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Teratophobic Man continued


"Hey, you win some, you lose some," the clown grunted.  "At least I'm not stuck up here with my dead uncle like somebody I know."

"Hey, first off, he's my grandfather," Robby interjected.  "And second, I'm not stuck here.  I just don't want to get down, that's all."

"Sure, sure," the clown groaned.  "That's what they all say.  And the next thing you know, ten years has passed and you're still here, shittin' dinner rolls just to stay alive.  You're pathetic."

"I'm the one who's pathetic?" Robby chortled.  "Maybe my memory is going bad, but last time I checked, you're the alcoholic clown who can't keep a job at a fucking circus."

"You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," the clown mumbled.  "We'll see who ends up jumping first.  But right now, let's stop arguing.  I see that your dealer is on the way."

"My what?" Robby asked, surveying the carnival grounds for any sign of the demented creatures.

"Your dealer," the clown repeated.  "Your personal guardian who looks after your spiritual needs."

"You mean, like an angel?"

"Something like that," the clown said with disinterest.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to."

"You're leaving?" Robby asked, distressed at the thought that he would be without a source of palpable entertainment.

"Yeah, it's time for me to go," the clown replied.  He wrapped his cord around the same support beam he'd used to scale the track, and then began the arduous task of descending once more.  "Besides, you're really starting to annoy the living fuck outta me with all your stupid questions.  You gotta chill out, man."

"But … but …" Robby stammered.  He knew what he wanted to say, but the words got caught in his throat.  By the time he managed to open his mouth and ask for him to wait, the television and its deposed circus clown was long gone, leaving only a depression in his grandfather's lap to prove it had ever existed.

"You bastard!" he screamed, lurching to his feet.  "You can't leave me here!  I'm a living, breathing human being, damn it!  I have a soul, unlike you and your glass cage!"

Robby felt the roller coaster tracks shift beneath him, and decided it was a good idea to sit down.  His mother used to warn him about traveling carnivals - how their equipment was poorly assembled and made of low quality materials - but until now, he hadn't heeded her warning.  And when he heard the bolts whine beneath him, sending a visceral shudder through the entire structure, he decided standing up was a very poor choice.

The track pitched back and forth slowly, as if suspended on a pair of invisible strings, and for a moment Robby was sure the track would fall, sending him to a slow and painful death at the hands of the Skull Fuckers.  But then, something incredible happened.  A great wind swept up, and Robby heard a piercing shriek rise above the moans of the tortured support beams.

He looked up, and to his surprise and utter awe, saw a giant bird descending from the heavens.  Its beak was golden and lined with fine teeth, and a reptilian plate extended over its back, giving it the appearance of some great dragon-bird hybrid; the love child of some truly demented Greek gods.

The bird swooped through the foamy purple clouds, looping this way and that, until it came close enough to touch.  Then, it wrapped its giant claws around the track and released another piercing cry.  However, this one was directed toward Robby.

"What do you want?" Robby cried, cowering against his grandfather's stiff chest.  "What are you doing here?"

The bird didn't reply (not that he expected it to, but hell, he didn't know what to expect anymore.  He'd just finished a conversation with a television, for god's sake!).  It simply puffed out its chest, revealing an array of metallic golden feathers, and dropped a plastic grocery bag into his lap.  Then, it flapped its monstrous wings once, and disappeared into the bleak night sky, leaving a trail of golden dust in its wake.

"What the hell?"  Robby licked his lips and peered into the plastic sack, half expecting to find a fairy nestled inside, or at least some form of lesser fantasy creature, but what he discovered was far from both.  It was an aerosol can … and a remarkably plain one at that.  It bore no markings or indication of what lay inside, but one whiff gave him the answer.  It was paint.

A smile spread across Robby's lips.  Suddenly he knew what the clown meant.  The bird was his dealer - his spiritual guardian.  It was his own personal guardian angel, meant to help him out in his time of need.

Robby closed his eyes and said a prayer to the first divine entity that crossed his mind.  He'd never been so thankful for spray paint before in his life.  Just the thought of inhaling its chemical goodness made the pleasure receptors in his brain tingle.

Wrangling the cap off, Robby pressed down on the plastic head and released a stream of golden liquid into the grocery bag.  He got a little on his pants at first, but he didn't care.  The prospect of huffing all that precious paint was too stimulating.  He could already smell its unique fragrance; feel its euphoric buzz in his head.

But then, just as he was about to plunge his head into the sack and inhale deeply, he heard a voice.  Only this time, it wasn't the east-coast drawl of Chuckles the Happy Clown, or the ear-piercing shriek of his dealer.  It was a voice that he hadn't heard since … since he plunged the screwdriver into his grandfather's neck.

"Robby.  Robby, what were you thinking?"

Robby looked up as fast as his neck would allow, and found his grandfather looming over him, dead eyes flashing.  His lips were pulled back almost to his ears, revealing sections of chalk white jaw bone, and a genuine maliciousness danced on his tongue.

"Why did you try to kill me, Robby?  Why?  Was it drugs, Robby?"

Robby fell back, away from his putrefying grandfather and his stagnant breath.  "No!" he cried.  "No!  Not at all!"  But inside, he knew that was a lie.  His grandfather was an insensitive, judgmental bastard, and he deserved what he got.  He deserved to have that screwdriver embedded in his spine.  "I mean … no … not entirely."

"I loved you Robby," the wrinkled, algae-encrusted lips whispered.  Then his grandfather lashed out, limbs stiffened from rigor mortis, and grasped Robby by the throat.  His fingers were cold and hard - the fingers of the living dead - and they bore into Robby's windpipe until he couldn't breathe.

"I'm so sorry," his grandfather murmured, but his face betrayed no emotion.  A second later, Robby found the bag over his head, and he pleaded for forgiveness until the last shreds of consciousness betrayed him.  Then he fell asleep in a quasi-high, quasi-dead state.  A state that would soon be altered by the shrieking demons beneath him.

* * *

"I'm so … so sorry," the old man cried, stooping over the body of his lifeless grandson.  He'd tried to stop the bleeding - tried to keep him conscious until the paramedics arrived - but it was no use.  He bled out too fast, what with the screwdriver buried in his esophagus.

"Why Robby … why?" he blubbered, feeling the tears run down his cheeks.  "You were a good boy.  You were a good … good boy.  You just needed some help, that's all.  Why did you have to go and attack me like that?  You knew I wasn't going to give you money to feed your habit.  Why?"

He asked the questions knowing full well that he would never get the answers.  His grandson was dead, and there was nothing he could do to alter that fact.  But as the blood pooled around his knees, painting his sweater and hands red, he looked into Robby's eyes, and wondered what he was thinking.  He wondered if, somehow, Robby was still alive, subjugated to another reality; another tier of existence.  But after feeling Robby's cold skin and seeing his glassy eyes, he decided that was impossible.

"The dead do not dream," he told himself.

The dead do not dream.

END