Sometimes the news writes my prompts for me.
14/10/16: Send in the Clowns
I had taken rational steps to solve the problem by boarding up all the doors and windows to the house.
I peeked through a small hole I'd left in one of the windows, trembling as I clutched the Anti-Magic Tommy Gun. The figure on the lawn stared back at me, unmoving, unblinking. My terrified gaze turned from his dead eyes to the bat in his hand. I shuddered. They had come.
"What's going on?" asked Timmy, walking up to me in confusing, "Did you betray the Mafia again?"
"Timmy," I said carefully, "Go to the armoury and grab the biggest weapons we have."
"The armoury?" quizzed Timmy, "Oh, you mean the basement! Sure, okay!"
He began to walk away. Then he paused.
"Why?"
"They have come," I replied.
"Who's come?"
I stepped back, letting Timmy peek through the window.
"Oh no," he breathed.
It was a clown. His beady eye stared us down from his chalk-white face, profiled by his red nose. and rainbow wig. His balloon bat was held at the ready, prepared to bonk an unsuspecting young nerd to death. The spectacle was horrifying.
"We have to get out of here," whispered Timmy.
I nodded.
"We'll take the back door," I nodded, "Hop the fence. He might not notice."
We crept away from the window, heading for the door.
We soon ran back, even more terrified.
"Aw, there is no way we're getting past that cat," I trembled, "It's really fluffy, that means it's an alpha predator!"
"Well, come on, cat or clown?" demanded Timmy, "We have to get out somehow!"
There was a long silence.
"I feel less bad about gunning down a clown," I decided.
"Then let's arm up," nodded Timmy, "Guys!"
Cosmo and Wanda appeared next to us.
"I need the Starflinger," he whispered, "We may have to fight a clown."
"The horror!" exclaimed Cosmo.
"Are you sure about this?" asked Wanda.
We let her peek out the window. She nodded solemnly.
"Alight, let's do this."
She poofed herself into the Starflinger, Cosmo becoming Timmy's backpack.
I grabbed my helmet and put it on, offering another to Timmy. He shook his head and pointed to his hat.
"Well, good luck," I said, shaking his hand.
We kicked the door open, screamed and charged the clown.
We skidded to a halt.
"Wait."
I walked up to the clown and pushed him over. He fell down, his two-dimensional form landing limply on the pavement.
"It's a cardboard cut-out!" I exclaimed, "We were never in danger at all! I hate it when people do this!"
"Yes, you weren't in any danger...until now."
We turned to the left. A crowd of evil, evil clowns crowded the street - Sideshow Bob stood at their head.
"Sideshow Bob!" we both exclaimed.
"Wait, you're not a clown!" I said, "You're like...a nearly clown. A back-up clown. A not-clown..."
"Oh, do be quiet," said Bob, drawing a knife, "You might be wondering why we have decided to lure you into this suburban street."
"To shank us?" I asked.
"To use our pelts to make balloons?" asked Timmy.
"Well...yes," admitted Bob, "But you will also become part of an intricate propaganda campaign, designed specifically to sully the vaunted image of the clown. To turn the public against them, and therefore..."
"It's a revenge plot," Timmy interrupted.
"It's a revenge plot," nodded Bob, "To finally bring down the man who brought such misery upon me!"
"Oh come on, it's been...what, thirty years?" I demanded, "Well, probably not, floating timeline and all, but it's been ages, let it go!"
"Never!" thundered Bob, "Not until my revenge is..."
"Yeesh, do you ever shut up?"
We looked behind us. A crowd of good clowns had appeared, Krusty at their head.
"Oh, you just can't appreciate good villainous rhetoric!" spat Bob, "You just wait until my monologue - even you won't be able to misunderstand my well-rehearsed word-play..."
"You've been giving us decent clowns a bad name!" shouted Krusty, before taking a drag of a cigar, "We're forming a new group to bring you down! Clown Lives Matter!"
"Oh no," said Timmy.
"Oh no," I groaned.
"I...I self-identify as evil and even I'm cringing!" said Bob.
"Cringe all you like," snarled Krusty, pulling a Derringer from his shirt pocket, "But we're gonna make you bleed."
"Oh, a good old-fashioned gang war," nodded Bob, testing the sharpness of his knife with his finger, "It's been a while since I've had a good one. By all means, en garde."
"Um...can we go now?" I asked, "I mean, y-you don't need to kill us to make a point anymore..."
"Run along," nodded Bob, "This is not a place for non-funny individuals."
I decided not to interpret that as an insult and slowly backed away.
"Anarchy in the streets tonight as hundreds of clowns battle it out for supremacy," Kent Brockman reported, "The terrible melee, which began early this afternoon, has already cost the lives of dozens of clowns, in what people are already calling tragic, tragic comedy. Police have been paralysed by laughter. This reporter asks - should clowns be banned?"
"...nah, I'm not gonna by it. Save all my money for the blue properties," I said.
It was late at night - game night at my house. Me, Timmy, Spongebob and Sandy were playing Monopoly: 1970s USSR Edition. Outside, the sounds of clowns fighting could be dimly heard.
"So, y'all don't feel responsible for this clown fight?" asked Sandy.
"Not really," I replied, "Just because it started on my lawn doesn't mean I'm responsible."
"But couldn't you have convinced them to talk it out?" asked Spongebob.
"Yeah, but it wouldn't have worked," I shrugged, "Look, it's not like I directly enabled them."
The window shattered as a clown flew through it. He climbed to his feet and looked down at his accordion. It was broken.
"Ah, geez, man, I lost my weapon," he muttered.
"Here's a gun!" I said brightly, handing him a revolver.
"Oh wow, thanks!"
The clown jumped back out the window. There were a series of gunshots.
"Yep," I nodded, "We don't enable anybody around here. Anyway, I think it's your turn, Spongebob - is that a chance card?"
Spongebob picked it up.
"Hired as Leonid Brezhnev's personal eyebrow stylist," he read, "Collect two thousand roubles..."
AN: I want to play 1970s Soviet Monopoly.