Send in the Killers

A Neo-Western, Horror, Comedy

This story first appeared in Starlite Pulp Review #7.

The armored Globe Ranger RV pulled into the sleepy little town of North Manchester, Ohio, around midnight. Forty-three-inch mud tires slid to a stop on the icy street in front of an 1800s-era schoolhouse that now served as the town hall, where Mayor Bart Thistle and his assistant, Seth, stood waiting and shivering on the front steps.

A man as big and broad as a grizzly bear opened the driver’s door of the RV and hopped out. His size 14 boots, wrapped in genuine Texas rattlesnake, hit the ground like the hooves of a Brahma bull. He cast his eyes at the two men on the steps, then, like a spitting cobra, sent a three-foot stream of tobacco juice into a snow bank. Standing six-foot-six, he wore jeans, a plaid flannel, and a buckskin jacket, all acquired at Billy Ray’s Big & Tall Emporium and Barbecue Hut in Tucson, Arizona. His cowboy hat had a Cavalry braid with a slightly upturned brim. The type usually worn by outlaws.

The mayor’s teeth chattered as he watched the colossal human take long strides up the salt-covered walkway, pulverizing the crystal pellets with his enormous boots. Ohio rarely had snow in October, but this week had been a shit-show.

The big man pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I’m looking for Mayor...” His eyes narrowed as he checked the name on the note. “Fart Whistle?”

“Bart Thistle,” Seth corrected with a sneer.

“Apologies,” the big man said.

“I’m Mayor Thistle,” said the diminutive man in a wool overcoat and ear muffs, standing next to Seth, who stood only a couple of inches taller than the mayor and wore a puffy, powder blue parka with a hood and wire-rimmed glasses, frosted from the cold.

The big man stuck out his hand with an arm the size of a tree trunk. “Carson Kane... Clown Killer.”

Mayor Thistle reached out a gloved hand, which all but disappeared within Kane’s grasp. After the greeting, the mayor said, “This is my administrative assistant, Seth.”

Kane ignored the introduction and thumbed toward his RV. “Why don’t y’all step in my office, and we can discuss the particulars.”

The Mayor and Seth exchanged glances. Seth picked up a backpack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder, then leaned in close to his boss’s ear. “For the record, I believe this is a bad idea.”

“Shut it, Seth,” the mayor said. “He’s our last hope.”

Kane took out a wad of Red Man the size of an orange and tossed it into the street. He opened the side door to the RV, pulled down a set of collapsible metal stairs, and motioned for the two small-town administrators to step inside, which they did. The vehicle rocked from side to side on its suspension when Kane stepped up into the camper, squeezing his large frame through the door.

Thistle and Seth welcomed the warm air in the dimly lit camper. Kane flipped a switch by the door, and the two men squinted like moles. Once their eyes adjusted, they stood in disbelief. Bright orange and rainbow-striped wigs, latex clown masks, and red-ball noses, too numerous to count, were tacked to the ceiling. The trophies of a clown killer. It gave Thistle the impression of a macabre modern art display.

The camper door slammed shut. Seth flinched and made a sound like a hurt puppy. Kane said, “You gentlemen have a seat.” They slid onto a padded bench, behind a rectangular table that served as the RV’s dining room. Thistle took off his earmuffs and gloves. Seth pulled back his hood and removed his glasses.

Kane sat on a bench across from the two men and studied them. Thistle, who looked to be in his mid-forties and couldn’t weigh more than one hundred twenty pounds, was quiet and reserved and looked more like an accountant than a politician. Seth, in his early twenties and much younger than his boss, had red hair, chubby, freckled cheeks, and the disposition of a spoiled brat, fresh out of some high-brow, overpriced college. Kane surmised that the two pencil-pushers never had to fight for anything in their lives, except a passing grade on an exam.

With his long, muscular arm, Kane reached over and opened the mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of longneck Lone Star. He offered it to his two guests. Seth scrunched up his nose at it. The mayor said, “No, thank you.” Kane shrugged and popped off the cap with his thumb.

“I reckon you got a clown problem,” Kane said.

Thistle let out a heavy sigh. “Yes. He showed up a week ago, and his actions have become increasingly terrifying. Tomorrow is Halloween, and we’re afraid he may escalate to something more heinous.”

“What’s he done so far?”

“He’s gathered a following. Mostly thieves, drug addicts, and miscreants from the local trailer park. They took to painting their faces just like his.”

A snarl curled Kane’s upper lip. “What else?”

“The walkers and bedpans at the Shady Glen nursing home are all missing. The situation there is... nauseating.”

“It’s horrid,” Seth added.

“The liquor store has been robbed every night this week,” the mayor continued. “Graffiti penises were spray-painted on almost every building downtown. Our two police cruisers were sabotaged with sugar poured into the gas tanks. A school bus was stolen, and a group of prostitutes was brought in from Dayton. And... there’s been reports of...” His voice trailed off.

“Wanton buggery,” Seth said. “In public, by his insane clown posse.”

Kane leaned back and tipped up his Lone Star, gulping down half the bottle. He belched. “I’ve heard and seen worse. Am I right to say your lawmen can’t handle it?”

“We’re a small town. We only have one full-time policeman. That’s the chief. The other one is part-time, and he went AWOL.”

“What about the sheriff’s office or state police?”

Thistle grimaced and raised his hands, rubbing his temples. “Our county was hit with budget cuts, resulting in a reduction of deputies. During the last election, the new Governor took every county in Ohio except two. Ours was one of them. I’m afraid we are not high on the new administration’s priority list.”

Kane drained the rest of his brew. That was all he needed to hear. “Well then, I reckon you need my services. Are you in agreement with my fee?”

Seth’s eyes darted to the backpack at his feet. “For the record, I’m protesting this egregious amount—”

“It’s all in the bag,” the mayor interrupted, shooting a critical look at Seth.

“I’m gonna need y’all to sign this here release form, exempting me from any financial responsibility or criminal prosecution during the course of my actions.” Kane pulled a yellow folder out from under the bench and plucked out a single sheet of paper. He placed it on the table and slid it in front of the mayor.

“Release form?” Seth said.

“Standard legal stuff,” Kane replied.

Seth looked at his boss. “Sir, we need to have our lawyers review this before you sign anything.”

Thistle looked at Seth, then at Kane.

“Clock’s ticking, mayor. And it’s already Halloween.”

Thistle pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and signed the paper.

Seth shook his head in dissent. “Mr. Kane, for the record, not only do I object to your monetary settlement, but I wholeheartedly disagree with your methods. We, the mayor and I, were hoping you could just... reason with the clown and convince him to leave.”

The snarl returned to Kane’s lip, and he locked eyes with Seth. “You can’t reason with a clown, son. They only know chaos, anarchy, and balloon animals. They’re the scourge of the earth. You’d have better luck talking a mountain lion out of eating a goat.” Kane reached back and thumped his giant fist twice on the wall of the RV. Instantly, the sliding door between the cab and the camper opened, and a Hispanic teenager stepped through. His jet-black hair was cut well above his ears, and he looked to be around sixteen. He dressed in military fatigues and black leather combat boots. Surprised, both Thistle and Seth gawked at the boy. He was young, but they could see age beyond his years in a pair of dark, steely eyes.

Kane tossed him the backpack. “Count it.”

The boy grabbed the pack in mid-air and returned to the cab.

“Has he been in there this whole time?” Seth asked.

“That there’s my apprentice, Domingo. He was twelve when I found him in north Texas, crawling through the desert, about a half mile from a road carnival.” Kane took a deep breath. “Damn clown killed most of the carneys before I got there, including his folks and little sister. So, I took him in. Gave him a purpose.” Kane’s eyes focused as if they were looking at something miles away. Then, he snapped out of the stare. “Anyway... He don’t talk much.”

“Wait a minute,” Seth said, putting his glasses back on and scanning the form’s fine print. “It says here, ‘If it is found that the subject is demon possessed, a twenty percent surcharge will be added to the total bill.’” Seth looked up at Kane. “What is this?”

“Most of these clowns got a demon in ‘em. If that’s the case, I gotta put on the collar, and get out the cross and the good book, and... Well, it’s a lot of extra work.” Kane pulled a gold pocket watch from his jeans and checked the time. “What’s this clown call himself?”

“Spanky,” the mayor said. “Spanky the Clown.”

For the first time since their meeting, Kane’s face showed emotion. It was something akin to shock or disbelief, but only as much as a man like Kane would reveal. He sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the mayor. Thistle broke the awkward silence. “Have you... heard of him?”

Kane’s thoughts came back to the present, and he stood up, stuffing the watch back in his pocket. “I’m gonna have to ask you gentlemen to disembark. I’m on the clock.” He opened a small cabinet door to Seth’s right, revealing a safe, and pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner. The door unlatched with an audible beep. From inside, Kane removed a Kimber 1911 .45 ACP semi-automatic pistol and a magazine filled with jacketed hollow-point ammunition.

The Clown Killer slapped the magazine into the .45 and racked the slide. “Now... Where’s this dirty bastard holed up at?”

The Broken Spoke Bar & Grill sat on the outskirts of town between the Blue Dog Truck Stop and Misty Acres trailer park.

The college kids called it a Country bar. The old folks called it a Honky-tonk. The law called it a pain-in-the-ass. But the only law left in North Manchester was responding to calls in his wife’s Chrysler minivan. Except there were no more responses to 911 calls from the Broken Spoke, after the incident with Red Nekid and the Bumpy Bottom Boys, North Manchester’s local Country Band.

Red and the Boys had just finished their rendition of the Garth Brooks hit, Friends in Low Places, when Spanky and his posse showed up. Spanky insisted they play Pop Goes the Weasel. Red spit a stream of dip juice at the clown and his group of painted pranksters and said, “This ain’t no fuckin’ kids party. So, take your clown ass down the road.”

Red and his band’s set came to an abrupt end because it was impossible to continue playing musical instruments with broken fingers and fractured skulls.

The bar owner, Alice “Big Country” Calhoun, stood six inches taller than most of her patrons and was her high school’s state shot put champion back in 1995. Big Country could throw a punch that would knock out a mule, but she was no match for Spanky’s crew. They were strong in numbers and tied her up and hung her from the rafters like a Caucasian piñata. A torched sign and two cans of spray paint later, the Broken Spoke was aptly renamed: Spanky’s Wackatorium.

Carson Kane’s RV idled at the edge of the Broken Sp— or rather, the Wackatorium’s parking lot. Domingo assisted his mentor suit up for the clown showdown, like he’d done for the past four years.

They had a ritual. It started with the Spanish trumpet instrumental song, El Matador, played on the RV’s sound system. Domingo then secured each piece of equipment to Kane with meticulous care and precision: A flak jacket with front and rear ceramic plates; a pair of leather chaps; a drop-leg tactical holster for the Kimber .45; a Sig Sauer P365 9mm in a boot holster; a sheathed eighteen-inch Bowie knife, just like the one Stallone carried in Rambo III; a Remington 870 pump-action tactical shotgun with a pistol grip and two bandoleers filled with a mix of three-inch magnum, double-aught buckshot shells and rifled slugs; a fresh package of Red Man; and two non-lethal concussion grenades.

The Tony Lama boots and Cavalry hat were the last pieces of the Clown Killer’s battle gear. After comm checks between Kane’s earpiece and the RV’s radio, Domingo led his mentor in the Lord’s Prayer. They both made the sign of the Cross, and the teenager drove the war-wagon to the front doors.

“Soon as I get out, pull around to the back,” Kane said, making a last-second check of his magazine pouches. “If we get any squirters heading for the trailer park, you know what to do.”

“Si, señor.”

Inside the bar, towards the back by the restrooms, two Dayton hookers, both naked and painted up to look just like Spanky, with white face paint, black circles around their eyes and mouths, and red butt cheeks, stood on top of a pool table. Each hooker resembled their new master’s signature look. Every clown had one, and Spanky was no exception.

The hookers, with freshly shaved heads, tried unsuccessfully to avoid stepping on the broken beer bottles scattered across the pool table’s green felt top. They were not having a good time.

“Dance, bitches!” the crowd of wannabe clowns shouted. The two were not the most attractive women wrangled from the streets of Dayton. They were just the last two strong enough to survive.

Spanky’s posse circled the table. Eight men and three women, all residents of Misty Acres, had been on a steady diet of booze, meth, and heroin since the clown showed up. They would do anything for Spanky. He treated them as equals and didn’t judge them by their socio-economic status or lack of teeth. They all thought he was the best thing to happen to them since Kid Rock.

Spanky the Clown sat on a barstool in the middle of the band riser, like a mad king looking down on his court. His white face paint mixed in with the black around his eyes, producing a grey, ashen color. An orange wig circled the back of his head and stuck out on the sides like bird wings. His white jumper was streaked with blood and brain matter from... someone. Stacked randomly behind the stage, some as high as eight feet, sat box after box of wooden crates.

In one white-gloved hand, the clown held a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. In the other, a flip-phone. His black mouth curved into an evil grin, revealing jagged, rotted teeth and the forked tongue of a python.

Three shotgun blasts and a boot kick caved in the front door to the bar. Every painted head turned to see a metal canister the size of a sixteen-ounce Budweiser fly through the air and hit Big Country in the butt as she hung suspended from the rafters. The large woman’s eyes widened as she let out a muffled scream through the gag in her mouth. She watched in horror as the flashbang dropped straight to the floor and exploded. The detonation produced a deafening burst of sound, a blinding flash of white light, and a shock wave that rattled the senses. It also caused Big Country to soil herself.

Kane peeked his head through the doorway that he’d blown to smithereens. As the smoke cleared, he realized the grenade didn’t quite reach the distance he wanted, and the only person incapacitated by his surprise attack was Big Country. And she was already tied up.

“Whoops,” he said.

The Clown Killer stepped inside the bar, designed like a cabin, with an open ceiling and exposed tree logs to support the roof. Big Country, bound and gagged, dangled from the largest cross-beam. The charcoal and sulfur from the flash bang stung Kane’s nose, but could not fully counteract the noxious odors of meth, mixed with urine and stale liquor.

Neon beer signs, posters of Country Music stars, and pictures of wild horses and western cattle drives littered the floor. The décor once hung proudly on the walls, but this bar looked like a Texas tornado had blown through. The hardwood floor was a sea of broken bottles and glass. Kane shook his head in disgust.

Against the wall to the left, a Rock-Ola jukebox played a Taylor Swift song. A dozen double-aught buckshot pellets from Kane’s 870 tore through the music machine, and that was enough of that.

“I’m here for the clown!” Kane yelled out. The passel of painted clown groupies huddled together by the pool table, and the two naked hookers escaped into the bathroom. “I’m giving you bunch of pansy-asses one chance to get out of here with your lives. Leave now, or meet your maker.”

Raucous laughter erupted from the faux clowns. Spanky joined in until his laughter drowned out all the others, with a deep, ominous voice, reverberating throughout the entire bar, rattling the windows and shaking what was left of the whisky bottles. Kane had heard that evil laugh once before.

The Clown Killer pursed his lips and spat a long stream of tobacco juice in the clown’s direction. Spanky, still perched on the stool, took a deep breath, coughed, snorted, then hacked a loogie the size of an oyster through the air. It landed with a splat inches away from Kane’s boots.

One of Spanky’s lackeys broke from the crowd and charged Kane, running and screaming like a lunatic. Kane looked upward and traced the rope that suspended Big Country to the cross-beam. He pulled out his Bowie knife and swung it high, slicing the line, and dropping the hefty bar owner like a bag of three-hundred-pound wet cement, crushing the screaming idiot like a bug.

Two more stupid fools attacked Kane. One held a knife, which he threw. The other fired a .357 revolver. Kane dodged the knife, but took a bullet to the upper left corner of his flak jacket. The shot lurched him backwards and sent a fiery spasm into his left arm. With his right hand, he unholstered his Kimber .45 and shot the two attackers center mass, blasting their insides out through their backs and dropping them to the floor.

What was left of the posse split. Four clown posers charged Kane, and four ran for the back door. Kane’s left arm was still numb, but he managed to work the pump-action and fire five rounds. The heavy, double-aught buckshot tore through their bodies, severing limbs and splitting skulls. Blood spilled onto the barroom floor, turning the shards of glass into shades of crimson.

Through the open back door, Kane heard the sound of a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun on full automatic. Domingo had lain in wait to ambush anyone from the clown posse who thought they could escape their brand of justice. After a short pause, the MP5 rang out again, meaning the apprentice had reloaded with another thirty-round magazine to finish them off. That thought brought a smile to Kane’s face. He reached up and pressed the talk button on his earpiece.

“Side-show, this is Ringmaster. Do you copy?”

“Si, señor.”

“Get the Super Soaker ready.”

“Ay, Dios mío! Si, señor.”

Kane cast his eyes down on Big Country, desperately trying to free herself from the rope. He reached up and tipped the brim of his hat as he walked by. “Ma’am.” She rolled off the flattened body of the clown’s crony and answered with a, “MUFKKR,” through the gag.

The bloody glass crushed and popped under Kane’s Tony Lamas as he approached the clown, who sat like a statue on the barstool. The feeling had come back to his left arm, so he fed fresh 12-gauge shells into the shotgun’s magazine tube.

Kane spat another stream of brown fluid in Spanky’s direction. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

The clown answered in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the earth. “Should I?”

“Abilene, Texas. Thirty years ago. Ringo Brothers’ traveling circus. My daddy was the strongman, and my momma was a trapeze artist with the Flying Frappuccinos. We were living the dream... Traveling the country, performing for thousands of people... until Abilene, when everything went to hell. Somebody poisoned my daddy’s HGH. Hair remover got put in the bearded lady’s shampoo. And my mamma... I know you remember what you did to my mamma.”

A look of joyous surprise reshaped the clown’s painted face. “Now, I remember. I greased the bar of her trapeze. Her body made the most wonderful sound when she fell into the center ring. The Frappuccinos should have used a net.” The clown cackled like a hyena, the laughter echoing off the bar’s ceiling. “Safety first,” he said in a mocking, singsong voice.

With that, Kane racked the action of the shotgun and lined up the neon yellow sights on the clown’s forehead.

“Wait... I remember you... You were just a boy. You were there and saw your mother fall to her death. And now... you’ve come to kill me.”

“I’ve killed more of your kind than any face-paint carcinogen or latex balloon allergy ever did. And I took pleasure in every single one. But you... I’ve been looking for you for a loooong time. Tonight, I’ll dance on your carcass after I send you back to hell, you Goddamned demon sonofabitch.”

Spanky turned up the whiskey bottle and drained what was left down his gullet, then flung the bottle into the air. Kane aimed with his 870 and blasted the bottle into a thousand pieces, sending shards of jagged glass onto the clown. One shard stuck deep into his pasty white cheek. Black, tar-like blood seeped from the wound. The clown’s mouth opened wide, unhinging like the jaws of a snake. His forked tongue lashed out into the air, and he let out a high-pitched, demonic scream that shattered every window in the bar.

Kane winced at the sound as the demon clown launched himself through the air, did a perfect somersault, and stuck the landing like an Olympic gymnast, only six feet in front of his nemesis. The clown held up a cell phone and said, “You first,” then pressed dial. Behind him, in one of the crates, a phone rang once, then stopped.

“The hell did you do?” Kane asked.

“Those boxes are filled with dynamite and set to explode in two minutes. Or maybe it’s one minute. I’ve been having so much fun, I can’t remember.”

With the shotgun sights still lined up on the clown’s head, Kane pulled the trigger. But Spanky jumped high in the air like his oversized clown shoes were on springs. The buckshot missed its mark and blew a hole through the roof.

The demon clown bounced up and down between the floor and the rafters like a pinball, laughing and cursing, calling Kane a “momma’s boy” and a “pussy.” Rage-screaming at the top of his lungs, the Clown Killer tried to track him with the shotgun, while shooting shell after shell. But the clown was too quick, and all Kane did was blow more holes in the roof. The clown finally perched himself on a rafter, and Kane pulled the trigger, but there was no shot and no recoil. He’d run his weapon dry.

The clown leapt, thrusting his size 20 shoes into Kane’s face. The big man fell to the floor into a bed of broken glass that gouged through his jeans. Spanky jumped on top, pinning Kane’s shoulders to the floor.

A snake’s tongue flicked out between the demon clown’s painted lips. The mouth opened, revealing a set of long white fangs, and the head rose, ready to strike. Kane inhaled and spat a stream of tobacco juice into Spanky’s eyes.

The demon clown screamed and raised his gloved hands to wipe away the burning spit. That gave Kane time to pull his .45 and blow four holes through Spanky’s chest. The clown fell backward onto the floor with his arms outstretched, as if crucified on a cross.

Kane stood up, pulled a sliver of glass from his right butt cheek, and flicked it away. He stepped towards the clown’s lifeless body and looked down as grey smoke swirled up from each bullet hole. Looking up through one of the open spaces he’d blasted through the roof, he took off his hat and gazed at a single star, shining brightly in the night sky.

“That was for you, mamma.” Kane put his hat back on and spit. A glob of amber splattered across the clown’s face. “Good riddance, fucker.”

The Clown Killer turned and faced Big Country, who had chewed through the gag in her mouth like a rabid badger. She could now speak freely, and the words she chose were, “Get me the fuck out of here!”

The sound of moving glass spun Kane around to see the clown standing upright, black tar now oozing from the bullet wounds. The orange wig was gone, and his head had fully transformed into that of a snake. His pupils were black vertical slits inside piss-yellow eyes. Sharp, talon-like nails stuck through the ends of the white gloves, and a green, slithering tail swiped back and forth across the floor. The demon/clown/snake opened its mouth and hissed, “You’re ssssstill a pusssssssssssssy.”

Before Kane could react, the back door burst open, and Domingo ran in armed with a Nerf Super Soaker XP100 with a 1.26-liter capacity.

“Para mi familia!” Domingo shouted. For my family!

The toy gun’s reservoir held Holy Water, blessed by Father Dunkirk McGurk from Our Lady of the Holy Chastity Belt parish, outside of Bald Knob, Arkansas. Domingo aimed the bright orange nozzle at the demon snake and pulled the plastic trigger. The reaction of the blessed water was immediate, bubbling and melting the demon’s scaly skin until it dropped in gelatinous blobs on the floor. The demon wailed and screamed in agony, his body shrinking inside the white, blood-stained jumper, and falling to the floor.

Kane’s apprentice pumped the blue charging handle back and forth, keeping a constant stream of water pressure on the demon until there was nothing left on the ground but the rumpled jumper, a pair of size 20 shoes, and a flip-phone. He didn’t stop until air fizzed from the nozzle, sputtering out the last of the Holy Water.

The bar fell quiet. Kane stood still, and Domingo made the sign of the Cross, watching the clown’s clothes for movement. Suddenly, a dark apparition, like a snake made of smoke, rose from where the demon’s body had melted, and dove down, disappearing into the floorboards. It was done.

“The bomb, you fucking idiot!” Big Country yelled.

Kane’s face turned a ghostly white as his head snapped toward the wooden crates. “Sweet Baby Jesus!” In one fluid movement, he slung his 870 behind his back and pulled out his Bowie knife, bounding across the room to the stack of wooden crates. Using his knife as a pry-bar, he pulled off the tops one by one as fast as he could, wondering how much time until the bomb exploded, killing him, his loyal apprentice, and the large, angry woman on the floor.

Domingo ran up to Kane. “Qué pasa?”

“You need to get,” Kane said, tossing away an empty crate. “The clown planted a bomb in one of these boxes, and I don’t know how much time’s left. Drag the woman out of here with you if you can. Use your legs and save your back.”

Domingo shot a glance at Big Country and shook his head. “No, señor. I stay.”

On the fifth box, Kane stopped and stared inside. Domingo leaned over and looked. On the bottom of the crate was a small flip-phone and a note written in blood that said, “The bomb is in the trailer park. Sucker!” Anger filled Kane’s eyes, and he grabbed the phone, crushing it like it was made of eggshells. He lifted his head and exhaled a relieved breath. “Well, I thought we were goners, kid. Untie the woman and let’s get out of here.”

“Señor Kane,” Domingo said, looking up at his mentor. He had a different plan in mind. “We must find the bomb.”

“Negative. No way. I didn’t sign up for that. I ain’t taking a chance on getting you blown to bits. Let’s just take our money and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Señor... We kill many clowns... Many demons. To protect the people, si?”

“That’s right. What’s your point?”

“We must find the bomb in the park. If we do not, many people die. And we have failed.”

Kane shifted his weight, resting his right hand on his holstered .45. He let out a sigh, knowing that a sense of honor in such a young man was a rare commodity, and one that shouldn’t go wasted.

“I reckon them trailer park people didn’t ask for any of this. Alright, kid. Have it your way. But you follow my lead, comprende?”

“Sí, señor.”

The two turned and hurried out the back door.

“Hey!” Big Country shouted. “What about me?”

###

On the way to the RV, Kane checked for the dead bodies of Spanky’s posse, who had tried to escape earlier. There were none. Just scattered footprints in the snow leading to the trailer park, and spent 9mm shell casings in the snow. He stopped and looked at Domingo. “Where’s the squirters?”

The teenager bowed his head. “I could not kill them, señor. They want to escape the evil clown. I let them. I shot into the sky to move them along.”

Kane shook his head at Domingo and spat out his spent wad of chewing tobacco, stomping through the snow to the RV. “Get in.”

Two inches of white fluff covered the road leading into Misty Acres Trailer Park. Tire ruts ran the length of the lane, along with the squirter’s footprints that split off into different directions at a crossroad in the middle of the park. Misty Acres was low-rent, and the rows of plain, dilapidated single-wides reflected as much. The street lamp at the entrance was the only one casting light through the darkness onto the snow-covered ground. The rest were either burnt out or broken. Most of the cars and pickup trucks parked along the streets were up on jacks or missing wheels.

Just past the intersection, Kane passed a Peterbilt semi-tractor parked in front of a single-wide with a porch light on. He stopped the RV and rolled down his window, looking and listening for any clue that would lead him to the trailer with the bomb. Only a dog barking somewhere in the distance could be heard over the low rumble of the Globe Ranger’s engine. Kane gazed out the windshield at the rows of mobile homes that seemed to go on forever.

“Good God. Where do we start?” Kane said. Domingo leaned forward onto the RV’s dashboard, scanning his eyes out into the darkness along with his mentor.

“Señor. Look.” Domingo pointed at the trailer at the corner of the crossroad. Kane flipped a switch on the dashboard. A spotlight mounted on the RV’s light bar broke through the darkness like a thick laser beam. Domingo pressed directional buttons until the beam lit up the side of the trailer, showing a large dick and balls spray-painted on the side.

Kane hit the gas. All four tires kicked up snow until they gripped the asphalt and propelled the RV toward the pitiful misrepresentation of the male anatomy. They slid to a stop next to the trailer and jumped out. Kane grabbed a flashlight from the cab and ran to a side window, shining the beam inside.

White, forty-pound bags of ammonium nitrate were stacked three high and filled the entire floor space of the single-wide. Plastic containers with some type of pink liquid were dispersed throughout. Kane moved the flashlight’s beam around until he saw what looked like an electronic device with an antenna. He pulled back from the window, his eyes as wide as hubcaps.

“Fertilizer,” Kane said, giving Domingo a grim look. “Trailer’s plum full. It’ll make the Hindenburg look like a popcorn fart.”

“How much time?” Domingo asked.

“There’s no timer. But there’s a detonator with an antenna.” Kane thought for a moment. “The clown’s cell phone... I bet he had a call set up to detonate the bomb after he killed us.”

“But we killed him first,” Domingo said with triumph in his voice.

“Still... we gotta get this trailer out of here.” Kane moved to the RV and opened a side compartment holding various tools. He pulled out a nine-pound sledgehammer and handed it to his apprentice. “Trailer’s up on concrete blocks. Take this sledge and put cracks in ‘em, but don’t knock ‘em out all the way. I’ll be back.” The Clown Killer took off at a sprint and disappeared around the RV. Domingo looked at the sledge and then the trailer, and followed his mentor’s orders.

While under the trailer, Domingo heard a man yell out in the distance, then a loud crash, and the rattling of a diesel engine. When he’d finished putting cracks in all the blocks, he crawled out to see the Peterbilt they passed backing up to the trailer’s tongue-hitch.

The truck’s door opened, and Kane jumped out of the cab. He opened a box mounted near the back tires and pulled out a rusty log-chain, and tossed it around the tractor’s fifth-wheel connection.

“Señor, what are you doing?”

Kane ran the chain through the triangular bars that held the mobile home’s tongue-hitch and locked each hook into a link. “The concrete blocks should crumble when I pull this trailer out. You take the RV back to the bar. Find that cell phone and shut it off. I’m hauling this death box out into the sticks.”

“But, señor. We are already in the sticks.”

“Stickier than this. Away from people. Now, get from here. I don’t know how volatile those chemicals are.” Kane checked the chains one last time, then stepped up onto the semi’s running board and grabbed the door handle. He pulled himself into the driver’s seat, then stopped and turned his eyes to Domingo. The look of determination on Kane’s face softened, and he gave a warm smile to his young apprentice. “You’re gonna be a fine man someday, Domingo. If I was your daddy, I’d be proud. Go on, now. Do what I said.” Kane slammed the door.

###

The RV slid to a stop in the bar’s parking lot. Domingo got out, tears streaming down his cheeks, the words of his mentor still echoing in his mind, and ran to the hole that used to be a front door. He stopped short and turned when he heard the semi-truck downshift and roar past the bar with the trailer in tow, heading for the main road.

White diesel smoke billowed from the Peterbilt’s exhaust pipes into the frigid night air. The young apprentice heard another downshift just before the truck made a right-hand turn. The tires on the heavy rig spun in the snow, and the mobile home slid sideways, but Domingo’s mentor overcorrected the front wheels until the trailer fell back in line behind the truck as it drove into desolate farm country.

Domingo placed his hand on his heart and said, “Vaya con Dios.” Go with God.

In the middle of the bar, amongst the debris, the dead bodies, the ruins of what once was The Broken Spoke, and her soiled granny panties, Domingo saw Big Country. She had somehow broken free from her bindings and now held Spanky the Clown’s cell phone. A wisp of dark smoke swirled up from a knothole in the floor and snaked into her nostrils, turning her eyes piss-yellow, with vertical black slits. As an evil grin took over her face, she stared, mesmerized, at the pre-programmed number on the screen, the green “SEND” button calling out to her like a beacon. As her chubby finger plunged downward, Domingo yelled, “NOOOOOOOOO!”

FOUR YEARS LATER

The ceiling fans blew nothing but hot air in the Nevada roadside bar, on the edge of the small desert town of Burro Cachondo. The mayor, Adam Baxter, sat in a booth next to a window air conditioner that didn’t work. He was the bar’s only patron and had been for the past week, since the clown showed up. The bartender, a thin Hispanic man of sixty, sat at the end of the bar, nervously listening to a soccer game on a radio, while gripping a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.

Sweat stains spread like brown gravy in the pits of the mayor’s Khaki shirt. He wiped his brow with a table napkin and looked impatiently at his watch. The mayor tipped up and sipped from a warm bottle of Dos Equis he’d been nursing while waiting for his appointment.

Finally, the door at the end of the bar opened. A gust of hot wind blew desert sand across the floor. The mayor leaned to his right and narrowed his eyes at the blinding light of the midday sun, outlining a dark figure in the doorway. Baxter lifted his hand to shield the sunlight, but could only make out a man wearing a western-style hat. He heard a relieved sigh from the bartender, who then eased the hammers back down on the shotgun.

The man stepped in, and the door swung closed. His custom-made Tony Lama boots scraped the sand as he walked across the bar’s floorboards to the mayor’s booth. Baxter looked up at the man standing before him, his eyes still adjusting to the light, and pulled a crumpled business card from his breast pocket.

“I have to apologize, sir,” the mayor said. “I’m not familiar with this Spanish term.” He looked at the card. “What does... ‘Payaso Asesino’ mean?”

The man raised the wide, flat brim of his black Eddie Bros bolero hat, the type usually worn by pistoleros, revealing a pair of dark, steely eyes.

“My name is Domingo Eduardo Alejandro Tadeo Hernández, señor. And I am a clown killer.”

THE END