapid succession. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! After the last bullet exited the chamber, he pressed a small button on the left hand side of his booth and waited as a cable hooked to a pulley brought a target to him. He unclipped the piece of paper and studied the black ink, gently rubbing his index finger over the eight small holes clustered in the center of the figure’s chest. Satisfied with his accuracy, he clipped a fresh target to the pulley and sent it down the range. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

            “Are you excited?”

            Hilario the Clown smiled at her husband, who was holding their four year old daughter in his arms. “Of course I’m excited! This is the first paying gig I’ve had in a month. I mean, imagine if police officers were out scaring people all over the country and everyone was afraid to hire you!”

            “Well dear, I don’t know if that’s the best analogy…”

            “Oh, you know what I’m saying. At least you still get to do what you’re passionate about and get a paycheck at the end of the week. I mean, put yourself in my shoes.”

            He looked down at a pair of red shoes that were large enough to fit an NBA player, which caused them both to laugh. “You really should take those off before you drive.”

           

            “Did you hear what The Times reported this morning?” Big Don sipped his coffee as Whitey Oldman meticulously folded his paper targets.

            “I don’t even want to know. I mean what the hell has this country come to? A nigger president for eight years, and now these kids want to elect a goddamn woman? A lying, cheating, no-good, crooked criminal, I might add. She should be in jail, for Christ’s sakes.”

            “You’re preaching to the choir, pal. We got spics flooding across the border, Muslims terrorizing our communities, jobs being shipped overseas, and when somebody finally stands up to do something about it, the media makes up all these lies about the guy. What is a man to do in these crazy times?”

            “Well, at least I can still come to your gun range to let off some steam.”

            “For now…we’ll see what happens to the second amendment if that whore gets elected. Let’s just say, you better start stocking up on bullets.”

            “Speaking of which,” Whitey Oldman reached for his wallet. “Why don’t you give me a couple boxes of hollow points.”

            Hilario tried her best to ignore the unfavorable looks she received as she drove her Volkswagen Beetle clown car through the city. She missed the good old days, when people would wave and smile and she would honk her horn which released a silly sound that wasn’t far from the laugh she had perfected through years of practice. Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Heehehehe! Now she just focused on the road and listened to the oldies station on the radio, taking note of the irony as Smokey Robinson’s “The Tears of Clown,” sifted through the speakers: “♪ Well they’re some sad things know to man, But aint too much sadder than, The tears of a clown when no one’s around… ♫”

            Whitey Oldman listened to his favorite conservative radio personality, Greg Gregory, as he fought traffic in his Ford F-350: “…if this presidential election is a circus, then the Democratic nominee is most certainly the clown! And speaking of clowns, have you heard about all these clowns terrorizing American’s across the nation?” One of Whitey’s favorite things about Greg Gregory was his ability to segue from one topic to another. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Gregory continued, “if I ever found myself in the vicinity of one of these clowns, if one of these clowns thought about terrorizing my neighborhood, well, let’s just say, I would take full advantage of my constitutional rights, and speaking of the constitution, when I want to practice my second amendment right, there is only one place I will go and that’s Big Don’s Shooting Range, located directly across from…”

            Hilario drove around the block three times but couldn’t find a single spot to park her clown car. She finally found a spot four blocks away from the birthday party where she was to entertain two dozen children for the next hour or so. She parked, slipped her giant red shoes back on, grabbed her suitcase full of gags, and began to walk down the sidewalk.

            As Whitey Oldman swung a right down the street he had called home for the past four decades, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said to himself as he slammed on the brakes and put his truck in park. He quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and nearly fell out of the driver’s seat as he reached into the inside of his jacket.

            Hilario the Clown dropped her suitcase and threw her hands in the air as she saw a large, obese man, with what appeared to be a weapon in his hand, walking her way.

            Whitey Oldman stopped in his tracks and raised his Glock 19. “Not in my neighborhood,” he said as he pulled the trigger…