Ralph was a prankster.
I don’t think you can avoid becoming one if your name is “Ralph”. His parents cursed him at birth, ensuring he would forever be that guy who everyone wants to invite to the party, but whom none of them can trust.
I’ve been the butt of his jokes more times than I can remember. Store-bought gags, elaborate hoaxes, borderline scams… Water balloons, never just full of water.
It’s weird – Everybody liked Ralph in a group, but nobody liked him one-on-one.
I don’t know who invited him to Roger and Penelope’s housewarming. It was a bad match – a dude who compulsively makes a mess of things just to see people’s reactions, in an incredibly expensive, brand new home owned by two rich tight-asses.
While we’re talking about the curse of names… “Penelope”? Did her mother really, really want to make sure no one would ever take her seriously? She was a natural beauty, never wore much make-up and never made a fuss about her outfits, real low-maintenance. The name, though? Swing and a miss.
The party was a small affair.
Just the homeowners and a few houseguests.
Tim was Roger’s brother, and of course Penelope’s brother-in-law. I have to mention the second part, despite how obvious it is, because Penelope herself mentioned it at every turn. She grew up with three sisters, so “finally having a brother” was something she was excited about.
Tim’s kids, Layla and Erin, were sixteen and thirteen respectively. Just old enough to come to an adult function without completely ruining it – but still young enough to put a major damper on how crazy everyone could get. Their mother went on a corporate retreat, one trust exercise led to another, and she left to shack up with the head of human resources.
Layla was an artsy kid that fed on attention like a patience parasite. Erin was less demanding of others’ time and would sit in a corner and listen to crime podcasts. If you’re thinking about which one was older, you’re probably picturing the wrong one.
Paul was a screenwriter, at least in name, since nothing he sold had ever been produced. Every time you met Paul, every conversation that kicked off, he had a new project that was about to blow up. “It’s Golden Girls meets Breaking Bad”, “It’s Nightmare on Elm Street meets The Matrix”, “It’s Jurassic Park meets Driving Miss Daisy”. No one ever asked what happened to each previous endeavor, since it was obvious everything he sold was condemned to development Hell.
Brent owned a high-end restaurant in the city, and despite the fact he never said a word about it, we all knew he was about to start a chain. He had been spending a lot of time in mysterious meetings, lately, and a few loose-lipped staffers got the gossip going well enough for the idea to spread to his friends and associates. He knew Roger in high school, and that restaurant was actually where he took Penelope on their first date. She was no-doubt impressed, not realizing Brent would never charge him to eat there.
Then there was me. A guy who inherited his father’s tire shop and drank in the office while the place essentially ran itself. Roger and I were lifeguards in college. We had systems and routines for picking up hot girls, and when some kid almost drowned one day, we legitimately forgot it was our job for a good half-second. (Relax – the kid was pretty much okay.)
If I had to guess, I would say Paul probably invited Ralph, hoping something wild would happen that he could then write a movie about.
It wasn’t long into the party when the prank was revealed. Probably one of a couple he had planned. The doorbell rang, despite all the guests being present. Everyone was confused for a moment, other than Erin who was by the fireplace listening to the details of a quadruple homicide.
Ralph’s previously stone-faced demeanor broke immediately, a shit-eating grin uncontrollably bursting free.
“Ralph… what is it?” Roger asked in his usual dry tone.
“Why would I know?” Ralph asked through the biggest Cheshire smile you can imagine, “You guys are so suspicious. Who hurt you?”
“You.” Roger replied just as flatly, “You hurt us.”
Ralph shrugged and back out of the room, on his way to answer the door.
“What? I thought the party could use a little entertainment!”
“A stripper?!” Roger demanded, incredulous.
Tim’s grip on his whisky glass visibly tightened as he drew in a sharp breath and looked toward his daughters. Erin was still ignoring the world around her while Layla shot up from her seat and let out an excited gasp.
“Sex work is real work. We should support women in whatever societal role they choose.” Layla nodded emphatically, as if admonishing Tim for something he hadn’t even said yet.
“That thinking’s not gonna turn out good.” Brent quietly remarked as he and Tim locked glares.
“I’m handling it.” Tim snapped.
Paul perked up at the mention of a stripper. I don’t know if he thought no one would notice or if he just didn’t care.
Ralph returned and, with a flourish, gestured to the dimly lit hallway leading into the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children of two ages, I give you tonight’s entertainment!”
“This isn’t appropriate.” Roger scolded.
“Pay her and send her off.” Brent agreed.
Suddenly, a burst of color and noise erupted from the hallway in a flurry of awkward, unbalanced movement.
It was a clown.
A birthday clown.
“Ralph, you fucker!” Roger let out a huge belly-laugh, releasing everyone else’s tension through his guffaws.
Penelope was stunned. She was relatively new to Ralph’s antics, at least compared to the rest of us. She just stared, jaw hanging open, as the painted fool-for-hire honked a horn, tripped over his own feet, and wobbled around the room singing “Happy Birthday” in a cartoonish, goofy voice.
Layla ran to her sister’s side and tapped her on the shoulder, pointing to the clown.
“Sis! Look! Dad’s friend got a physical performer for an in-person experience!”
Erin pulled her ear pods out, took one unenthusiastic look at the spectacle, and said, quote, “Kill me.”
“I’m Mr. Muffins! What’s your name?” the clown, Mr. Muffins, asked Roger.
“Marlon Brando.” Roger answered, chuckling through the words.
“Nice ta meetcha, Marlon! Can I call ya Stanley??” the clown shook Roger’s hand, acting as if Roger’s grip crushed his, “Oof! You slap Stella with that thing?”
Mr. Muffins’ first act was to make balloon animals for everyone. A dog, a cat, the usual. Brent asked for a monkey, and in a fitting turnabout of pranking, Ralph got a completely untouched, elongated green balloon and was told it was a “snake”.
Penelope was still quiet as she studied the balloon giraffe in her hands.
“Hey, your favorite.” Roger pointed out, still thrilled off his ass.
“What made you become a clown?” Paul asked, throwing his arm over Mr. Muffin’s shoulder and taking him aside, “Are you actually happy, or is the smile make-up deep? You know the red nose you’re wearing is a reference to the red nose of an alcoholic, right?”
“C’mon, Paul.” Tim called after him, “Not everything is a character study. Let him entertain the kids.”
Brent was bringing a hand-made, organic, fair-trade, artisan cake out of the oven as Mr. Muffins moved on to the next game.
Hide ‘n seek.
“Cake has to cool,” Brent noted, “We have more than enough time.”
Ralph slipped in, “Flaming cocktails after.”
“Why not?” Roger added.
With that, everyone found hiding spots throughout the house. It wasn’t hard. This was an expansive, three-story monster of a home, and the more you explored the more you understood the scope of just how wealthy Roger was.
The ultra-modern aesthetic of the home was broken up by a wide selection of art and decor that I can only describe as “safari chic”. For every sleek, cutting-edge gadget, there was a wooden mask or carved animal on display to match.
I don’t know where everyone else went, but I pulled open a hatch to the attic, climbed up, and pulled it closed behind me. Since the house was newly built and the owners had just moved in, there were no old boxes or furniture in storage to hide behind after that.
Layla volunteered to be “It” and to find all the others. Surprise.
The attic was nice. Nicer than my first apartment by far. Bigger, too. I could’ve just started living up there and there was a good chance no one would’ve ever noticed. I could come and go by climbing the lattice outside… if I were in better shape, of course. Even the moon outside the attic window looked bigger than the one common folk get to see. It was weird.
Just when it was finally sinking in, how long it would take for a hyperactive child to find nine people, clown included, in the house to end all houses, a loud sound rang out.
Layla was screaming, and it wasn’t a “Dad bought me my first car” scream. It was a “Someone is dragging me into a car” scream. Muffled by countless walls and two floors, the shriek was still unsettling and clearly one of terror.
Dropping out of the attic and fumbling with my cell phone, I made my way through hall after hall, down the plunging mahogany staircase, back to the living room below, where we had gathered in the first place.
I arrived to find the others already there, lined up shoulder to shoulder and staring at something I couldn’t see quite yet. Tim had his kids gripped tight to each side as they held his midsection.
As I joined the line-up, I saw the reason for the scream.
Mr. Muffins stood in the center of the living room, wobbling on unsteady legs, blood pouring from an open gash along the top of his bald head. His miniature derby hat had fallen off and was floating like a paper boat in the growing red pool collecting at his feet.
Mr. Muffins was holding his temples with his gloved hands, now stained bright scarlet, and it looked like he could’ve been holding his own head together.
“I tell ya…” Mr. Muffins groaned, “I got a splittin’ headache…”
In one quick, unsteady motion, Mr. Muffins lost his balance, stumbled forward into the kitchen, and fell face-first into Brent’s cake. He slid off of the counter and landed on his back as a whoopie cushion hidden in his pants let out a long, slapping fart.
“Wh-what happened?” Ralph asked, dumbstruck. I’d never seen him authentically shaken before.
“An accident, clearly.” Roger shook his head as if he was trying to get his thoughts to clear like a polaroid picture.
“He must’ve fallen and hit his head.” Penelope nodded in agreement, the color gone from her face, “He was… falling all around, anyway. That’s his whole thing.”
Slowly and methodically, Paul walked to the fireplace and picked up a fire poker from the floor. He turned it over in his hands a few times, then turned back to the group, showing us the blood and tissue still clinging to the business end.
“Guys.” Paul croaked, dread audible in his voice, “It’s Very Bad Things meets Bozo.”
I dialed 911 and we all sat around, waiting for help to arrive. Tim pinned a duvet over the doorway to the kitchen in order to hide the scene from his girls. None of us wanted to ruin any evidence and we weren’t sure if the police would be upset if we left the scene of the crime.
“Someone here did this.” Erin said after an awkwardly long silence.
“Quiet, honey.” Tim said, use of the word “honey” doing nothing to soften the anger in it.
“No, like, one of you guys killed that clown. I hope you realize that. We’re all sitting with a killer.” Erin didn’t sound upset, her tone matching any given podcast host blandly recounting the details of a crime.
“That’s not true.” Penelope chimed in, all but in tears, “It’s just not! Someone could have… someone could have broken in… or maybe he did it himself.”
“He bashed his own brains in with an iron rod.” Erin smirked, oozing sarcasm, “A show-stopping trick… but he can only do it once.”
“He might’ve. The funniest people are the most depressed.” Paul helpfully explained, taking a sip from a drink held with two shaking hands.
I expected to hear sirens at that point, but instead a musical tune filled the night just outside. It sounded like it was being played through a broken, rattling speaker.
“Ooh!” Layla perked up, “Ice cream?”
Everyone jumped with a start as we heard the front door being kicked in suddenly.
“Put your hands up, girls!” Tim frantically commanded, before shouting out into the hall, “We’re unarmed and there are children here! We don’t know what happened!”
Seeing two kids put their hands far above their heads, arms extended at full length into the air, made me more afraid than anything else that night. I couldn’t imagine what Tim was feeling at that moment.
Heavy boot-steps echoed through the hall, walking slowly and confidently. It wasn’t a match for the hectic situation.
“You’re paying for that door. We could’ve let you in.” Roger all but shouted.
“Stop.” Penelope whispered loudly, “Just do what he says.”
A single police officer walked into the room, and as we took in the sight of him, some of us started to laugh again.
His uniform was a deep purple, but otherwise it seemed to strictly adhere to regulation. His face was painted up, white greasepaint, a red circle around his left eye and a blue one around his right. His bulbous clown nose must’ve had an LED light inside as it also flashed red and blue. On his belt, in a holster, was a rubber chicken.
Everyone put their hands down in unison.
“Alright, what seems to be the problem,” the clown cop boomed in a gruff voice, “I hear there’s a clown down.”
“Oh my God,” Brent sat back in his seat and let out a hot breath, “You had us so scared. Ralph, you’re insane. This is too much,”
Ralph looked to Brent, then to the clown cop, then to me for some reason, then back to Brent.
“I swear,” he explained, “I have no idea what the fuck is going on. This is way beyond my capabilities as a trickster.”
“Quiet.” the clown cop paced a bit in front of us, his boots clacking against the hardwood floor, “At this time I must inform you that you are being detained. You are not under arrest, but you also may not leave, and I’m gonna ask you all to remain seated.”
“This is absurd..,” Penelope folded her arms and made a skeptical face.
The clown cop slowly walked to the duvet doorway and, pulling the cloth aside, peered into the kitchen. With his back to us, I could see the very prominent “KICK ME” sign taped between his shoulder blades.
“Absurd?” he didn’t even turn to face us, “A dead clown, a murder victim, is absurd to you?”
Erin turned to Tim and, with her steely and unflappable tone, gave him a lesson in clown-based murder lore.
“John Wayne Gacy didn’t work alone, either.”
The clown cop, now standing in front of us again, took the radio from his belt and spoke into it.
“Yeah, we got a possible coulrocide. I’m here and I have the clownscene locked down. Looks to be a party, victim must be a performer. Way too many old fat people, though. Something’s not adding up.”
As soon as he let go of the radio’s button, a squawking response of kazoo noises answered him back.
Brent stood up suddenly, much to everyone’s dismay. Penelope gasped into her hands.
“Well, sorry to be so up-front, officer… or whoever you are… but if you’re looking for a killer, it couldn’t have been me.”
The clown cop stroked his chin and furrowed his brow at Brent.
“And why might that be, boss?”
Brent lifted his arm to about chest height and stopped.
“Spinal injury. When I was at chef college, a stack of pans fell on me. Haven’t been able to lift my arms over my head ever since. No way I could’ve raised the weapon high enough to bash that clown on the head.”
The clown cop reached deep into his pants, drew out a red-and-white striped baton, and walked up to Brent, clearly skeptical. He put the baton to each of Brent’s elbows, one after the other, and pushed upward a bit. Still, Brent’s arms didn’t stay any higher than they had been.
“I have all the medical paperwork to back it up, as well.” Brent added.
“I believe you…” the clown cop mused.
The clown cop turned to the fireplace, took note of the bloody poker Paul had leaned against the wall, then turned back to Brent.
“That’s the murder weapon, then?”
We all nodded.
The clown cop soon nodded along as well, “I believe you.”
Brent turned to the rest of us, his back to the clown.
“See? It’s just that easy.”
Behind him, the clown cop reached into his own pants again, pulling out a length of wood… a handle… an axe. Before any of us could fully comprehend what we were even looking at, the clown cop spun in place several times and took a huge swing.
It was surprisingly silent in the room as Brent’s still-smug-looking head tumbled from his shoulders and rolled across the carpet. We heard the smack, the splatter, the thud, all before the first person started screaming.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Roger yelled, standing up now despite how it worked out for Brent.
The clown cop answered without hesitation, “Eliminating suspects.”
“I’m… gonna need your name and badge number…” Paul mumbled, wide-eyed, wavering on the edge of going into shock.
“No problem, sir,” the clown cop shoved the axe back down his pants and gave his leg a shake, “It’s Officer Oscar Occifer, and my badge doesn’t have a number – I found it in a box of Klown Krispies.”
Ralph jumped up and made a run for it, bolting past Officer Occifer and leaving everyone in the dust.
Occifer turned slightly, his arm seeming to dislocate and extend beyond normal limits, grabbing Ralph by his belt and throwing him to the floor as if he’d been yanked back by a large rubber band.
“Please, sir.” Occifer remained eerily professional-sounding, “Don’t make me tell long-arm-of-the-law jokes. It’s tired material.”
He reached down his pants with both hands, jiggled around in there for an uncomfortable amount of time, then drew out a notepad and pencil in either hand.
“Alright, walk me through the series of events that led us to this situation.”
We made Ralph explain what happened, since it was entirely his fault in our estimation. He went through why he had hired Mr. Muffins, what agency he had called, where he saw the ad posted, everything right up to the point of playing Hide ‘N Seek.
“Where did everyone hide?” Officer Occifer asked.
Tim and I had been exchanging looks whenever the clown cop wasn’t watching. Through hand motions and meaningful stares, I had gotten across the idea that I knew how to get him and his girls out of the house. He was waiting on me for when and how.
“We should all go back to where we hid. You know, to recreate our steps.” I blurted out, trying to sound as concerned and as helpful as I could be.
“I was under a table in the hall.” said Roger. He was red-faced and sweating bullets, clasping Penelope’s hand like if he let her go they’d be separated forever.
“I was under a bed on the second floor.” Penelope added.
Paul finished what was left of his drink.
“Closet. Second floor. Penelope’s closet, but I didn’t know before I got in.”
Tim started to speak up, but I subtly put my finger to my lips to silently shush him.
“I was in the garage,” Ralph cleared his throat, “Uh, in the sports car. Pretending to drive it.”
“I saw where Tim hid.” I stood alongside Roger, “I saw him and the girls hide in the attic.”
Layla looked confused.
“No… that’s not-” She started.
“Shh.” Tim fussed with her hair nervously, “He saw where we hid, honey. It must not have been a good spot, we can admit it.”
“Tim took the girls up in the attic.” I repeated, turning back to look at the three of them. “Right?”
“Yeah.” Tim nodded deeply, over-selling the lie, “The girls and I hid in the attic.”
Since I had actually been the one up there, I had to tell a second lie to the cop and come up with a fake hiding spot quickly.
“I was – ah – In the shower. One of the showers.”
“Alright. Everyone to their places, then.” Officer Occifer commanded with a few finger snaps.
I’m sure every last one of us was thinking of running, but given the impossible feats we had seen out of this civil servant circus freak, it wasn’t very clear how to do so.
I pulled Tim aside as we all left the living room, Occifer watching over us from a distance, like a hawk.
“There’s a window in the attic. Leads to some lattice. When we’re hiding, take your kids and go.” I whispered as quickly as I could manage.
“Yeah, no shit I will.” Tim whispered back, “You know I didn’t do it, right?”
“I don’t care.” I growled, “If you did it, good. Fuck that clown. Fuck all clowns. Right about now, I wish I had done it.”
Officer Occifer was a chilling presence as he followed the group to the first hiding location.
“So, I was under this table…” Roger said as he got on all fours with a groan, “In fact, I hit my head on the overhang. You can see here where I chipped it.”
Officer Occifer knelt down next to Roger and studied a small break in the wood, then looked to Roger’s head, where he must’ve seen a red mark from the collision.
“Well I’ll be damned.” Occifer grumbled, “This is where you were.”
Officer Occifer stood up, his hands diving into his pants.
“No!” Penelope shouted, “No, no, no!!”
Paul and Ralph held her back as Roger looked up from his place on the floor, just in time to see a sledgehammer being brought down on his back. We rushed Penelope out of the hall, none of us looking back as the sound of metal battering meat sounded over, and over, and over again.
“Another suspect crossed off.” Officer Occifer proudly stated as he joined us again.
Penelope was a sobbing heap.
Ralph reached for the handkerchief in her blouse pocket, I guess to wipe away the tears and snot running down her cheeks as she was inconsolably weeping, but she batted his hand away.
“Leave me be! Just leave me to die!” she screamed.
The rest of us got to our hiding spots without incident. I was the last to hide, since I wanted to make sure Tim, Layla, and Erin got to the attic. They closed the door from inside as Officer Occifer and I stood watching from the floor below.
It wasn’t until that moment that I felt the chill run up my spine, at no point had I realized I was ensuring I’d be alone with the clown cop. Just him and me side by side in a swelling silence.
The stillness was broken by another scream.
It was a war cry.
“Aaahhhh!!”
Both Occifer and I turned on our heels to see Paul, necktie flapping behind him, as he came running toward the both of us, an umbrella in his hand, held like a spear.
“Paul, no!” I shouted, not for my safety, not for Occifer’s, but for his.
The distance was closed quickly as Paul buried the pointed end of the umbrella into Officer Occifer’s chest. Occifer stumbled backward and fell to the floor.
Paul stood, huffing and puffing, as I rushed behind him.
“Paul, what the fuck?”
“I did it. I killed him.”
“The clown?”
“Yes. Wait, which clown do you mean?”
“The original one.”
“What? No. I meant the cop. I killed the cop clown.”
“But not the first one.”
“Right.”
“Because I was wondering… since you picked up that fireplace poker in front of everyone. It seemed like you might’ve done it to explain why your fingerprints would be on it.”
“That’d be a very pedestrian clue. I’m a writer, I of all people would’ve thought not to do something so obvious if I were guilty.”
I yelled out in surprise as Officer Occifer sat bolt upright. He got to his feet, pulled the umbrella out of his chest, and ripped open his shirt. Right there below the cloth was a thick, black square of body armor with yellow block letters that read, “Umbrella-Proof Vest”.
With a blindingly quick throw, Occifer launched the umbrella straight through Paul’s neck, lodging it in his throat and stopping his death scream with a wet ‘glug’ sound, releasing a spray of blood. The umbrella opened behind his head, and he fell backward to the floor.
Officer Occifer gathered his wits and focused his attention back on me.
“So you were in a shower?”
I looked around at the blood spatter marking the walls, the art around me, a porcelain giraffe, a landscape painting of an open grassland, all the little wooden carvings of exotic animals.
“No.” I admitted.
Occifer wasn’t taken aback by my admission. He had no visible reaction whatsoever, and the colorful make-up on his face made it impossible to read his true emotions… if there were any.
“I want immunity.” I clarified.
“Immunity from what?”
“You. Are you actually asking me that? You.”
“You want immunity in return for what, exactly?”
I took a deep breath, fully feeling the weight of yet another life on my shoulders.
“I think I know who killed Mr. Muffins.”
Occifer reached into his pants again. I was cornered. He stood between me and the hall, and a wall stood behind me.
Before I could start begging for my life, he pulled out a tremendous stack of paperwork.
“Sign this.” he said, handing me a suspiciously warm pen.
I did as I was told. There was no way I could go over everything, there were hundreds of pages, so I didn’t even start reading. As I scribbled out my name, Occifer spoke.
“I am prepared to offer immunity to yourself and the remaining innocent parties should you in fact provide information leading to the brutal slaughter of the perpetrator in this case.”
I led the way as we proceeded into yet another of the many rooms of the house.
“Come out.” I said coldly. My brain told me I was doing the right thing, but my stomach told me I was a disgusting traitor who should be throwing up.
Penelope slid out from under the bed.
“What’s going on?” she asked timidly.
“Drop the act.” I had decided on the walk there that I had to harden my heart and not give an inch of sympathy, “You did this to us. You started this whole thing, and there’s an increasing amount of blood on your hands.”
Penelope had to face the two of us, now. Unlikely partners in the weirdest investigation to ever take place.
“You caved in Mr. Muffins’ skull.”
Penelope turned away from us dramatically, clasping her hands together.
“Why did you do it?” Occifer asked, “Did he catch you cheating with someone in the house? Did he see you snorting an illegal substance? Or are you just a killjoy… a bigot who has a grudge against all clown-kind?”
“She doesn’t hate clowns.” I stared hard at her back. “She is one.”
Penelope gasped and turned back toward me again, a hard look of betrayal in her eyes.
Unfazed, I grabbed the handkerchief from her blouse pocket and, just as I expected, it kept going no matter how long I pulled. Handkerchief after handkerchief, color after color.
I had proven my point.
“When Mr. Muffins showed up, you were surprised. Not because he was a clown, but because he was a clown you recognized. Sure, you’re not wearing any make-up now, and you dress very modestly these days, so you thought maybe he wouldn’t recognize you in turn. However, when he made your balloon animal… a giraffe… your favorite… you knew that he knew, and what’s worse, he knew that you knew that he knew you knew.”
“It’s true!” she fell to her knees, clasping my shoe in one hand and Occifer’s boot in the other, “He was my ex. I ran away from the big top just to get away from him! Oh, he was a beast! A monster! I tried to get a restraining order against him, but the courtroom was a circus! I changed my entire identity, but it still wasn’t enough. Why, oh, why wasn’t it ever enough?”
“Sir, you don’t want to be here for this.” Occifer said, ushering me out of the room.
“You’re still going to kill her? Even though she’s one of you?!” I asked. I had been holding out hope that this wouldn’t happen… but either way, the ordeal had to end.
“Just keep moving. I have to pull an entire electric chair out of my pants, and it’s best that you don’t see that.”
I got Ralph from the garage and, without any better ideas, we stood idly in the living room yet again.
I explained everything that happened, but I think Ralph didn’t believe most of it.
“We have to kill him.” Ralph insisted.
“I don’t think we can.” I tried to get it through to him, to no avail.
“After what he did to Brent? To Roger? To all of them? Is Tim okay? What about the girls?”
The lights dimmed for a moment.
“Tim got them out.”
“Well thank fuck for that, but the rest? Shit, man, we have to kill this freak of nature.”
I watched passively as Ralph unpinned the duvet and made the flaming shots he had been wanting all evening – though he kept the alcohol in the bottles and stuffed the necks with rags. I think that, even though this was all way out of control, even though none of us could have expected any of it, and even though Penelope had been the instigator, Ralph still felt guilty as Hell since his prank had kicked everything off.
I stood on the sidelines as Officer Occifer came downstairs and marched into the room. Ralph was behind the center island in the kitchen, like a soldier taking cover.
Occifer surveyed the room slowly, then spotted us.
“Alright, I have to take you clowntown to be debriefed. Don’y worry, you’ll get your briefs back after.”
As the first bottle sailed through the air, all I could think was that the light of the flame made the home feel more rustic and welcoming. Like a booze-scented candle, I guess.
Occifer went up in flames instantly, engulfed from his flammable police hat to his flammable police boots. He didn’t scream as the bottles continued to smash on and around him. Instead, he let out a series of comedic exclamations as his burning silhouette flailed around the room.
“Oh no, the sofa!” he shouted as he fell onto it, setting it aflame.
“Oh god, the curtains!” he shouted as he stumbled and wound himself up in them, spreading the flames to the ceiling.
“Goodness, the mini-bar!” he shouted, falling over and toppling it, burning alcohol spattering everywhere.
“Let’s go.” I grabbed Ralph by the arm as he lifted yet another wholly unnecessary bottle in an attempt to light it. “I think you did it.”
On the front lawn, Ralph and I met up with Tim and the girls. The light of the raging fire that was overtaking the house lit the yard up like it was midday as we all stared on in numb horror.
A siren rose in the distance, and before long a fire truck screeched to a halt nearby.
A jumble of clowns fell out of the fire truck, firefighting uniforms in every color but red, facepaint running with sweat.
After a series of antics and pratfalls, they finally got the fire hose out and pointed toward the house.
It sprayed confetti and made everything worse.
