DEATH OF A CLOWN
SWAT teams stealthily moved upon the circus tent, encircling it, insuring that the man inside would not escape—they were desperate to end his spree of terror, a trail of mayhem and destruction that had spanned four states, and had left hundreds of people requiring years of psycho-therapy.
The tent had been spotted by aerial surveillance, hidden deep within the forest of Beltan County, California, and every available law enforcement agent within the state had converged on the location. The Governor had the National Guard on stand-by, read to sweep in and totally decimate the area if need be, and tensions were running high.
"Bobo Kerdasky," boomed a voice over a PA that was equipped with a Jeep Cherokee. "This is Captain Louver of the Beltan Sheriff's Department."
Silence reigned through out the entire clearing, and the surrounding forest, not a single squirrel even daring to munch a nut.
"We have the tent surrounded."
A slit of light shined forth from the tent as Bobo parted the entrance flaps, his bright white and red face emerging from between the folds of the cloth. Bobo's blue eyes, highlighted by circles of red, glared at the throngs of law officers spread about before him, narrowing in contemptuous anger.
"Why can't you people leave me alone!" shouted Bobo, screaming at the top of his lungs on the last word.
Beep. Beep. Wha-uga.
The highly trained, highly experienced officers ignored the honking noises coming from within the tent, just to Bobo's rear.
"Bobo…please," pleaded the officer. "We can end this here. Now. With no more people getting hurt."
"You don't know what it's like," said Bobo, his voice brimming with despair. "They laugh at you all the time."
"Bobo," called Captain Louver. "It's time for the laughter to stop."
"It should have stopped a long time ago!" screamed Bobo, stepping from the tent, seltzer bottles in both hands. "It should have stopped when my parents died in that elephant explosion, but the show had to go on."
"Put the seltzer down, Bobo," commanded Louver, his voice thick and demanding.
"It should have stopped when my brother was killed by the peanut wagon tipping over."
A hundred clicks echoed through the air as every officer that could see Bobo readied their weapon. Rifles, pistols, shot guns, machine guns, two flare guns, one grenade launcher, and a sling shot were baring down on Bobo, ready to unleash their hellish fury upon him.
"It should have stopped when…when…when my sweet, lovely Anna was taken from me by those bastard midgets!"
"Many men have lost their love, Bobo," said Louver. "They never went on wild pie sprees, whip-creaming people through four states."
"You. Just. Don't. Get. It. It's all you people understand. The laughter is all you ever want. You take it from us like some giant leech, sucking our very soul from us. Well, this clown says no more, damn it! Clowns are people, too, and we hurt."
"This is you're last warning, Bobo," threatened Louver. "Drop the seltzer or we're going to open fire."
The shattering glass of the seltzer bottles was like a scream in the night, breaking on the hard ground as Bobo dropped them, his red outlined mouth strangely turned down in a frown.
"You did the right thing, Bobo," commended Louver. "Now put your hands into the air and wait for my men…"
Beep. Beep. Wha-uga.
Bobo's legs spun in impossible circles, the clown beating a path back into the tent before anyone could react, and Louver began cussing, forgetting that the PA was still on.
Strange, mechanical sounds began issuing from the tent, much like a car that had blown its motor but refused to quit running. With a might va-room, a tiny, red compact car shot forth from the tent, spinning clouds of dirt in its wake. Scrunched down behind the wheel, his knees level with his eyes, was Bobo, a look of insane determination on his pasty face.
His green hair streaming through the open moon-roof, Bobo whipped the wheel around, putting the little car into a tight three-sixty. The car became a red blur, spinning around like a top on speed, and dozens of officers succumbed to the dizziness brought on by trying to follow it.
"Ready!" called Louver's voice. "Aim."
The car suddenly stopped, facing Louver and the others, a catapult looking device now on its top. Setting on the catapult, ready to be launched, was cream pie nearly three feet in diameter.
"Oh, Bobo," admonished Louver. "Pies are not the answer."
"Eat my cream," snarled Bobo, launching the pie.
"Fire!" screamed Louver, before diving for cover under his car.
A faint beep, beep, wha-uga, was barely heard above the thunderous roar of gunfire.
The reign of terror incited by Bob "Bobo" Kerdasky was brought to a bloody end early this morning, deep in the California forest.
Bobo, responsible for pieings and seltzerings across four states, was gunned down by law enforcement officers from over a hundred agencies. Accounts are still sketchy, but sources confirm that at least a dozen officers were pied during the confrontation.
Bobo left a trail of victims, most of them deeply scarred by the Clown's surprise pie attacks, often committed with no warning what so ever. The most tragic of the pieings, little Keri Mosberg, still fights for her life at Saint DeMarco's Hospital for Traumatized Children.
It is a day of morning not only for the victims and their families, but also for clowns across the country, many of which are being targeted by what are being coined "anti-clown" gangs. It will be a long time before a circus will be able to pitch its tent again, with out fear of retribution for the actions of one, sad, depressed clown.