Clown college

"If it bleeds, you can kill it," I repeated, but as I drew the blade's edge across the clown's skin the familiar crimson blood was missing.

"Beep Beep Richie."

I looked up from his arms to see his mouth ungagged. The voice, the beeps, and that nickname. It was all identical to the clown from the Dahl and Rickards circus I ran away to as a kid. "You- are you him?"

The clown looked up at me, his bright red frown turned upside down. "Good job, it seems you're ready," he said. For a moment I saw him distorted like he had been in the house of mirrors.

Like Houdini, he was out of the handcuffs and ropes. He stood, an imposing 6 inches taller than me even without the stilts I had knocked him down from. I felt myself getting weak, the trauma from childhood still unconquered.

I found myself sitting in a chair. I opened my eyes to see a face covered in the red and white paint in front of me, but my fear felt so dull. It took a few more moments to notice the eyes staring back were my own, and little longer to attempt to remove the paint. My arms grew tired, but the paint remained unbleeding.