a WARRIOR in CLOWN PANTS
An original Story from the mind of Iain Richmond
Copyright © 2011 by Iain Richmond. All Rights Reserved.
"God damn," Kale grunted as the blade stuck again. They never told you about the suction, only that you had to punch it in like a boxer. Knife work was not for everyone, two years past Slag Sunday and knife work was all there was.
Air fought its way out of the painted mouth that lay slack and seemed more sinister; a final breath from a desperate soul.
"Did you say something?" Kale bent down; gazed into the dead eyes, his hand rocked the handle back and forth.
Flesh loosened around the cold steel as it accepted its fate and gave up the struggle. The knife slid free as the dark purple slick changed to red as it mixed in the cool breeze.
Kale held the blade a few inches from the ridiculous pants that moments before had covered the evil bastard trying to end him. He wiped the gore off on the colorful lapel, the folded steel shined once more.
"Fuck with Kale and lose your clown pants," my new motto he thought as his words echoed in all directions. "The world is right again," he pushed the last syllable through gritted teeth and began to claim his prize.
Like a glove, he thought, so this is why they chose the path of the glorified mime, the pants. Maybe clowns and mimes are like chimps and gorillas? He pushed the final oversized turquoise button through its tiny hole and stood up.
"A little short, but in this mud hole of a world..." he left the sentence unfinished. It made him feel less crazy, reminded him that there would be no answer, just silence.
‘Nightish' was coming to the new land crafted on layers of gray that softened and veiled its bloody reality. He looked down at the bold stripes and pastel patches shaped of flowers.
"Clown pants look good on Kale. Kale sexy, sexy!" He laughed as he spoke, another moment of feeling human. He banked it, knowing he would need the memories for what lay ahead.
"What did you say?" Kale spun around and looked down on the large form that rested against the rear wheel of a long dead electric car.
"These are mine now. You lost the right to wear these bad boys! You gave up the right to live you stupid fuck when you attacked me!" Kale slammed his boot into the grinning aberration, sending the corpse sprawling across the asphalt.
"Let this be a lesson to the rest of you!" he bellowed as he moved in a circle, looking up to the buildings that surrounded him. "I am the slayer of clowns and all things that choose to attack the innocent! You fucking parasites! And I ride a bike!" He gained control of his fear? Or was it anger, or was it madness he thought; a fine line.
"I have got to find a new seat," he shifted his ass back and forth on the sleek racing saddle and began to peddle very slowly and with intense effort.
"Fuck," he swore as he realized he again forgot to shift down when he had stopped. "Of course I am not going to shift down," a grin spread as the scene replayed in his mind.