Death Wears a Clown Nose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 04, 2019

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Submitted: June 04, 2019

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“Okay kids, who wants a doggie balloon animal?” The clown asked.

“I do! I do!” The entire room exploded out of jubilation, every kid at the birthday party was determined to leave with a balloon animal.  This was part of Ron Charlton’s life, also known as Bonkers the clown.  He took pride in his unique appearance that included yellow balloon pants and a striped shirt that could fit two more people inside it and, of course, the trademark oversized red nose.  The party went on without a hitch even with Bonkers demonstrating his most difficult trick; riding a tiny bicycle around the house while whistling ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.’ 

“Thank you again Mr. Charlton for performing at my son’s party,” the birthday boy’s mother said.

“You’re very welcome, the kids were very well behaved.  And please, call me Ron.”

“Sure thing, Ron.  Well, here’s your check and I will certainly recommend you to all my friends.”

“Thank you.  Have a wonderful night!” Ron said.  He walked to his silver Audi, a rather nice car for a professional clown, let out a long sigh, and drove away.  When Ron got home, a cute one-level house in a quiet neighborhood - nice digs for a bachelor - he parked his car inside the garage and walked inside.  His dog, Nikki, was waiting for him at the door with a spring-loaded tail and jumped as high as her little Dachshund legs would allow her to leap.  Ron greeted her with a smile and crossed off another appointment on his busy calendar.  He dug into his refrigerator and grabbed some left-over chicken that he shared with Nikki and decided to turn in for the night.  Ron took a long shower to make sure he cleaned off all the make-up for his clown outfit, slipped on his two piece pajamas, and climbed underneath his bed covers with Nikki, eager for another day to begin. 

Ron woke up the next day to his ‘Living La Vida Loca’ ring tone.

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. Charlton, this is Franz, I have another mission for you,” the voice in his earpiece said.

“Oh, hey Franz!  How are you?  I heard you got caught with some tranny prostitutes the other day.”

“That is erroneous information and not imperative to your next mission Mr. Charlton.”

“I know.  I just wanna make sure you know I know about your personal shit so you don’t fuck me over on another mission, Franz.  Or should I call you Franny?”  Ron gave out a boisterous laugh.

“Well, if you enjoy killing drug lords, then this is your mission.”

“Finally, some action!  I was getting tired of killing foreign diplomats, they‘re too easy.”

“Your target is Gregor Alvarez, leader of the Brazilian mob that has brought in more drugs and weapons to America than any other gang leader.  He will be meeting with fellow gang members in Miami, Florida to inspect a shipment.  A plane ticket is waiting for you in your mailbox, and it leaves in approximately four hours.”

“Well, at least you gave me some time to get ready this time.  Last week I had to leave so fast I packed my water-squirting lapel flower instead of my sniper rifle.”

“How did you make the kill without your rifle?  You were positioned half a block away.”

“Let’s just say I had to get creative with my lapel flower.  Did you make arrangements for my dog?”

“Yes, a dog sitter is scheduled to take care of Nikki until you return.”

“Good.  Well I have to get ready, Franz.  I’ll make sure to kill these assholes.”

“Good, Mr. Charlton.  And please, try to be diligent about this, no more of those run in and shoot ‘em up missions that you just seem to love so much.”

“I’ve got a lot of party appointments to get back to, Franz.  Besides, I think this agency needs a little publicity.”

“Good day, Mr. Charlton.  Oh, and good luck.”

“Thank you Franz.  I’ll talk to you later.”

Ron hung up and began preparing himself for his next mission.  For a person who holds two rather unique occupations, Ron’s house is quite vanilla - besides the closet filled with clown paraphernalia and assassin’s gadgets and gizmos given to him by the agency for each of his missions, and the pistol resting next to his tooth brush.  Ron put the finishing touches on his preparation by securing his cuff links, very James Bond-like, and giving Nikki one last pet before he, hopefully, returned in a few days.  Ron jumped into his Audi and sped down the road, stopping once to check his mail.

The agency, reluctantly, owns its own fleet of charter planes so its assassins could travel to and from their missions in comfort.  All the male assassins looked forward to boarding the agency’s plane to ogle the flight attendant; Cindy.  Cindy has been the flight attendant for about four years and was instructed to ‘take all means necessary to make the passengers feel comfortable,’ needless to say, nearly all of the assassins took full advantage of this perk - the ones that didn’t were either married or had a higher level of morality than the rest. 

“Welcome aboard , Mr. Charlton.  How are you today?” Cindy said with a glowing smile.

“I’m doing well, thank you Cindy.  And how are you?”

“I’m doing well…as well,” Cindy giggled, “Please take your favorite seat and we will be taking off shortly.  Can I get you anything?  Your usual Amaretto Sour, perhaps?”

“That would be great, thank you Cindy.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Charlton.”

Ron sat in his favorite seat, a Laz-E-Boy in the back of the plane.  He carefully watched Cindy’s well-sculpted body pass by him, wondering what she looked like without her clothes on, to make his drink.  Ron listened to the shaking and stirring noises Cindy was making to concoct his drink and he asked, “Hey Cindy, what did you do before you came to the agency?”

“I was a bartender at the O-Zone Club,” of course, Ron thought.

“Why did you leave?

“I got tired of all the guys grabbing my ass and getting dicked on my tips.  I was a damn good bartender!”

“Well, you still are.  You just get paid a hell of a lot more to do it now.”

“Thank you Mr. Charlton.  Here’s your drink, I put in a couple more shots just for you,” she winked at Ron. 

He took a sip, “Oh, god damn that’s good, Cindy!” 

She gave a smile of pride and tended to the captains of the plane.  Ron looked for something to read, but the only reading material was the magazines left by previous passengers, so it was mostly porno magazines; Ron grabbed a more modest Playboy.

The flight went by fast, although it was rather uneventful.  Ron and Cindy chatted, but it was fleeting and mostly about random things.  Ron has heard stories about Cindy from his fellow assassin work-mates, but he never built up the courage to add himself to her list of men.  He was content on using his imagination based on what she was wearing, which was always revealing - his favorite was a pencil skirt with a knotted button-up shirt that showed her stomach and just enough of her breasts to satisfy him.  Ron acquiesced to the idea that fucking Cindy would inevitably come, but for now, he used the trips on the agency’s plane to relax and to plan out his missions.  Although he tended to be absent-minded or too dramatic about his kills, he always did his homework.  The plane was over Atlanta on its trip to Miami, Ron lived in Chicago, when Cindy asked about Ron’s other job, “So why did you decide to be a clown?”

Ron laughed, “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that question.”

“Well, I’d just like to get to know you better, and it’s an interesting profession.  Or is it a hobby?”

“It’s a little of both.  My father used to be a clown, he was a well known one on TV when clowns were big.  His stage name was Loopy and was known for the trick he taught me.”

“What trick is that?”

“He rode a tiny bicycle, about the size of a bread box, through a loop.  He was damn good at it too, I never saw him screw up.”

“Wow! That is impressive.  So you do that trick too?”

“I do, but not through the loop, that’s too hard for me.  I just ride it around, the kids enjoy it.”

“So you got into the clown business through your dad, but how did this assassin job come about?”

“That story is a little more interesting.  I worked as a clown to help get me through college and once I graduated, I kept going with the clown thing.  One day after a kid’s party, I got home and someone was in my driveway waiting for me, it was Franz.  He told me he had been watching me for a while and was impressed with my academics, my athletic build, and the clown thing, he said, gave me a level of creativity that was vital to this job.  He invited me to the agency’s camp and I ended up being selected to join the agency as an assassin.”

“That’s an interesting journey, Mr. Charlton.  I’m sure the girls love hearing about it.”

“You’d think, but I’m usually too busy to worry about girls.”

“Well, I liked it,” Cindy winked and walked into the cockpit.

“We’re about to land, Mr. Charlton.”

“Thanks, Cindy.  And Cindy?”

“Yes?”

“You can call me Ron.”  Ron caught the glimpse of something that could possible grow between him and Cindy, but he knew her personality was flirtatious.

Cindy smiled and secured herself into her seat.  When the plane landed, Ron walked out of the plane and personally thanked the crew.  The humid, warm air hit his face and he thought ‘I’m definitely in Miami,’ a sure change from the chilly weather back in Chicago.  A blue Hyundai was waiting on the tarmac for Ron to use.  He grabbed the keys from a man waiting at it and said, “What? No Aston Martin this time?” 

“Sorry, James Bond, but this will have to do,” the attendant said sarcastically.

Ron drove to his hotel, a Hyatt in downtown Miami, with the setting sun in his eyes.  He checked in to his hotel room and admired it for about a minute, “Fuck this, I’m going out!” he said to himself.  Ron was surrounded by bars and clubs being located in downtown and decided to take full advantage of the agency paying for all expenses while an assassin was on location.  He walked into an almost-full club, and cozied up to a pretty little brunette who was standing near the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Sure!  I’ll have a rum and Coke,” she said.

Ron got the bartender’s attention, “Get me a rum and Coke for the lady and I’ll have a martini,” Ron barely refrained himself from saying ‘shaken, not stirred’ after placing his drink order.

“So what do you do?  You’re pretty dressed up for this club,” the woman asked.

“I’m an assassin,” Ron loved giving that line because he has never met anyone that believed him, and this was no exception.

The girl laughed, “So I guess you’re doing your best James Bond impression, especially after that drink order.”  Ron had the perfect rebuttal, but he heard his phone ring, it was Franz.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Charlton.  Why aren’t you at your briefing?” Franz asked.

‘Oh shit,’ Ron thought, “Oh, um.  I’m on my way to it, you know how Miami traffic can be.”

“So did you decide to stop at the Flamingo Club because you were thirsty?  Or did your issued vehicle break down right next to it?”

“No, that piece of shit Hyundai didn’t break down, Franz.  Why don’t we get issued a more interesting car?”

“The vehicle is of no concern, Mr. Charlton.  The issue now is your absence from your own briefing.”

“Do I still have to go to it?”

“Yes.  They are waiting patiently for your presence.”

“Well, they can wait until I get there.”

“Get to it quickly or you will be docked pay.”

“Oh, relax Franz.  You should come down here and party with some of these girls, I bet there are even some trannies for you!”

“Good day, Mr. Charlton.”

Ron finished his drink with the brunette and walked out to his car.  He couldn’t believe his bad luck.  This wasn’t the first time Franz interrupted him during an inopportune time.  The most recent incident being at the Casino Royale  in Monte Carlo when he was rolling lights-out at the craps table during a mission.  The briefing was in an unassuming, dilapidated looking building that could only be accessed by voice, fingerprint, and a proper key-code clearance.  The inside of the building looked brand-new, even futuristic, and Ron was greeted by a frizzy-haired, balding man that looked like he hadn’t been outside for decades.

“Mr. Charlton, we’ve been expecting you.  I’m Ephraim, follow me please.”  Ron couldn’t believe the agency’s uncanny ability to make a shitty looking building so advanced on the inside.

“This place sure is different from the outside,” Ron said.

“We need to keep a low profile, otherwise our targets will find out about us.  Franz told me you have been enjoying the Miami nightlife.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s some town.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much.  This mission is of extreme importance and will require your full attention and focus.”

Ephraim led Ron into a large room that resembled an auditorium, but with more computational hardware.

“Mr. Charlton, this is Travis Todd, our weapons specialist,” Ephraim said.  The first thing that Ron thought when he met Travis was, ‘nerd.’  Travis had long, greasy hair and wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt with a clip-on bow tie and slacks that were too short.

“How are you, Travis?” Ron asked.

“I’m doing fine, Mr. Charlton.  Are you ready for your briefing?”  Ron nodded.  Travis punched some things into the laptop in front of him, and the walls immediately rose up, revealing several TV monitors and enough weapons to supply an army.  On the screen in front of them, a picture of Ron’s target popped up; a rugged looking man with a cigarillo in his mouth.

“This is Gregor Alvarez.  Leader of the Brazilian mob, smuggler of drugs and weapons, and pretty much an all around asshole.  This guy wouldn‘t give his brother weapons during the revolution because he owed Gregor twenty bucks.  Needless to say, he doesn‘t have a brother anymore” Ephraim said.

“Wow, what a prick.  So what do you want me to do, kill him?” Ron said.

“Of course.  But not only him.  You must kill his friend and confidant, Humberto Villafranno,” a picture of his young, clean-cut face appeared on another monitor.  “This man has known Gregor all his life and is being groomed to take over once Gregor dies,” Ephraim said.

“So you want me to kill two people at the same time during a drug trade and not be caught or killed?” Ron asked.

“We want you to kill both of them, but not at the same time.  Gregor is already in town, but Humberto is scheduled to land in Miami tomorrow afternoon on an Air Brasilia flight.  Once you’ve made the hit on him, you must go to the drop-off point where Gregor will be.”

“And that is where?”

“Intelligence tells us that the trade will be made at pier four at the Miami shipyard at approximately eight p.m.” 

“For your Humberto hit, I’ll give you a small bomb that can be placed under his car by a powerful magnet and a remote detonator.  You‘ll know where he is because the detonator acts as a GPS and our intelligence has locked-on to his car,” Travis demonstrated the GPS.  Ron couldn’t believe how small the bomb was, he slid it into his front pocket. 

“Now, for your Gregor hit, you’ll need a sniper rifle with hollow point shells.  I hope you didn’t pack any of your clown things so the same problem doesn’t occur like the last time you were issued a sniper rifle,” Travis said with a smirk.

“Don’t worry, Travis, Franz gave me enough time to pack so I wasn’t rushing this time.  And if it’s any consolation, I still made the kill.”

“But I don’t think you’ll be able to make the same type of hit this time, you will surely be killed.”

“I think I’ve been briefed well enough, but if you boys excuse me, I’ve got some living to do, I suggest you do the same,” Ron said while grabbing the weapons he was issued.

Ron slid the rifle underneath the passenger seat and drove back to the club he was at.  He ordered another martini and enjoyed it at the bar until he was interrupted by a drunk man.  The man bumped into Ron, causing him to spill his drink all over the front of his shirt.

“Watch where you’re going, man!” the man said.

“I was just sitting here and you bumped into me.”

“Hey, if you got a problem with me, I’ll beat your ass!”

“I don’t think you wanna do that.”

“Hell yeah I do!”  The man threw a punch at Ron, but Ron grabbed his clenched fist and squeezed it, the man gave out a squeal and collapsed to his knees.  Ron kept squeezing the man’s fist until he heard popping noises.  He let go and the man ran off.  The bartender looked aghast, but Ron paid for his drink and left.  He drove to the Hyatt and decided to rest for his big work day.

Ron was woken up the next morning by a knock at the door.  He stumbled out of bed and greeted the hotel employee with a grunt.  “Good morning, Mr. Charlton!  Here is your new suit you ordered,” the man said, extending the three-piece suit towards Ron.  He grabbed the suit and shut the door, ‘I didn’t buy a suit,’ he thought.  There was an envelope with Ron’s name on it and a message inside that read: ‘I figured your old suit would have stains of some sort after your night last night, so I took the liberty of buying you a new and better one.  Good luck Mr. Charlton.  Sincerely, Franz.’  Ron showered and hastily put on his new suit.  He fastened his cuff links and admired the way he looked in his black pin-striped suit.  He double-checked to make sure he had the weapons he needed and walked out to his car.  He turned on the engine and started up the GPS.  He saw a big green dot driving on the interstate towards the airport; that was his target.  Ron drove to the airport with the windows down and listened to Bob Dylan; not exactly normal pre-assassination music. 

Ron was getting closer to the airport and he noticed the green dot on the GPS screen stopped about halfway down the pick-up area in front of the first terminal.  He followed the signs to get to terminal one and contently watched the green dot get bigger, indicating he was closing in.  Slowly weaving past other cars, Ron watched his GPS until he knew which car was his target.  About ten car lengths ahead of him, Ron saw a black SUV pulled over to the shoulder of the road; waiting for its pick-up.  Ron pulled over and climbed out of his car.  He slowly walked towards his target and noticed arms flailing and yelling coming from the SUV.  There were two Brazilians in the front arguing; Ron knew this would be easy.  Ron saw a security camera placed high where the wall and the ceiling met.  He waited until a pack of apparently late travelers gathered in the perfect place to block the camera’s view of him.  He walked behind the SUV and covertly secured the tiny bomb onto the tow hook.  He walked back into his car and drove away, “Damn that was easy,” he said to himself. 

Ron drove back to his hotel while watching his GPS, waiting to detonate the bomb in a remote location.  While Ron was on the highway, he was held up by bumper-to-bumper traffic, but was still paying attention to the green dot, which had gotten a lot bigger.  He soon noticed that the SUV, now with three people in it, was only several hundred feet behind him, stuck in the same traffic jam.  The SUV was at the end of the jam and wasn’t surrounded by many cars, so Ron decided to detonate the bomb.  He pushed a button on the top of the cylindrical device and a red light began flashing and a successively faster beeping noise was emitted from it until all hell broke loose.

Ron heard the exploding noise slightly after seeing the blazing SUV shoot into the air.  It landed in almost the same spot it was parked in and pieces of it flew everywhere, a burning sliver of one of the tires landed next to Ron.  Everyone in the traffic jam began screaming and running towards the burning SUV to check out the wreckage.  The traffic hadn’t moved and Ron heard sirens coming towards the wreckage.  The paramedics were on the sight for almost an hour and, still unmoved, Ron noticed three body bags being carried away; ‘One down, one to go.’ he thought.

Once the traffic finally cleared, it was getting close to eight o’clock so Ron made his way to the shipyard.  The sun was setting and he had to give himself enough time to get to a covert position so he wouldn’t be caught making his second kill.  He pulled in to pier three to park his car so it wouldn’t throw off any of the gang members involved in the drug trade.  He grabbed his sniper rifle from beneath the passenger seat and walked into the cavernous pier, it was silent and barren.  It was covered to make it look like a long warehouse and there were rafters littering the upper portion of the shed-like building.  He climbed up some stairs as far as they would take him and hunkered into position about halfway down the pier.  He was shielded by a vertical running steel beam and safety wire that lined the horizontal beams to prevent workers from falling.  The only thing that was visible was a few inches of the end of the rifle‘s barrel; Ron sat and waited.

The sun cast long shadows in the building when people filed into the building.  They all walked cautiously and two individuals were leading the way while conversing; Ron knew one of those two people was Gregor.  He propped up his rifle against a beam next to him and looked out his scope.  He focused on the two men talking to each other, but they were turned away from him; he remained focused on them.  With the cross-hairs of the scope focused on the two men, he placed his finger on the trigger and waited for an opening; all he needed was one shot.  The men turned around and Ron could now see their faces clearly.  Ron’s heart was racing, but his hands were steady.  He had done this many times before and had confidence in himself.  If his hands shook, it was more out of excitement than anything else.  He focused the meeting point of the cross-hairs on Gregor’s face and squeezed the trigger slightly.  The hammer of his rifle was about to fire when he heard someone yell, “These sons of bitches is whack!  Take ‘em down!” 

Everyone in the building scattered and fired whatever gun they had on them.  Ron lost his focus for a split second and realized Gregor was no where to be found in his scope.  The fracas had caused him to run towards a door to escape the blown drug trade.  He started to panic, quickly scanning from one end of the warehouse to the other; Ron was frantically looking to find Gregor.  He took a sweep of the building, but he couldn’t find him.  He took one more sweep, hoping to find him.  He almost lost hope until he saw a lit cigarillo behind a bunch of crates.  Ron focused on the cigarillo until it moved and Gregor’s head barely appeared from behind the crates.  Ron pulled the trigger and watched the cigarillo drop to the floor.  He looked through the scope and saw Gregor’s lifeless face lying in a pool of blood, soaking the cigarillo.  Ron shimmied to a new position where he couldn’t be shot and waited for the gun fire to end.  He knew he was safe because the gun-fight below would have masked the sound of his rifle’s gunshot.

Ron hadn’t heard a gun fire for a few minutes and decided to stand up.  He looked down to the building floor and everyone was lying on the floor, dead.  He walked out of the building and saw that the sun had just set, ‘I wasn’t in there for long,’ he thought.  Ron climbed into his car and drove away. 

He called Franz, “Hello, Mr. Charlton,” Franz said.

“Gregor and Humberto are dead, it’s done,” Ron said frankly.

“Good work, Mr. Charlton.  I will notify the flight crew.  Get to the airport and the plane will be ready for your departure.”

“Good, I’ve got something to do that can’t wait for tomorrow.”

“And what is that?”  Franz heard Ron laughing in a mischievous manner.  “Just don’t do anything that will get the agency in trouble.”

“I’ll be at the agency tomorrow and the debrief better be short, I’ve got appointments to be at.”

“It will take as long as is necessary.  I will see you tomorrow.  Good work, Mr. Charlton.

Ron drove his car to the same spot where he picked it up on the tarmac and walked up the stairs to the waiting plane.

“Welcome back, Mr. Charlton!  I assume your mission went well.  Please, take your seat and we will be leaving shortly,” Cindy said. 

“Thank you, Cindy.  I’ll have my usual Amaretto Sour as well, please.”

“Certainly, Mr. Charlton!”  Cindy made Ron’s drink quickly and brought it to him.  The plane took off and Ron was telling Cindy about his mission, “And that’s how it went down,” he concluded.  Cindy had a look of amazement on her face and Ron felt a rush of pride.

“Wow.  I don’t know how you do that, it must be so scary,” Cindy said.

“It can be.  I just keep my focus and remember that it’s a job.  If I don‘t do it, then someone else will.”

“Do you ever feel bad after you kill someone?”

“It gets easier after each mission.  I almost couldn’t make my first hit because I was given too much personal information during the briefing and before I killed him, I could only think about the guy’s family.  That incident caused some changes in the briefing process to keep that kind of stuff out, thank God.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re exhausted from such a busy day, so I’ll let you rest.”

Ron didn’t lie completely when he told Franz that he still had something to do, and he didn’t hesitate when the opportunity arose, “Actually, I’d like it if you stayed here.”

“Okay, sure!” she said.  Cindy sat in a chair next to Ron and he immediately started rubbing her thigh.

“What are you doing, Mr. Charlton?” Cindy said coyly. 

“There’s a reason why I told you to call me Ron.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t think you’ll be able to scream ‘Mr. Charlton’ when I’m fucking you at thirty-thousand feet.”  Cindy liked Ron’s answer and showed him by straddling is hips and kissing him.  She took off Ron’s coat and noticed something had fallen out of it.  She reached down and picked up a bright red clown nose with a sticky note on it that read ‘Just in case.  Franz.’  Ron grabbed the nose from Cindy’s hand and put it on.  Cindy gazed into his eyes and said, “Fuck me hard you dirty clown.”


© Copyright 2019 Kent Bonacki. All rights reserved.

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