ClownFellas

ClownFellas
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Hydra eBook Original

Copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Hydra, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

H
YDRA
is a registered trademark and the
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YDRA
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 9780804179355

Cover design: David G. Stevenson

Cover illustration: © Paul Youll

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“So you the doc?” the clown asked in a deep, raspy voice.

Earl couldn't even respond to the question. He just stood on the curb, frozen in shock, trembling like a chicken about to get its head bitten off by a sideshow geek. Ever since he was a kid, Earl Berryman had been terrified of clowns. There was something about their googly eyes, inhuman smiles, and skin-curdling giggles that made the poor schmuck cry like a baby. You'd think he would've grown out of it, him being an educated man and all, but over the years his phobia only got worse—especially now that there was a whole race of clowns out there, walking around New York in their size 30 shoes.

The clown leaned out of his lipstick-red car. “Hey, foureyes, I'm asking you a question over here.”

Only spittle and gibberish sprayed out when Earl tried to speak. He hadn't been this close to a clown since his mother hired some junkie to dress up in clown makeup for his sixth birthday party and the freak went into a drug-induced seizure, puking white foam all over his Power Rangers birthday cake. Earl thought he'd be able to handle spending a single day with a group of clowns, but his coulrophobia was getting the better of him. He already regretted taking this job.

“I'm here to pick up a guy named Berryman,” said the clown. Smoke billowed out the car window, but there was no sign of any cigar or cigarette. “If that's you, get in the freakin' car. If not, then get lost.”

Sweat pooled inside Earl's slate-gray suit. Every fiber of his being begged him to turn around and run in the other direction, but he had to be strong. His family was depending on him.

After taking a deep breath, Earl said, “Yeah, that's me.”

“Then hurry it up already. I'm on a schedule here.”

Earl picked up his case of medical equipment and rushed toward the tiny car. The smell of rotting cotton candy and cheap gin hit him in the face as he squeezed into the passenger seat. The interior was a swirl of pink and blue, with a stick shift that looked like a giant lollipop and purple balloons that hung from the rearview mirror like fuzzy dice. It hardly looked like the vehicle a killer would drive.

“They call me Captain Spotty,” the clown introduced himself, holding out his hand to shake.

When Earl looked at him, his skin crawled. With his wild-eyed stare and permanent crazed smile exposing a row of black rotten teeth, Captain Spotty was the single most terrifying clown Earl had ever seen. His style was that of a hobo, with a patchwork coat made of green-and-orange plaid. A family of cockroaches scurried beneath his shabby clothes, crawling in and out of his collar and up his neck. Earl had to hold his breath to stop himself from screaming.

As Spotty shook his hand, the paper-white clown skin felt cold and rubbery to the touch. Earl knew clowns weren't human, but he didn't realize just how inhuman they really were until he felt one in the flesh. He jerked his hand away as a cockroach crawled out the clown's sleeve and tickled his knuckle.

Captain Spotty wiggled his bright-red nose when he saw the uneasy look on Earl's face. “What's wrong with you? You look like you're shitting bricks over there.”

“No, I'm just…” Earl diverted his eyes.

“You wearing a wire?” Spotty asked.

“No, no way,” Earl said.

The clown pulled a pink knife out of his bow tie. “I'll slit your throat if you come into my car wearing a wire!”

Earl had no idea where the clown's outburst had come from. He shrank into the corner of his seat as the knife approached his throat. The blade was carved out of a watermelon Jolly Rancher, the edge sharp enough to cut through flesh.

He cried, “Why would I wear a wire? I'm just a veterinarian.”

“A what?”

“An animal doctor.”

“How do I know you're not some cop pretending to be an animal doctor?”

Spotty waved the candy blade at the vet, his maniacal grin growing wider on his face. This clown wasn't just scary. He was also a genuine honest-to-God psychopath.

“Look.” Earl dug his wallet out of his back pocket and held out his employee ID card. “I work at the Bronx Zoo. I have a degree in wildlife medicine. I'm not a cop. I'm just a normal guy.”

The clown peered at the ID with his bright-red eyes.

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“I'm just…coulrophobic.”

“You're what?”

“I'm afraid of clowns.”

The clown looked Earl in the eyes, then back at the ID, then back to Earl's eyes.

“I'm not wearing a wire, I swear,” Earl said.

Then the clown burst into laughter.

“Of course you're not wearing a wire,” Spotty said. “Why would you be wearing a wire? You're just an animal doctor.”

The wallet nearly fell out the window Earl was trembling so hard.

The clown cackled. “Lighten up. I'm just bustin' yer balls.”

“It was just a joke?”

“I'm a clown.” Spotty put the shift into gear, beeped his high-pitched horn twice, and sped into traffic. “That's what we do.”

It was quickly turning into the worst day of Earl's life.