rating: 0+x

The last thing Herman Fuller ever heard was the cocking of a .44 Magnum.

The last thing he ever saw was a pair of bright yellow, size 25 shoes.

Mr. Funnypants (or, to give him his Sunday name, Rupert Greer) had never intended to kill anyone. And, he reminded himself as he scraped brain matter off of his hammer, up until Herman, he hadn't, technically. Unless you counted that incident at the birthday party; but Mr. Funnypants tried not to think of that. Clowns have to be happy, and it's hard to remain happy when thinking about screaming children and a now-headless entertainer who had unfortunately looked just-a-tad too much like another, more sinister clown.

He still wasn't sure what those clowns- no, not clowns, but those things- were. They seemed human at first, but no human could do the things they did, and no human's insides looked anything like that. By now Mr. Funnypants had finished cleaning his tools and was working on extracting shards of bone from the rubber soles of his clown shoes.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License