The barker roared.
The clowns waltzed around.
Children yelled and screamed,
scared witless
by the demonic-looking figures.
Harry knew better.
He’d been to these shows many times.
He had twelve years of life under his belt
to prove it.
It was pathetic, really.
Those stupid kids
ought to know better.
Find some down-and-out man
(or woman),
dress them up,
paint their face —
and that’s it.
Nothing much to it.
Of course,
the real art of the true clown
comes down to the makeup.
You can’t mess around with that.
It’s got to look
menacing
and kind
all at once.
He grinned to himself,
watching the young ’uns running around —
fear in their eyes
at the sight of the clowns.
Idiots.
The fat lady and the strong man
stood behind the main tent
as he strolled past.
He glanced briefly
as the man tried to pick her up,
but Harry had better things to do.
He was heading for the rifle range.
He almost made it.
Just a couple of tents away
when he spotted
the other clowns.
But these clowns
promised rewards,
not frights.
Their heads moved
this way,
then that.
Big red lips.
Cavernous mouths.
Hang on —
did he spot fangs?
He stopped.
Examined them more closely.
Nope.
Only one head had anything
resembling teeth.
The others were all lips and gums
on white-painted faces.
But this one —
this one was different.
Just a little scary.
Even for Harry.
He bent closer
to examine those teeth.
It was crazy.
Who puts fangs
in a carnival clown’s head?
He decided
to give them a feel…