Clowns. Why did it always have to be clowns? One white-faced and maudlin, an air of Italian high drama about him. Another scruffy-faced and doe-eyed, a flower drooping off of his cap, playing the tramp with a broken suspender strap and patches in the knees of his oversized trousers, and the last one bald and red-nosed, with big flopping shoes and huge white gloves. And of course, just to make things just a touch more miserable, they were axe-wielding. And chasing me. I tore through the tall summer grasses, nearly tripping over abandoned tires and dumped refuse as I fled.
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