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I write classic "good vs evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.


Listen as you Read.

I hate clowns. I always had a general dislike of circuses and carnivals but now, I'm ready to gut every carnie and clown I can reach. Finishing my 50 push-ups an hour, I sat on the cold floor of my cell: contemplating the murders of more clowns. More clowns, yes, you heard me, I killed several with my bare hands up to this point; this is why I'm in a cell awaiting transfer. I will kill thousands more to get her back.
"Venator!" a loud bang on my cell door derailed my thoughts. It seems my CO wants a word. "You got a visitor."

A funny-looking, overweight man possibly in his early 40s, with a briefcase, entered my cell; his tight-fitting suit made his appearance all the more comical since he probably bought it before his paycheck grew.

"Keeping in shape," he patted himself, "I gotta find the time for that myself." he broke the ice with admittedly, an amusing courtesy phrase, "My name is Leo Hausmann, I've been hired to represent you in court by one Mrs. Onrait." he finished in his nasal and distinct accent; sounding like a children's movie version of a New Yorker.


"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hausmann but it's your word against 2 police officers who arrested me seconds after my crimes; I'm afraid your efforts will be in vain."
"Now I read your file and have spoken to those officers," Hausmann replied, "I think the only person to approve of this would be my kid; he'd probably idolize you considering what you did surpasses the videogames he plays!"

My lawyer opened his briefcase and produced a file, "Many, many dead clowns and carnival workers; all killed in cold blood with anything that wasn't bolted down!" Hausmann flipped through photos of my handiwork. "Your arresting officers say they took you down covered in blood; found you busting a clown's face open on a car's hood as the burning circus lit up the night." He finished.

"Resisting arrest too," I added, "Assaulting an officer with intention of injury."
"What I also want you to know is that I specialize in anti-hero and loose-cannon cases," Hausmann reassured, "Last month, I had a guy who lynched a pop star in his own home; he walked despite using an illegal military-grade firearm to turn a palatial mansion into an abattoir."

As my newly acquired lawyer tried to make sense of everything in front of him, I thought back to the events that led up to my arrest. It's his job to know the whole story so naturally, I bounced it all off him. His soft appearance was deceiving considering nothing I said shocked him; must have worked with many a vigilante rampage throughout his career.


It started with me getting knocked out in a shady car park; something heavy to the back of my head by whatever tailed me for what seemed like 20 minutes. Waking up in a dimly lit room full of bodies, the smell of rotten wood and decay was overpowering, I saw that I was in a makeup room. Mirrors, tables, and dilapidated manikins decorated the wall near me.

"Where am I?!" I asked out loud, not expecting an answer.

"The only place you will ever know!" a quavery voice replied, "We are all performers now!"

"What?!" I enquired moving towards the voice.

"If we don't perform, we don't eat and some, don't even get to live!"

"Guess the bodies belong to those that didn't perform."

"Lord SillySocks said I have 30 seconds to perfect my dancing or he will tie me to a radiator and whip me again!" the voice broke down crying.

Every human has a reflex to comfort genuine tears and me no exception, I ran into the darkness and without thinking, I held the voice in my arms; God knows she needed that within this hole. It was a girl, maybe late teens early 20s, dressed in a dirty ballerina dress.

I saw her clearly now. Long brown hair, deep green eyes, and a beautiful face that belongs on the big screen, not in some circus hellhole. She also gave off a vibe that she tried her best to be good to others; she doesn't deserve any of this. She had huge, ugly scars on her legs and arms; some were still bleeding.

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"This is more than a circus!" the girl sobbed, "I overheard that whoever runs it has dirt on the local police chief so whoever gets kidnapped, is never going to be rescued; police higher-ups make double sure of that while the regular cops have their hands tied!"

"I'm not with the police." I replied trying to regain her confidence, "So I can do whatever I want and now, I want to get you outta here."

"Do you have a name?" the girl asked.

I didn't want to reveal my real name, not here and not even to her, perhaps during a more favorable circumstance but for now, I replied, "Venator."

A Venator was a type of Roman gladiator who fought wild animals, an appropriate name since now, my enemies were animals considering how they treat others.
"Hide somewhere," I ordered the girl as heavy footsteps echoed behind the door, "The clown is mine!"

"I'm going to bust this clown's head open on the door frame," I thought as the footsteps came closer.


"DID YOU PERFECT THE DANCE ROUTINE YET!" a sleazy voice of a lifelong drunk and smoker poisoned the room, "I promised the Syrian prince a dance by an all-American beauty and tears aren't an excuse!" In a drunken stupor, the poster child for "big ugly clown" waddled into my line of sight. The stink of cheap alcohol was overpowering, showing his health status as soon-to-be-dead.

Sped up by rage, I grabbed the clown by the vest, and with all my strength, I dragged him to the floor; the element of surprise did the rest as he fell on his fifth point of contact. Seems he was too drunk to react fast enough as my right hand rained pain on his head. The second he tried to grab any part of me he could, I launched him into the corner of the doorframe; ramming his face into it while punctuating with knee strikes to the chest; restraining the sleazeball.

As I went on, his body felt heavier so, to save my strength, I finished him by driving my elbow into his spine.

"Syrian prince?" I thought out loud as the girl approached her dead captor.

"This circus entertains foreign criminals and terrorists, the target audience honestly," she enlightened me, "They had planned on selling me to him after my dance; exchange for a crate of unmarked guns!"

"So, the carnies are armed?" I asked nervously.

"A few of them are but, they are lousy shots since they needed to reload several times to kill those that tried to run," she replied while nervously looking down the hall.

"I'll get you outta here, then, I'll commit carnie genocide!" was my promise to her as I caught sight of an open window; I can't fit through it but this poor girl can.

"Look!" I pointed to said window, "Hop up." I interlocked my hands and got on my knees to give her a boost.

The former captive ballerina complied, to my relief, she could fit through the window perfectly.

"What do you see?" I asked looking around my immediate area.

"Just a lot of forest, it's really dark." the girl whispered back.

"Now is your chance, run and trust no one; fight through the pain and if you get tired; hide somewhere, no hitchhiking!" I ordered. "Don't look back!"


Thankfully, she needed no further convincing and slid away with ease; don't want her to catch a stray bullet when I start shooting. Don't want her to get grabbed again while I'm taking on carnies in front. It took almost no time for the former to avenge their fallen as an ornate knife missed me by a millimeter.

I didn't even analyze my threat as I rolled forward and tackled my assailant to the floor. On-reflex, I disarmed him with an instant arm-bar. Swiftly picking myself up, commence curb-stomping. Throwing knives at helpless victims is not the same as toe-to-toe, as this oriental-looking knife thrower's brains sprinkled the dirty floor.
"Qaseem?!" I heard down the corridor, another foreign accent.

"Go back to Syria!" I whispered as 2 knives flew towards the approaching carnie.

"MISSED!" I grunted in disbelief as both knives flew past without hitting the target but, this clown carried an Uzi 9mm SMG, so I need to act faster than his itchy trigger finger.

Dashing towards him, taking advantage of his slow reaction, I grabbed his gun-hand and used my other hand to destroy his face. Pinning him to the nearest wall, knee-striking him into the gut, I began grilling him like they grill shawarma back home.

"Nice gun, where'd you get it?!"

"Prince Saleh of Syria, his men left it down the hall, meant to be exchanged for an American girl!" he choked back.

"How does a nobody circus get an audience with a foreign monarch?!" I upgraded from grilling to roasting.

"This is our trade route to get drugs and guns into the States!" were the shawarma's last words before I crushed his larynx.

Indeed, there were a lot of weapons here; too much for one guy to carry so, I took an RPK-74M; a modernized version of a Soviet squad-automatic weapon. It fires 650 RPM; faster than anyone can run therefore, this technical marvel of Soviet engineering is all I need. Stuffing extra 30-round 5.45x39mm magazines into my pockets; the next step is to blow this building away.


It took no effort to find my targets, in a wide-open arena no less where our prince was waiting. God himself wanted my rampage to happen since I came out just at the right side; now, I'm a bunker on Omaha beach; putting 5.45mm holes in fleeing clowns and carnies. The prince's guards were not putting up much of a fight either, with sloppy aim, trigger discipline, and no attempts to flank or overwhelm. A bunch of jobbers that his highness chose to give guns to and dress up in monkey suits. They hid more than they shot.

No one escaped, everyone died on the hill of foreign illegal connections, treason, and sleaze. People turned into blood-soaked strainers where their insides were the pasta. Everyone fell face down because no one tried to fight back despite being armed. However, the prince was not among them since he could run faster; I'd say he has potential as a track star. I ran out of ammo at this point but, leaking oil from the generators and igniting a spark should finish my work here.


© 2020 Jake Clawson

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