Painted Mayhem

By TJ Weeks

An anthology based on killer clowns. 30 authors have come together to support the awareness of PTSD. All proceeds will go to an organazition for PTSD.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PTSD Awareness
• Release date: Mar 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524253929

Book preview

Acknowledgments

A very special thank you to all the authors involved in this anthology as well as Karen Dziegiel, for going through all of these stories and helping get them ready for release.

All royalties from this anthology goes to helping support PTSD. http://ptsdusa.org/support-u/make-a-donation/

Special thank you to each and every fan for making this possible, if it wasn’t for all of you we wouldn’t have this opportunity to help those in need.

What’s In A Name?

BY WINDSOR POTTS

Thirty years of harassment about having a girl’s name has left Leslie with a quiet demeanor. Hidden by humorous indifference, he shrugs off taunts and smirks at guffaws. It’s just a name, is his response to the questions he fields.

Through the kitchen door, he can hear his stepmother Sherry on the corded phone in the hallway. He’s quiet and polite, but he can be outgoing too. Especially when he does the clowning job. He gets along so well with the children. Surely your Edith would like to date a guy who is good with kids? There was a pause in the conversation and he imagined her nodding before she chimed back in. Really? When did she become a gay? He doesn’t listen to anymore as he walks into the garage.

The blue Ford Taurus glides silently along the Alabama streets. The tires hum resonates with the engine’s low purr. He parks by an expired meter beneath two unlit street lights. Once the sun is down, the Mobile Police Department seldom bother enforcing parking fees in the bar district. Leslie takes his time preparing. Staring ahead, he mumbles, They don’t know me. They don’t care.

By moonlight, he applies his makeup in the rearview mirror. They’re nothin’. They don’t even have names. Careful not to smudge the checkerboard of grey and black grease paint, he pulls his hoodie tight, exiting the Ford. Leslie can be a guy’s name too.

Leslie has a talent. Like others learn phone numbers or sports statistics, he has a perfect recall for facial structure: eye and hair color, teeth, any other of the minute details one needs to recognize a stranger in a crowd. He’s never forgotten a face, but he purposefully never learns names.

There are no crowds on the streets of Mobile tonight as the cold rain of November rolls in. He moves towards his next victim, looking for a certain angular nose, weak chin, and a crooked smile. He remembers the man’s laughter. The label Leslie assigned to him is Hook Beak.

Hook Beak’s wife had been tending to the cake and sixteen grade-schoolers when she told her husband to pay the entertainment. Drunk at two in the afternoon, Hook Beak had all but laughed in the clown’s face. Leslie Sterns? Your name is really Leslie? I thought ‘Leslie the Clown’ was just a stage name or something. He did laugh then, sharp nose swaying side to side as he filled out the check. It’s post-dated, so you’ll have to wait ‘til Thursday.

Leslie smiled as he folded the check into an origami duck. Quacking as he palmed the paper avian into a secret pocket, he winked at Hook Beak. Pulling a squeezable horn from behind his back, he alternated quacking and honking as he walked around the party. The drunken father looked like a flamingo, his nose plunging into his plastic cocktail cup. Hook Beak was an appropriate handle, Leslie decided.

As a teenager, Leslie learned sleight of hand and juggling, hoping to impress his classmates. Stage fright ended his ambition of becoming a magician. Despite Leslie’s awkward teenage struggles, Lester had enforced ‘family time’. Watching syndicated reruns on Nick-At-Night after dinner every night produced dividends when Leslie found an identity he could relate with. Red Skelton, the vaudevillian comic genius, struck Leslie as funny, humble, and adored in a genuine way. Especially Skelton’s patented hobo-clown, Freddie the Freeloader.

Leslie took up the face-paint, smearing on white lips and eyeshadow, and a thick, black five o’ clock shadow. Practicing prat falls and handstands, Leslie sang and cavorted his way through high school, eventually earning a spot in the yearbook as ‘Class Clown’. Not that Leslie ever looked in the yearbook. His classmates’ faces were forever painted in his mind.

The birthday girl is- Leslie would quit listening, always smiling and waiting for the mother to point out the child. She’s nine years old today. Oh, there she is, with, uh, the red dress. He’d memorize the girl’s deep dimples, blonde locks, and sparkling greens eyes. He’d sing ‘Happy Birthday’ off-key. Juggling a cow bell, a bike horn, and a toy trumpet, he sang and played them each in tandem. The key to not hearing the child’s name during the song was playing all three instruments at once, drowning out Sarah or Beth or Jessica as the chorus of children sang along.

‘Leslie the Clown’ had been a side job, but when the power plant fired him, The Clown became his only means of income. His stepmother Sherry gossiped about everything on the hallway phone, but she defended Leslie vehemently. It’s put such a stress on poor Leslie. He pretends it doesn’t bother him, but I can tell. He gave ten years of his life to Alabama Power at that steam plant, the very company his father died working at, God rest his soul. Then one day, he disagrees with his supervisor and they fire him. For no reason other than he spoke his mind. She’d probably still defend him if she knew that he’d choked his supervisor near to death over one too many wisecracks about Leslie being a girl’s name.

Joshua Mark Ramey. Leslie repressed the urge to spit whenever he said the man’s name. Stupid name. Who would name their child something so stupid, he mumbled in the disciplinary meeting.

The plant manager declined to call the police on Leslie, leveling a hard stare at the complaining Ramey. Lester Sterns was a friend of mine, and now I have to fire his son, because of something you started. Why don’t you shut the hell up?

Leslie walked out with his last check, sitting in his car until shift change. He followed Ramey’s jacked-up truck, trailing it all the way across Mobile. Half an hour whiled away behind the wheel before Leslie broke off pursuit. Ramey had turned down Lamplighter Lane, so Leslie drove on past.

Lamplighter Lane was one of the new suburban nightmares that turned West Mobile into a white-trash wasteland. Cookie-cutter homes made of cheap materials with high interest rates, always baiting future residents with the illusion of safety and modern design. Leslie wasn’t surprised to see a meth deal happening at the corner gas station where he turned around.

Spotting Ramey’s lifted GMC 2500 parked in front of a single car garage, Leslie drove two houses further. Sitting in his Taurus, Leslie drew the Buck knife from its sheath, but stopped short of getting out. He kept repeating to himself, Joshua Mark Ramey, Joshua Mark Ramey, Joshua Mark Ramey.

He sat watching the house as the sun sank behind the horizon of towering oaks and pines. The name ran off his lips another hundred times as he tried to work through his invisible barrier. Why couldn’t he do it? Using the knife was nothing more than a series of muscle movements, like juggling or palming a coin. What was stopping him?

One dimming hour followed the other. The sun’s rays had died below the tree line long ago. The moon was in full splendor, the lunar light filling the car, reflecting off the knife’s blade and Leslie’s tear trails. Time rolled on and his mouth had gone dry from his constant muttering.

It’s the name, he finally gasped. The dawn’s light crept up from behind him, illuminating his watch face at 5AM. I can kill. I could kill him, but I can’t kill someone with a stupid name like mine.

He had to get away, before anyone noticed him parked there. How could they not notice? He’d parked there all night. Placing the key in the Taurus’s ignition, Leslie hesitated only as a silver Camry pulled into Ramey’s drive way. Who are you, he whispered. Opening the driver’s door, an older man with silver hair matching his car’s paint job stretched his legs out. In a red running suit, he twisted and turned, limbering up. When Joshua Mark walked down the front steps in a similar outfit, waving to the old man, Leslie smiled with a menacing grin. You look like the kinda man to name your son Joshua Mark.

His first instinct was to follow the pair on their morning run. No, I’ll wait. They’ll be back. Leslie laid the driver’s seat flat, nestling himself down with windows cracked. He never thought of whether or not he was being patient or methodical, he simply waited for the sound of their returning footsteps.  

Starting his ignition only when he heard the Camry fire to life, he finally braved a glimpse up. There was no sign of Joshua Mark and the Toyota had backed out of the drive, heading toward the entry of Lamplighter Lane.

Leslie feared he would lose the small car, but it turned off of the main road after only a few blocks. A mile east of Joshua Mark’s residence, the silver Toyota pulled into colonial style home in a neighborhood that Lamplighter was built to resemble. The houses of Cinderblock Avenue were older but appeared sturdier, with well-maintained yards and far less suspicion of meth labs.

Still sweating, the old man wheezed, breathing heavy as he climbed the front steps, one hand gripping at his right knee. Ignoring the blue Taurus driving by, the silver hair man unlocked his door without as much as a glance around. Parking at the end of the cul-de-sac, Leslie sat underneath a wide water-oak, shaded by the branches. Ignoring his thirst, hunger, and urge to urinate, Leslie watched and waited.

Before long, he felt imaginary eyes looking at him from window shades and door peepholes. Starting the Taurus, he drove to the gas station he’d turned in earlier. He walked out of his car, feeling faint and dazed. Stepping around the back to the restroom, Leslie urinated, and immediately vomited until he was dry heaving. Once his stomach spasms were quelled, he moved to the sink, splashing off his face, spitting out a mouthful of foulness. Nodding to himself in the mirror, he whispered to his dripping reflection, Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

The dark of the morning still clung to the day as Leslie drove toward the cul-de-sac. Parking at the gas station, he donned his blue hoodie, and walked past the bathrooms and the dumpster, stepping into the woods. Paralleling the surrounding neighborhoods, Leslie slipped past backyards and chain link fences, slowly making his way through the dark, counting streets as he passed.

Reaching the cul-de-sac of Cinderblock Avenue, he took cover in a rhododendron bush overgrowing a derelict shed at the neighborhood’s end. As the sun rose from behind him, he watched the old man get into the Camry. Once the sunlight peeked through the bush, Leslie began applying his grease paint. He wanted a disguise but there was something calming about being underneath the paint. Using only a compact mirror, black and grey grease sticks, and the dim morning light, he would try something different.

A postal delivery Jeep stopped at the beginning of the block. Leslie was finishing up his face and watched the driver out of the corner of his eye. Hopping out of the Jeep, the portly carrier toted several parcels to nearby houses. Secure in his hidden spot, Leslie closed the compact mirror, but nearly lost his breath as the old man parked the Toyota in the driveway. Leslie resumed breathing once his victim had gotten up the steps.

The mail carrier was back in his Jeep with his emptied satchel, moving up the block before stopping once more. Exiting the vehicle with a package tucked under his chubby arm, he huffed as he made his way for his delivery. He rang the doorbell of a neighboring house, chatted with the recipient, and handed off the package with a smile. Leslie’s eyes tightened and his own smile widened as he revised his plan.

Oblivious to the painted man hidden in the bush he passed, the postman picked his nose as he took the Jeep out of the cul-de-sac and into the next neighborhood. Speedily but cautious, Leslie sauntered out of the bush, adjusting the hood to cover anyone from seeing his profile and up the steps. Knocking on the door, he held the unsheathed blade in front of his waist.

A voice called from behind the opaque glass. Who is it?

Postal service.  I’ve got a package for Joshua Mark Ramey.

The voice chirped from behind the door. Ha. That’s my running partner. Wonder why he got a package here. With the turn of the nob, the old man’s chipper attitude faded. What the hell are you?

A grey and black checkerboard face with a black frown spoke through gritted teeth. Disappointed.

The newscasters on channels 3, 5, 10, and 15 would all use varying descriptors of the murder: atrocious, brutal, horrific, and diabolical. Certain details were being withheld within the first few hours of the investigation, but by nightfall the police had decided it had become a desperate matter.

This is a crime of hate and rage, possibly in retribution. A high-profile divorce attorney, Mr. Zacharius had received many death threats from several of his clients’ former spouses, The Public Relations officer had told reporters. Even though the attack was in the morning hours, we have no witnesses to this heinous crime, so we’re calling out to the community, if you have any information that would lead to the arrest of the killer, call our offices.

No leads were ever established and the case went cold. The community, including Joshua Mark Ramey, mourned, placing memorials on the old man’s doorstep. Of course, Leslie never saw this because he didn’t watch TV. Instead, he was practicing juggling and singing the alphabet backwards while balancing on a bowling ball.

The heat boiling behind Leslie’s eyes cools to a simmer, the winter wind cutting through the hoodie. He sticks to the shadows, walking down Dauphin Street only when he feels certain the coast is clear. A passing car doesn’t cause him much alarm, but an open bar door sends him detouring through back alleys and vacant lots. He thinks of his first time killing in the paint. He recalls the second as he ducks down, pretending to tie his shoe as a drunk blonde in heels staggers by.

She’d been a blonde starlet, bound for Hollywood, but working in the mall. She’d giggled at his name as he’d handed over his credit card. Smiling, he’d never looked at her name badge, but waited in the Belk’s employee parking lot. After following her home, he cut her brake lines.

The second, of course, brings up the third, then the fourth, and the fifth. His sixth victim, he’d finally given a name. No, not a name, he whispers into the cool winter night. A description. Older than himself, The FedEx Driver had been poorly shaven, belligerent, and hungover. After copping an attitude with Leslie about needing the ‘lady of the house’ to sign for a delivery of cosmetics, Leslie calmly explained that, indeed, he was ‘Leslie’ and the cosmetics were his face paints.

Leslie, The FedEx Driver snorted, is a girl’s name. You got some ID, bub?

His lower lip trembled, but Leslie still maintained a smile as he produced his wallet from the hall table. He showed the driver his license and refrained from bouncing the drunk’s head against the wall. Staring at the sweat pouring from the man’s receding hairline, Leslie’s smile became genuine as an idea sparked across his mind. It sure must be hot outside. He signed across the digital pad as The FedEx Driver handed the ID back. Would you like a drink? A bottle water? A soda? I’ve got a fridge full in the basement.

Sure thing. Thanks, Leslie.

Later that night, as The FedEx Driver’s wife rushed him to the emergency room, the antifreeze had already done its damage. A diuretic mass of quivering flesh, he died howling and crying. No one was able to trace the poison’s origins. Besides being a condescending jerk, The FedEx Driver was also a litterer and had thrown the bottle out his van window earlier that day.

After The FedEx Driver, there’d been The Janitor, Preppy Clerk, Fat Drunk Gay Guy, Soccer Mom 1, Bitch In The Target, Guy That Didn’t Clean Up His Dog’s Poop, Soccer Mom 2, Soccer Mom 3, and several more. His most difficult one was Danni.

Danni had been a 12-year old girl, far too old and mature for a clown at her birthday party she insisted. Because Leslie had actually been hired to entertain Danni’s younger cousins, he wasn’t expecting all the catty remarks and heckling from the teenage group. Danni’s final mistake was pushing Leslie over during one of his handstands. Later that night, as he watched her house burn down, he congratulated himself on having the decency to knock on her window before he threw the firebomb in bed with her. She had a chance to escape.

Hook Beak, he grumbles. It’s not a name. It’s a description.  He crouches within a pile of boxes stacked beside a dumpster. Liquid Sushi Bar is Hook Beak’s weekly ritual destination. He comes downtown to drink Fireball and beer with a woman that Leslie refers to as ‘Flab Arms’. When they are sufficiently drunk, Hook Beak takes Flab Arms into the alley way and screws her between the dumpsters. With his face painted in the cross-hatch of grey and black, Leslie waits, hidden, beside those very dumpsters.

Hook Beak presses his sharp nose into Flab Arm’s leathery cheek, kissing along her jaw line, working down her neck where the frizzy mop covers his eyes. Leaning against the alley wall, he hikes up her skirt and pulls her panties to the side as she giggles. Thrusting slowly, Hook Beak is oblivious as Leslie seizes the woman’s throat and squeezes. She gasps, blind of her attacker, and a moment later is unconscious. Hook Beak looks up, searching her face for answers.  Looking to his right, a demonic clown frowns at him before his vision goes black as the tire iron connects.

Flab Arms screams when she wakes up. Running back into the bar, her skirt still hiked, she yells, Joey’s dead, Joey’s dead! The bartender dials 911 while the blood spattered woman crumbles to the floor, crying. No one approaches her until the police arrive. Having secured the body and roped off the crime scene, they place Flab Arms in handcuffs and put her in a cruiser.

Several weeks later, Flab Arm’s lawyer points out, My client had been violated, against her will, under the influence of alcohol and possible date rape drugs.  Coupling the circumstances with the evidence of bruising on her throat and her black out, Mrs. Spinelli unconsciously acted in self-defense. Convicted of manslaughter, she will later have it reduced because of the serious nature of her attacker’s crime.

Leslie is ignorant of the trial and the shoddy police work that went into it. He has no concern of Mrs. Spinelli’s jail time and coming divorce. He doesn’t care about the Hook Beak’s widow or the child who will grow up without a father. He focuses on juggling knives, a new routine to entertain older kids.

On the rare occasion he does think of what he’s done, there is no smile or frown. Instead, he nods in satisfaction, remembering the sound the cartilage in the angular nose made as it crushed under his fist. Leslie can be a guy’s name too.

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Jennifer

BY MARK MACKEY

Jennifer Carver’s last memory of her hometown, Briar Forest, Washington was not a good one. Her now ex-boyfriend, Eric Montgomery threatened to become a serial killer, worse, he wanted her to be his partner in this insane idea. During the last few weeks of their relationship, Eric started obsessively making himself up as a depressed clown, all the while arming himself with a dangerous butcher knife. She always had a terrible fear of clowns, the knife, and his threat to kill caused her to end things with him. She could not be involved with someone with such clear psychological issues.

This didn’t sit well with Eric, who went so far as to threaten her family if she didn’t go back with him.

Jennifer’s solution to this, alert the police on his ass.  

For a while afterwards, Eric stayed clear of her. He was obsessed about her, so his distance did not remain so long term. Eric was smart though. His way of attempting to reintroduce himself into her life was through emails.

Informing him she was no longer interested in being involved made him threaten to kill her parents, Michael, Abigail and her. Showing it to the police allowed Jennifer to get a restraining order against him. Eric was sentenced to a year in the county jail, and charged with making a criminal threat. For her parents, it was the last straw. Deciding it would be best to move far away from Briar Forest.  

The last words her best friend Melissa Victoria said to her before driving off, he’ll never find out from me where you are.

****

Now Jennifer was on her way to start a new life, Eric-free in Burveton, Illinois. 

Seated in the back of her parents silver minivan, driving through its streets, she felt right at home. Burveton and Briar Forest were quite similar in appearance to each other.

So give me your opinion of our new town? Abigail asked.

It’s livable, I like it, Jennifer admitted.

****

Welcome to our new home, Michael said with a pleased smile as they pulled up to the front of frosty white three story house.

Staring out at it, Jennifer immediately felt a sense of relief. For the first time in weeks, she was free of Eric, his clown obsession, and his insane serial killer agenda.

So what’s your opinion of it? Abigail asked.

I’m just glad to be away from Eric, Jennifer replied.

We’re all glad for that, Abigail said. Come on, let’s head inside and check it out.

****

Ten minutes later, Jennifer stood staring out the window to the second floor bedroom she chose for herself. Shooting a glance over at the house across the street, Jennifer saw a boy her age step from it. The handsome way he looked told her she hadn’t made a mistake moving here to Burveton. Seeing him, Jennifer considered heading out to go introduce herself. Make a new friend with her new neighbor. Thinking further about this, and what her decision would be, Jennifer turned, starting to head for her bedroom door, rushing to exit.

****

Have somewhere you need to go? Abigail asked, seated on the sofa, so far the only piece of furniture brought in, unpacking a rectangular cardboard box with ‘living room’ marked on its side, written in black magic marker in large letters. Michael seated right beside her, doing the exact same thing with another similar sized box marked ‘living room.’

Oh just thought I’d go check out our brand new town, Jennifer said, wasting no time in racing toward the front door. Escaping before she could hear her mom say anything further.

****

Scott Fieldman stood at his second floor bedroom window watching the new neighbors, parents and attractive teenage daughter his age start to move in across the street.

I want her big brother, if you know what I mean, his sister Elisabeth whispered into his ear, causing him to jump with slight surprise.

The thing about his sister, she was infected with an unknown virus, causing her to have an insatiable appetite for human flesh. Luckily for them and their parents, Elisabeth had been satisfied with homeless as not to bring the Burveton Police Department reigning down on their asses. Even though his sister was infected by a virus, it didn’t affect her appearance, a good thing, allowing her to fit right in with society, high school, etc.

Yeah, I’d like to see that happen, Scott said, managing a smile. Elisabeth, she’s not homeless and I seriously don’t think mom and dad will appreciate looking at us as suspects in her mysterious disappearance.

Uh-uh big brother, nobody will even think to look at me or this family if she goes missing. People see me as an ordinary teenage girl, not some freak monster with an appetite for human flesh. 

The fact his kid sister might set her sights and appetite on their unsuspecting new neighbor set nervousness racing through him. Thinking Elisabeth’s hunger for human flesh might get her, or their entire family lengthy prison sentences didn’t help the situation either.

Why the sudden change from your usual homeless people meals? 

Simple, I want a change of diet, Elisabeth admitted with a smile. So, what’s your opinion if I satisfy my appetite for human flesh on her? 

Sorry Elisabeth, I have to veto that idea. Our parents will go insane if our local police department suddenly starts investigating us in her disappearance. They’ll really go beyond nuts if you or we have to serve prison time because you can’t keep that appetite under control. And I shudder to think what will happen to you if it’s found out what you love to eat.

Again shooting a glance at the new neighbor as she started entering her home for the first time ever, Elisabeth sadly realized Scott was right. 

Yeah, sadly I guess you’re right, Elisabeth said, hanging her face now growing heavy with disappointment on the floor.

Continuing to stare out the window as the girl finally set foot into her brand new house, Scott began wondering. 

What brought you and your family to Burveton in the first place? 

I know that look Scott, Elisabeth informed him. "Since my plan to make her into dinner is pretty much out of the question, you might as well find out if she’s single.

The way she looks, you can be rest assured she is not, Scott said without even thinking about it.

You’ll never know until you find out and ask her. Now go on and do it before someone else beats your ass to her first. 

You really think I should?

I wouldn’t have said so if I didn’t, Elisabeth replied. And while you’re at it, you can bring me back some dinner. 

I’ll see what I can do, Scott said, deciding to take his sister up on her suggestion. He turned, racing from his room.

****

Stepping from his house, Scott stood on his porch. He started to wonder what he should do first. Head across the street, and meet the new girl neighbor first, or grab dinner for his sister? 

No, who the hell am I kidding? Even though Elisabeth said she wouldn’t, I can’t really trust her when it comes to her appetite. 

Just as Scott started coming off the steps, he again saw his brand new neighbor as he stepped from her house and start heading straight for him. 

Hey new neighbor, she called out excitedly.

Able to see her close up, Scott realized she was definitely worth getting involved with.

Yeah hey, he greeted her back as she continued approaching. So you have a name?

Jennifer Carvers.

"Scott Fieldman.

Well, he seems friendly enough, Jennifer thought reaching him. Nice, normal name. Now if only he doesn’t have any secret desire to get dressed up as a frightening ass clown and want to be a serial killer. Wait, no, what the hell am I thinking, there’s not a chance of that happening twice in a lifetime!

So I just thought I’d head on over and introduce myself Scott.

Unfortunately you caught me when I was just about to drive off and take care of something for my sister Elisabeth.

Scott’s revealing this, and had heart enough to do something for his sister, strengthened the thought she had nothing to