A Night at The Circus

A Night at the Circus.
by Stephen A Abell

Number of Words: 666


The trouble with reporters is they always keep stickin’ their noses into other peoples business; an’ that usually gets ‘em hurt or worse.

On this occasion it looks as if that statement's right on both counts.

The reporter was a broad by the name of Beverly Wilkinson. A good lookin’ redhead with shapely legs and the nous of how to use ‘em. Now good old Bev and her pins were lying face-down in the sawdust covered floor of the main ring of the Romanov Circus.

She’d hired me to watch out for her and come running if somethin’ untoward happened at her meeting with The Great Karamazov. This clown’s the main attraction for the circus, a clown magician to be exact. Bev thought there was something hickey with his act. Her suspicions, I’d say, were on the red nose.

I moved from the back of the seats, climbed the small red and white wall, and strode over to her. From my vantage point, all had looked well. Bev and the clown were chattin’, I heard her soft laughter as she lent forward to smell his flower. Then down she went, clutchin’ her face. Before I could move Karamazov had gone “poof” in a cloud of smoke.

I rolled her over and almost lost my lunch... her face had melted! The bastard used acid. Though the light was subdued in this tented arena and the shadows heavy, it was enough to etch the sight into my brain forevermore... poor doll.

I hate clowns and I hate magicians. Nothing but tricksters and charlatans alike. This sick fuck was both.

From the shadows behind me a voice questioned, “What did the clown say to the private eye?”

I spun on my heals, pulling the Ruger from its shoulder holster. I hoped it was aimed toward the voice, my finger tickled the trigger.

A deep growl, a voice barely human, started the punchline, which was then taken up by three similarly inhuman voices spaced out in the shadows around me. “Suck... my... Dick... Tracy...” I wasn’t alone with one madman, there were five. Good job I had an automatic, plenty of bullets for these jokers to share.

Karamazov stepped out of the shadows in front of me, his painted smile huge on his face. Then he stepped out of the shadows to the left of me, and to the left of him, and to the left... I was surrounded by The Great Karamazov.

“Hi, P. I.,” his European tones crooned, “these are my brothers.” He gestured about the ring. “Born into a circus family, our futures were fated. My brothers, with great physical prowess and agility, wanted to be a tumbling act. I, however, had been blessed with intelligence and guile also. I saw the limitless possibilities for the five of us. Mother agreed, and The Great Karamazov was born, his greatest trick... teleportation.

“I was greedy though, and after my parents died, I conspired to end the act and go solo. One winter night, at our family home, I cooked a great meal for my brothers. It was their last meal. Not being heartless, I poured the poisoned brandy at the end of the meal. I buried them under the earth floor of the cellar.

“Trouble was, the show was terrible without them. People wanted teleportation, not prestidigitation.

“We’re a superstitious folk, with our own myths and beliefs. On researching one particular dark tale, I found the elixir of life. A concoction of many different parts that when mixed and poured onto the naked form will breathe life into a corpse.”

I looked about the ring as the brothers Karamazov, cartwheeled, flipped, and jumped about with never-ending vigor.

“Get the infidel my brothers,” called The Truly Great Karamazov, as he stepped back to disappear into the shadows.

Now here I stand, Ruger spitting fire and bullets as the zombie Karamzov dance toward me...

I’ve hit them... I can see the bullet holes...

I hate fuckin’ zombie clowns.

For the "Absolute Horror Flash Fiction Contest"   by Pennywise and the challenge - Write a horror story in the "Noir" sub-genre - in the "Quiet" style - for the prompt use "Be careful when you laugh at me, because you don't which one of me you're laughing at..."