FEARS OF A CLOWN.

Coulrophobia or fear of clowns, Bojo, the clown was an assassin, at first, he’d underestimated this phobia, or assumed it was rare, then as soon as he took on his cover job, which he intended to use to get close to targets he’d realised the actual effect was quite the opposite. Far from his intention of getting close to his targets clowning was a very serious business. It had taken him till his first big job to reach a realisation. When his first real target wet themselves and ran off, he figured out he now commanded more fear than a horde of hitmen or a gravelly voice. Compared to a clown, the creepy stranger down a dark alley is amateur hour. The monster under the bed is but a talented beginner. The only thing scarier than the idea of a killer clown in the collective imagination is accountant assassins (man, those creeps really gave him the willies, they could either kill or audit you; how scary is that?)

Tonight was the big job, like super big, he had to off a Princess of all things, he really couldn’t screw this one up. He’d carefully set up a back end to the mirror maze, knowing The Princess hated clowns, so he knew she’d be pushed into the maze, a place easy to get lost in, surrounded by lots and lots of noise; it was perfect. One carefully placed rotating panel, and she was trapped in the maze behind the maze, and a well-timed chuckle would keep her away from the exit. From there, it was only a matter of time.

Bojo had packed his whole arsenal (yes, even the balloon animals, it was surprising how often he’d managed to strangle a target with a balloon, and all it took was an endurance charm. Of course, true balloon zoologists would object to such a thing and whine about cheating, but they didn’t really use them for murder, so they should learn to stay in their lane, really. Was it his fault his chosen career paths overlapped on such niche skills?)

The Target was heading down the tunnel freaking out over the mirrors and the occasional strategically placed cutouts of clowns (an ever-useful tool if you wanted to keep the target nervous, in Bojo’s opinion, if there was one thing scarier than an assassin clown, it was multiple assassin clowns.)

Soon enough came time for the first attempt; he was in no hurry, as the back maze didn’t really have an exit (yeah yeah, cheating again, what do you expect? He’s an assassin; they aren’t really known for their adherence to rules, commandments, or social conventions. Not surprising when you remember murder for hire is not exactly an activity for the life and soul of a party. More for removing the life and soul from a specified party.) So slowly, he stalked forward, heading for the imperilled Princess, carrying a bucket of what sure as hell wasn’t glitter, then as soon as he got in range, SPLASH.

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Rosalind was not a happy bunny at all; here she was in a labyrinth of mirrors and apparently a clown. (There were probably about twenty decapitated cutouts in assorted locations around the maze at this point at places where Rosalind had lodged her objection and an axe head at this treatment.) Now things just got worse, as a clown wearing a wig that looked like a lovechild between a haystack and a bonfire lunged from the darkness and swung a bucket. With an eep, Rosalind ducked to one side, she had no desire to be in the path of whatever the hell was in that bucket, and it turned out to be a good call. When it hit the wall, it quickly became apparent it wasn’t glitter; the first clue was the splash. The second slightly more clear clue was it starting to burn into the wall; something capable of eating into granite was, no matter what else it may be, definitely not in her list of top ten things to be splashed by. Really? Acid? How base of them. With that, the first spark of rage kindled in the tinderbox that was Rosalind; it was smothered by the fear, for now at least.

From there, there were multiple attempts to off her, from explosive balloons (red, of course, if you’re going to be a killer clown, there are certain expectations that must be met, creepy red balloons are definitely on the list.) To a poison squirty flower. With each one, the rage in Rosalind grew.

At one point, they threw bladed weapons in jolly primary colours (proving there were only so many clown adjacent weapons out there.) At another, a comically oversized mallet was swung at her. But this clown had underestimated something, Rosalind was not the best at dealing with her fears in a healthy manner, and she had a choppy. Furthermore, that little flame of fear that had been built up in her heart was gradually being replaced by a gargantuan beacon fire of white-hot fury. She was Rosalind Von Harmsworth, and no damned incompetent clown was going to defeat her.

Fun fact about mirror mazes, they only really work if the person follows the rules and/or are afraid of seven years of bad luck; also, not being pissed off and in possession of a hatchet is a bonus to containment. But none of those applied anymore, and Rosalind started demolishing the glass walls one swing at a time. They wanted her? Their red nose was going to end up on her trophy wall. (Trophy collecting clubs insist on the red nose for murderous clowns, as comically oversized shoes give a misleading sense of the size of the target, I mean, were they a terrifying seven or eight-foot-tall murderous clown with shoes that accurately fit a regular man who was stuffing? Or a munchkin with humongous feet red noses limit misleading outcomes and ensure fair play in the sport of clown hunting.) The next time that bloody clown appeared, she would be ready.