Clown-O

Let's go crazy like a coke-addled clown, a ring of blood round his nostril. What's that coming outta his coat – an Uzi framed by red polka dots. Brapp brapp, says the Uzi, and Clown-O laughs wild; the red-painted lips split like a gash.

He's cackling now, spraying the audience with burning balls of metal, tearing, piercing, stabbing through cloth. I can't see, thought the child in the back who could see just the legs and jackets and dresses of the stupid adults around him.

Me oh my, said the dread clown onstage. Now everyone’s dead except you. Look around at the adults once smiling all spread eagled in pools of blood on the floor. Now turn to run. No. Clown-O's there. In the doorway, on the stair, wherever you look, there are clowns.

Clown clones repel on ropes like Rapunzel. Not just gats but knives, hammers and spike-headed maces clutched in the in fat-fingered grip. I am here to fuck you up, said a million voices. How much can you handle.

I'll waterboard your subconscious. I'll sleep deprive your dreams. I'll cut you up and feed you to your family. I'll grind you up and serve you as chilli with bottles of beer and lime wedges. I'll take you to Hell. We'll have a hell of a story.