Tears of a Clown Read online

to get a glimpse of anyone that may enter to use the facilities. His ears prick up when he hears a man’s voice bellow behind him.

  “Shame on you, Montebello,” The Clown speaks.

  The janitor quickly zips up his pants and turns around. All he could see is pitch blackness. “Who’s there?” he asks.

  “Janitors shouldn’t play with dead things,” comes the retort.

  “Is that you, Mr. Parks?”

  “No use sitting there, pervert. Everybody left for the night.”

  Montebello picks up a metal rod. “Whoever you are, don’t fuck with me unless you wanna eat this!”

  The Clown steps into the light with his handclaw held up. “Oh, really?”

  In one swift movement, he lobs off Montebello’s family jewels right through his pants. Screaming, the janitor drops the rod.

  “You don’t have the balls,” the minister of mayhem taunts.

  “Ahhh!! Goddammit!!Who the hell are you!?”

  “The last person you’re ever gonna meet.”

  Montebello painfully limps to the exit but the door won’t open. He fumbles for his keys, but he’s in such gory agony that his search is futile. He turns to face The Clown.

  “Lemme go, please,” he pleads. “I was just looking.”

  The Clown gashes Montebello’s face with the handclaw. “That’s what they all say.”

  Montebello stumbles towards the back of the room, grabs a hose attached to the hot water heater, turns it on, and waits nervously for his assailant. A few ominously quiet seconds go by.

  “Just let me go,” the maintenance man pleads once more. “I won’t do it again.”

  He listens intently but receives no response. “Fuck you!” he screams.

  The Clown, appearing behind Montebello, wraps his left arm around his throat…

  “Thanks for the offer…”

  …and stabs him in the chest with the ultra-sharp handclaw…

  “…but I don’t think…”

  …and rips his muscular beating organ out.

  “…you have the heart for it.”

  The janitor slumps to the ground. The Clown turns the hot water off. “Wasteful pig.”

  The restoration of the Women’s Room at CCHS was one of the lucky recipients of a portion of the state grant awarded to the school last year. The ceiling tiles were replaced as well as the sinks, toilets, stall doors, floor tiles and soap dispensers. They even added a hand dryer which, unfortunately, is so noisy it sounds like a DC-10 taxiing on a runway. Inside one of the renovated stall, a toilet flushes. Laurel exits it attired in a new set of dry clothes.

  “Bev?” she calls, looking around the room, “are you in here?”

  All is quiet. Too quiet, like a graveyard on Independence Day. She checks under every stall, but when she catches no glimpse of her friend, she heads over to one of the new pink circular porcelain sinks and washes her hands.

  “You could’ve waited for me, Bev,” she mumbles to herself, checking her reflection in the polished mirror above the sink. “Geez. They have enough beer to last till morning.”

  Exiting the bathroom, she begins strolling down the strangely noiseless hall; curiously, only a few of the ceiling lights are on, making some areas so dark a colony of bats could sleep in them. One of the ceiling lights in particular catches her attention with its purplish misty glow.

  “How strange,” she whispers.

  Edging towards the gym, she opens the door and is surprised to see no one there.

  “What the hell?”

  She nervously enters and looks around. Still lit principally by the moonlight streaming through the windows, it is apparent the arena is empty.

  “Oh, shit.” she reckons quietly. “The principal must be here.”

  Quickly, she closes the gym’s door, hurries down a few more poorly lit halls, and exits the school in the front. To her surprise, there are no cars in the moonlit parking lot, not even a bicycle or scooter. The rain, she notices however, has abated.

  “Dammit, Chip,” she mumbles, “you could’ve waited for me. Now how the hell am I supposed to get home?”

  She checks her pockets. “I don’t even know where I put my phone.”

  “Oh!” she hiccups when, out of the blue, a heavy hand falls on her shoulder.

  Turning, she sees it’s the school principal, Mr. Parks.

  “Wanna lift?” he offers her.

  She catches her breath. “If I was an old woman you’d be doing CPR by now.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I guess we’re in trouble now, huh?” she wonders.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t go inside?”

  “I just came a second ago to update some paperwork.”

  “At night? On the weekend?”

  “Why not? It’s quieter now, plus I was at a party a few blocks from here. On my way home I figured I was passing the school, so get this work off my mind. What’s going on inside?”

  Quickly wrapping her arm in his, she gently pulls him away from the school entrance.

  “Nothing,” she replies. “Can I get a lift home? Where’s your car?”

  Minutes later, Laurel and Parks are driving up a forested road in his Lincoln Town Car. Recently paved, the street is as quiet as a bank on Christmas Day.

  “Nice ride,” Laurel compliments him, rubbing the seat. “I didn’t know you made that much there.”

  “I don’t. I mule drugs for the Oaxaca Cartel on the side. Just kidding.”

  Parks reaches under his seat, takes out a fifth of Jack Daniels, pops off the cap, takes a swig, and passes it to Laurel who is more than a little surprised.

  “No, thanks. Boy, talk about setting a bad example.”

  The principal taps her knees gently. “I’m sorry. I’m out of line.”

  He removes his hand. Laurel twists nervously in her seat. Parks takes another swig of the liquor. Laurel bites her bottom lip nervously.

  “Hey,” Parks asks, “why were in school tonight anyway?”

  “I was just hanging out with some friends in the bleachers in the back. We do it all the time.”

  He nods.

  “It’s not my business,” she continues, “but you shouldn’t be drinking and driving.”

  “Okay.” He pulls the car over to the side of the road by a desolate area.

  “So now I’m not driving,” he declares.

  Laurel cringes. “Mr. Parks, I’m feeling very uncomfortable. I think you should just take me home.”

  He shuts off the engine. “Nonsense. Laurel, you may look at me as some old has-been, but I can make your dreams come through.”

  “You’re drunk, Mr. Parks.”

  He grabs her…“Don’t give me that catholic school crap!”…and tries to kiss her.

  She scratches his face. “Stop it!”

  Aghast at her impertinence, he slaps her face. Shocked, she tries opening her door, but the principal, being so determined, forcefully holds her back.

  “Let me go!” she screams. Parks slaps her again, his hand leaving an imprint on her face.

  “Don’t be so fucking feisty”, he commands. “Everybody knows your reputation.”

  “I don’t have a reputation!”

  “Don’t lie, bitch! You were leading me on.” He grabs her breasts.

  “Let me go!” she screams.

  Just then, a tire iron crashes the driver side window.

  “What the fuck?” the astonished principal cusses.

  Chip, yanking open Parks’ door, drags the drunken molester out, pins him against the Lincoln, and places the tire iron on top of the car. Laurel jumps out. Parks gazes with animosity at the angry, powerful teen footballer.

  “What the hell are you doing, Chip?” he bawls.

  “I can kick your ass right now, but I’d rather let the School Board do it.”

  “You’re trying to blackmail me? I know you’ve never done one homework assignment at that goddamn school.”


  “Bullshit!”

  Chip loosens his grip on the principal and takes a few steps backwards. Parks, however, is not done with him.

  “Violence is all you’re good for,” Parks maintains. “You might turn out to be a pro player because you’re the best of the lot, but I’ve been letting you slide as a favor to your father because we grew up together.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You couldn’t be a waterbody for the Special Olympics without my approval. Think how far you’d get without me. You’d be pumping gas at Arco the rest of your miserable life.”

  “You think you have it like that, don’t you? Maybe I’d be pumping gas, but you’d be playing out the rest of your life in the state pen.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I don’t have too far to fall, not like you.” Chip starts counting Parks’ crimes. “Statutory rape, unlawful endangerment, kidnapping…”

  “You’re not getting away with this, Mr. Parks,” Laurel adds. “I promise you.”

  The ardent principal studies Laurel with the intensity of a tiger hiding near a watering hole of antelope, then his countenance drops as if weights were glued to his chin. Mere seconds later, he starts crying like a motherless child.

  Chip shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

  Beverly, ensconced in Chip’s car just a few yards behind them, gets out and comes over.

  “What’s going on?” she mumbles, wiping her eyes.

  “Didn’t you see anything?” Laurel asks her.

  “I was dozing off. Sorry.”

  Chip grabs the principal’s forearm.

  “Your principal went too far tonight,” he informs her.

  “Let him go, Chip,” Laurel advises. “His career’s over.”

  Chip releases the sobbing man who slumps down to a sitting position by his Town Car.

  Chip walks over to Laurel. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Why did everybody leave the party?”

  “That stupid clown with the knife showed up,” Beverly answers.

  Laurel is