Hi kids! I’m Buzzo the Clown, and I’m here to put on a very special show for the birthday boy. Where are you, Kevin?
Ah here you are! Well happy 6th birthday Kevin! I hope you’re ready for a very entertaining and educational magic show today.
For my first magic trick, let’s start with something simple. What’s that in your ear, Kevin? Why look, it’s a shiny silver dollar! I wonder how that got in there? Well it’s yours now Kevin. Why don’t you hold it in you little hand and admire it.
Now I want you to give that silver dollar back to me, Kevin. I know I said it was yours, but now I’m going to take it back under threat force, just like the United States government does to millions of freedom-loving Americans each day. It’s mine now Kevin. Buzzo’s going to take your shiny silver dollar and spend it on entitlements for poor single mothers to buy cell phones and new Cadilliacs.
I know it’s tough Kevin. But hey, don’t cry. That silver dollar is going to be worthless when our monetary systems collapses because our currency isn’t backed by gold anymore . I’d give you some bitcoins or bullion instead, but Buzzo the Clown doesn’t believe in handouts Kevin, and neither should you.
For my next trick, Buzzo’s going to reach into this old top hat and pull out a rabbit. Here he is kids! Now watch as I make the bunny disappear. That’s right, he’s gone without a trace, just like our “Commander and Chief” Barack Hussein Obama’s birth certificate. Do you ever wonder where it went, Kevin? Do you? Buzzo wonders. Buzzo wonders a lot.
Now it’s about time for my final trick. Usually ol’ Buzzo does great finale involving a Ben Bernakie scarecrow and my trusty AR-15 home-protection assault rifle, but apparently Kevin, your mommy and daddy are part of the growing group of so-called “Americans” who no longer believe in our god-given right to bear and display arms. That’s disappointing Kevin, but Buzzo will bet you gold-backed dollars-to doughnuts that your parents will change their tune when the jack-booted thugs from the U.N. come goosteping down the block to drag them and their friends away to secret FEMA camps.
I can see that old Buzzo’s just about worn out his welcome at this party. So for my last magic trick I want you all to close your eyes. That’s right, close your eyes just like everyone else in this country. Ignore the the Obamacare death panels and the ever-encroaching threat of government regulation! Close those little peepers, Kevin, and try ignore the planes spewing the chemtrails raining down on your little birthday party! Ignore it just like everyone else is who won’t return Buzzo’s letters and phone calls. Just like all the sheeple who don’t read Buzzo’s well-written blog and daily email newsletter!
Thanks for your time kids. Happy birthday Kevin. Now as an encore, Buzzo’s gonna to use these colorful juggling balls to teach the nice officers walking across the yard about my rights under the Constitution and the inherent oppression of the police-state.
SANTA FE- Popular fantasy author George R.R. Martin has moved from killing the fictional characters in his novels to murdering the friends a family members of his readers.
Martin is well-know for his penchant for killing off popular characters in his wildly successful, A Song of Fire and Ice book series. Apparently unsatisfied with killing the fictional characters his readers have grown to know and love, Martin now appears to be targeting living human beings.
One of the author’s many confirmed victims was 48-year-old bachelor and self-described “cool uncle” Mort Bledsoe. Beldsoe’s nephew, Rick Matthews, said he was playing a friendly game of checkers with his uncle when Martin appeared from behind some curtains and stabbed Bledsoe in the back with a large sword.
“I never saw it coming. I was absolutely shocked,” said Matthews, a 19-year-old college student. “You have to hand it to GRRM, he really knows how to keep you on your toes. No one is safe, and you never know who’s going to be next.”
News of Martin’s rampage sent internet into a whirlwind of speculation, as his biggest fans tried to guess just who their favorite author would kill next.
“Some people think it will be the helpful barista who always remembers your name, and sneaks in free muffins with your morning coffee order,” said Killa_Joffrey420, moderator for a popular Martin message board. “Others think it’s going to be the old man who feeds the ducks in the park and volunteers at the soup kitchen every Christmas.”
No matter how many hours they spend hypothesizing, no one is able to come up with a definitive answer, he said.
“We’re talking about GRRM here, so it could be anyone.”
While the country anxiously waits to find out who Martin’s next victims will be, law enforcement has done little to stop his bloody spree. When a reporter attempted to question FBI director Robert S. Mueller about the murders, the director reportedly covered his ears with his hands and screamed “SPOILERS! SPOILERS! DON’T RUIN IT FOR ME!”
Martin’s publicist, Maria Turner, did not respond a request for comment for this story. It was later discovered that she was been poisoned by unknown means at her granddaughter’s quinceanera earlier this week.
Someone knocked on my bedroom window. A quiet, but firm tapping on the glass. It was just loud enough to hear over the howling wind outside. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. It was time.
I turned my head to see who it was. I saw was a pale, skeletal hand curled into a fist. It knocked once more before the hooded figure pulled away from the window. Its face was crouched deep in shadow. I was not surprised. It was exactly as I was told it would be.
I didn’t dally. I threw the covers off, and made a beeline for the closet. My own robe was folded neatly next to a tall stack of my work-approved khaki slacks. It was black and velvet and felt soft and wonderful against my naked skin. I considered keeping my boxer briefs on, but stuck to nothing under robe, as was prescribed. I had no intention of losing out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because of a dress code violation.
I snuck down the stairs and out the door. No point in waking and alarming th girlfriend. Questions about late-night night departures and full-length black velvet robes are best left unasked and unanswered.
I ran to join the procession. The night air was cool and enjoyable.There were about eight of us, all in robes and walking two-by-two down the street. Everyone had torches, except me. I felt bad, but really, where do you even get a torch? A large stick wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags isn’t something you can just throw in your closet away from the prying eyes of “the uninitiated”, particularly girlfriends who root through your wardrobe and constantly nag you how much time you spend in gchat and r/SuperSecretBrotherhoods.
Thankfully, one of The Elders had an extra torch. I held it with pride as we marched quietly down the street.
How long we walked, I’m not sure. I remember the soft, sickly light of the half moon, and the dull slap of our bare feet on the asphalt. There was some chanting, but it was low and in a language that I’d never heard before. I faked it the best I could and no one, even The Elders, seemed to notice.
Eventually, we turned off the main road and worked our way toward the high school gym. The others, the Initiated, were waiting for us. They stood in a circle around the building, chanting and holding their torches above their heads. We passed under a black banner emblazoned with a crude, arcane symbol I didn’t recognize. It it flapped in the nights gentle wind, I saw it hid the faded mural of the high school’s mascot beneath it. I thought it was Bulldog, or maybe it was a supposed to be a bullfrog? I was trying to figure it out when one of The Elders told me to pick up the pace.
They’d only rented the facility for one night, he said, and would need time after the dark and mysterious ceremony to clean the place if they wanted to get their deposit back.
The gym’s wide double doors were blocked by a red curtain. One of the Elders stood outside. He said nothing, but held out a gleaming obsidian chalice. Bowing, I took the cup and drank. The liquid was thick and sweet and cloying. The curtains parted with a whisper and I stepped inside.
The interior of the gym was covered floor to ceiling in red velvet, and lit by what must have been hundreds of candles arranged in circles on the floor. The Elders and the Initiated filed in behind us. The chanting grew louder. It filled the room and rose, like a black prayer, into the rafters.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, my gaze was drawn to the center of the room. There was a tall, black throne. It’s jagged top threw a shadow that stretched to the far end of the room, and loomed over the eight of us. Just standing in that shadow filled me with a dread. I wanted to run, screaming out of that awful place, but I willed myself to stay. I would not be denied the ultimate knowledge and power promised to me by the Elders.
I steadied my resolved and finally set my eyes on the figure sitting on that throne. The one who I’d come here to meet. The one who would, if we were deemed worthy, impart the hidden truths of universe upon us. Knowledge that would bring us power and glory and earthly riches beyond our wildest dreams. The one who would explain it all.
She looked no different that when I saw her on television as a kid in the 90’s. Reclining on the throne in a studded acid-washed denim vest casually worn over a Keith Herring t-shirt, she fiddled with her side ponytail. Her scrunchy was the same vivid red as the tapestries. She seemed to be looking through us, seeing something beyond us in the shadows of the gym. She said nothing, but smiled as she raised one hand and beckoned us closer to her.
The ceremony began , and we started to approach her one-at-a-time. I fought my way through the awe and terror in order to remember what was expected of me. Mistakes would not be tolerated, a fact that was made readily apparent when one of the hopeful acolytes mistook Clarissa for Alex
Mack. Her lineless face remained blank as she leaned in and whispered something in his ear. I didn’t hear what is was, but I did hear his awful shriek as he fell to his knees and ripped out his own throat with his bare hands. We were not permitted to look away. Over the man’s last, sick, liquid gurgles, I heard one of the Elders lament the loss of the deposit, and whisper for someone to fetch the Swiffer Wetjet.
I was next. I walked slowly to the throne. My entire body began to tremble, but my eyes never left hers. I felt the urge to run again. It was a frantic, primal urge to flee from the shadows. I that moment I longed to hear the chanting fade away behind me as I ran home.
But I didn’t run. My body continued to move forward, even though my mind screamed out against it. I moved ever closer to Clarissa. Drawn by her hypnotic stare.
I knelt before her. I kissed her battered yellow sneakers. I pledged my life and my soul to her in exchange for the ultimate power and cosmic knowledge she alone possessed.
"Oh great and powerful Clarissa!" I cried out to her. "Oh Clarissa the ageless! Clarissa the eternal! Clarissa accept my pledge to serve you!"
Outside the wind whipped into a frenzy. She smiled slightly, and placed her hands on my shoulders.
She leaned down, her lips close to my ear, and began to speak.
She explained it all.
After that, my memory is a complete blank.
The next thing I remember is waking up in this hospital. I was strapped to the bed, and my voice felt hoarse, as if I’d been screaming for a long time. It was a week since the night of the ceremony, and I was told I’d done things. Horrible things. There was a mountain of evidence, and even confessions written in my own shaking handwriting.
As I sit here now in my cell, scrawling my experience on the walls and floor with my own bodily fluids, I am unable to pass her words on to you. I cannot say what they were, only that hearing them broke something inside my mind in a fundamental and unrepairable way.
At night, amidst the screaming of the other patients, I try to remember. Sometimes I can almost recall them. I see the words in my mind, and try to move my cracked and bleeding lips to form the syllables. But as soon as I am on the verge of remembering that ultimate knowledge, I am gripped by a deep gnawing terror so overwhelming I feel my sanity creak and strain under its magnitude. All that ever comes out is a few pathetic whimpers.
On those nights, as I rock back and forth and weep, I sometimes think I hear her voice. A whisper just outside the walls of my cell. Clarissa. She doesn’t explain anything to me. She’s just laughs and laughs and laughs.