𝔱 𝔢 𝔯 𝔯 𝔦 𝔣 𝔦 𝔢 𝔯

Life begins at night

-- Charlaine Harris

         when  he  was  in  high  school  ,  almost  solely  molded  by  his  parents'  continued  disinterest  &&  maureen's  abuse  ,  stu  found  that  billy  had  convinced  him  to  do  a  great  deal  of  things  .   he'd  liked  being  led  ,  to  a  certain  extent  .   it  satisfied  something  in  his  brain  ,  although  it  wouldn't  be  until  later  that  he  had  a  diagnosis  .   still  ,  if  he  tried  ,  he  could  have  rationalized  the  killing  .   he  could  have  put  that  blame  on  billy  ,  laying  into  his  peer  pressure  excuse  .   in  some  frame  of  mind  ,  it  was  peer  pressure  .   he  wanted  to  make  billy  happy  ,  but  he  also  wanted  to  do  it  for  himself  .   he  had  fully  settled  into  the  role  of  richard  castle  ,  then  richard  rodgers  ,  before  he  started  killing  agian  .   he  had  almost  used  the  ghostface  killings  as  a  spring  board  for  derrick  storm's  first  case  ,  but  paula  had  questions  that  he  didn't  quite  want  to  answer  .

         he  used  modified  versions  of  the  kills  in  their  place  ,  but  he  really  wanted  something  fresh  .   so  ,  roughly  five  years  back  ,  he'd  started  killing  again  .   the  gritty  realism  in  details  helped  his  sales  ,  especially  in  that  sticky  period  after  he  killed  derrick  storm  .   working  with  beckett  ,  however  ,  added  another  layer  of  complexity  .   stu  adapted  ,  shifting  methods  &&  becoming  more  careful  .

         blue  eyes  narrow  as  he  comes  back  to  the  present  ,  cleaver  in  a  gloved  had  as  he  looks  at  his  nearly  -  dead  victim  .   he  can't  have  the  kills  looking  too  similar  ,  but  why  the  fuck  did  he  choose  two  victims  ?   if  he  thought  about  it  ,  the  answer  was  simple  :   he  wanted  to  see  if  he  could  .   “  don't  scream  ,  okay  ?  ”  he  asks  ,  looking  at  his  bound  &&  gagged  victim  .   he  gestures  with  the  cleaver  ,  indicating  the  blood  pooling  beneath  the  other  victim  .   “  i  could  always  break  your  neck  like  i  did  hers  .  ”

         it  happens  so  quickly  after  that  ,  but  he  loves  the  result  .   his  bound  victim  turns  his  head  &&  screams  through  the  gag  as  best  as  possible  ,  which  gives  stu  just  the  slightest  moment  of  pause  .   then  ,  he  drops  to  his  knee  &&  brings  the  cleaver  down  .   it  cuts  through  flesh  &&  bone  ,  separating  head  from  neck  with  a  near  surgical  precision  .   he  picks  up  his  victims  head  &&  throws  it  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  decrepit  area  .   he  doesn't  pay  attention  to  where  it  lands  ,  back  only  turned  for  a  moment  as  he  makes  his  way  back  to  the  bag  he'd  put  a  safe  distance  from  the  murder  scene  .   the  cleaver  gets  wrapped  in  a  cloth  &&  deposited  in  a  plastic  bag  ,  with  gets  put  into  his  black  bag  .   he  throws  the  leather  gloves  in  his  bag  ,  fingers  flexing  in  the  thin  cotton  gloves  he  still  wore  .   stu  grabs  his  leather  -  bound  journal  ,  the  one  he  uses  for  story  notes  ,  &&  turns  it  to  a  blank  page  before  he  hears  an  unmistakable  sound  .

         “  fuck  ,  ”  he  hisses  ,  dropping  the  journal  before  raising  his  hands  .

' --put it down and I'll leave." If lies had a taste, they would be sweet! They would make the mouth pucker like a sour grape, a slimming, slithering sweetness all the way down to the throat! Many times Art has been in this man's position. Caught in the act of a fresh kill with an unhappy visitor. And each time that happens, he feigns ignorance right before he can make a proper move. As fun as this little show is, there is no room for pleasantries, no room for jokes. No, Art has no intention of letting this man have any leverage. Not when he so easily butchered Jack and Jill here. The clown laughs, or rather, his rendition of it.

He's a clown, not a fool.

When he laughs, his shoulders bounce up and down, causing the wound across his neck to open anew. Black pearls seep from the cut fabric of his hood, sprouting forth like a fine lace of diamonds across the ruined carnage of his neck. He pauses, mouth agape as it fills with blood anew, and Art cocks the second chamber of the gun for good measure.

Rebecca felt the intrusion the way the spider feels the disturbance of its web when the fly gets trapped upon it. So she followed the feeling all the way to the toy store – it used to be a place for joy; now? It’s desolate, with what toys remaining rotting, broken, long forgotten. Sometimes she plays with them; sometimes, they make noise on their own.

What she finds is an odd tableau: at first she isn’t sure what she’s looking at. A lot of white, a lot of red.... So much pure white it should belong to an angel – instead, it wraps up a strange man from head to toes, not an angel by far – Rebecca would know angels... But there is something off about the man – clown, mime... whatever he is. His heartbeat isn’t regular for one, too slow for such exhibited vibrant movements... Then, there’s the body next to him – in pieces... bloodied... and Rebecca’s stomach doesn’t churn, it growls with hunger. Cast between two empty rows, a horrifying question comes to mind: is the heart intact? What about the eyes? The tongue? That last may be answered when the clown picks up a piece of the dismembered woman’s throat and blows into it like a whistle. The sound that returns is wet sputters of gore... and Rebecca thinks that piece would be too tough to chew on.

Then the clown looks up – right at her. She is unmoved, not out of fear, but curiosity. The mall rattles in her bones with glee: a new sacrifice made to it. Not purposely, perhaps, but one regardless. When the clown stands and bows, Rebecca’s head tilts, mane of blonde curls following. She was never afraid of clowns, even as a small girl. Max Headroom was her monster – clowns, she thought as colorful and excitable. Well – this one is certainly colorful, though the red isn’t his.

She approaches, arms wrapping around herself, and looks down at the mess he made: the girl face down... A killer clown. Her stomach growls again, loud enough for the other to hear. The girl probably never had a chance – least Rebecca didn’t need to do the deed... She should probably be more frightened of a killer clown. After all, she might be next – assuming Whitefield Heights doesn’t claim him first. Well, no matter, she'll just bounce right back, as she always does. “Did you leave out the heart?”, she asks, her voice flat, tired... and oh, so hungry....

Very rarely is he stunned into silence. In fact, this would be the first time a new introduction of his didn't wind up with the secondary party running in the opposite direction. The absence of disgust is felt like a missing ingredient in a recipe. The salt of dismay, the pepper of a nice scream. Not necessary per se, but boy, doesn't it change the taste.

Art doesn't let this show, of course. His expressions very rarely portray his real thoughts. He instead idles on his knees, sliding his blood-soaked hands over one another as if he gave a damn about being clean. There is a moment where his eyes are off of her, his attention diverted as if he is wondering if he is the one who should be running for the hills. A funny thought! One made out of an intuition he didn't know he had.

Then, of course, he hears the telltale sounds of hunger. His attention snaps back up to her in an instant.

Playfully, he crosses two index fingers over the other and pushes forward. Naughty, Naughty! Says his gesture, a joke that is equal parts in jest as it is in seriousness. Still, though, the clown has to second-guess his initial plan to go at her with a piece of broken tibia bone. He knows what kind of things lurk in the shadows, what forces come to play when the world's eye turns blind. He isn't keen to try his luck. Not with something driven by hunger, something that has no sense of fear.

The clown pauses again at her request, as if he has to stop to think. Raising a finger with a cartoonish a-ha! moment, he starts to rummage through the cadaver's open throat cavity. Effortlessly, he forces the flesh downward, exposing sternum and muscle like gifts out of their Christmas paper. Out comes the lungs. Not what he's looking for! Here comes the large intestine, then the small.

Even while concentrating on the generator in front of him he tries to stay on high alert. He knows this trial is to introduce a new killer to the realm. His aching head told him as much, as did the knowledge of who that killer was. It was someone he very briefly recognized. It was fuzzy but he vaguely remembered a movie coming out just a couple months before he was taken by the fog. He hadn't seen it but he barely remembered it existed.

That didn't bode too well for him. Knowledge was everything to a survivor and he was the one who knew the most about most of the killers. Maybe he should have let Aaron talk him into going to the movie with him...

Dwight jumped at the sound of the horn, crossing the wrong wires and nearly blowing the generator. His head whipped around, looking for the killer. Odd... He hadn't seen him yet. His attention tries to go back to the task at hand, reaching for the wires again. But he stops when he hears the horn honk closer this time.

To no one's surprise, the clown laughs. Of course, there is no sound coming from his throat, not even a breath to suggest he has to take one. Instead, he is standing there pointing, rocking himself back and forth as if the whole thing was just too rich!

He leans forward with his hands on his knees, wiping an imaginary tear and shaking his head to regain at least some composure. That one never gets old, no matter how long he drags it out for. Logic would dictate that he ought to gut this man like a fish. Maim him, string him up by his worthless hide, and make him into something more entertaining!

Of course, he wants to! And for a moment, he wonders if this were to be the case if she were present, her high and immoral highness. But for the first time in what feels like eons, Art doesn't have a mindful keeper. At least, not the one he started with. He knows he is being watched, though. This is a knowing that sits in the back of his skull like radio static. A consciousness that slips past him the moment he draws nearer.

The entity does not speak to Art the way it does to his contemporaries. Mostly because the clown refuses to listen. Fine, he'll get the hang of it eventually!