Tiny hairy feet stalked the night, the footsteps of a miniature beast on the prowl.
The dirty alleys of Hobbitville stank of refuse, the spoiled trimmings of pork haunches, half eaten fruits, nibbled fish bones, moldy cheese rinds. Such were the many-faceted remnants of the sundries purloined from the tables of the rich by the city’s large population of homeless hobbits, or hoboits, as the wealthier hobbits derisively called their less fortunate, thieving kin. The place stank, for hoboits were a slovenly kind.
The dirty, hairy feet belonged to none other than Killbo Stabbins, and the smell of wasting food did nothing to rile his appetites. On this night he had only a nose only for blood. As he skittered on, the shadowy visages of pathetic little mites, the luckless hobbits who inhabited these decrepit backstreets, offered no tempting quarry. Killbo had grown bored of easy prey. No, he was here on a mission.
He came to a sudden halt with a splash, his filthy feet disturbing a puddle, and he gazed silently down an imposing corridor. He had come to a uniquely eerie corner of the urban labyrinth. It was a dead end. At the far side, was an enormous pile of rubbish fashioned vaguely in the shape of an igloo, and ringing this garbage heap were numerous pigeon carcasses, ritualistically arranged in concentric circles or impaled on stakes.
Killbo stepped forward. Upon reaching the mound of trash, he began to dig with his little clawlike mittens. He scraped away the filth and climbed in. Maggots dribbled into his oily hair and rotten things gunked up his unclipped finger nails. He scrapped and clawed his way deeper into that septic abyss, until finally he fell through to the other side.
He appeared to have landed in a dimly lit circus tent made of refuse. In the stands lining the perimeter of the tent were hundreds of effigies of circus attendees sculpted out of litter. Some were discarded soda cans with garish smiles painted for their faces, others were crowned by rotting fish heads. Some arms were used syringes, and some torsos were pill bottles. Standing in the center of the arena Killbo could barely make out the tall silhouette of a shaded figure off in the distance.
“Why hello there,” said a chilling voice. “How nice of you to attend our show tonight.”
With an exaggerated cartwheel the figure sprang into the spotlight. It was some kind of terrible freak, the very avatar of lunacy, with an appearance too offensive to truly describe. His legs were far too tall in proportion to its squat body, and its huge head was defined by a grotesque grin, bulging eyes, crazy bright face paint, and a bulbous red honker for a nose. He was dressed in puffy pink pantaloons and ridiculous shoes that curved up at the front like a crescent and had a pair of bells attached at the tip.
“Not one for words, are we?” said the creature. “Very well. I’ll do the talking.” The creature gave a flamboyant bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am none other than the Trash Prince, the Lurker of Besodden Places, Harrower of the Septic Depths, Delighter in Violence, Former Shift Manager at your Local Megamart, and Supreme Clownomancer Extraordinaire, Dimply the Clown.” Compelled by invisible strings the audience began clapping and a stock sound of cheering played from hidden speakers.
“Thank you, thank you,” the Clown said, basking in the artificial adulation. “Really it’s too much. Oh, and some might also call me Kull’thrax’xyl’zul’ithymax’goththu’lak’ix the 9th Lord of Hell, but among friends I stick to nicknames. To you I am simply Dimply.” The clown’s bowed yet more dramatically as he watched the hobbit in the corner of his eye. Then his gaze sharpened and the cheering cut out abruptly. “Where’s your applause?” these words came out in a deep growl without the usual, grating high pitch of his voice.
The hobbit leered up at him in stoical defiance.
The clown looked Killbo up and down, studying the various stabby and killy instruments adorning his leather vest.
“Oh, you’re who I sent for aren’t you?” The clown frowned in dissapointment. “How unfortunate. I was hoping you were a hapless victim a-caught a-wandering into my fell lair. Anywho,” the clown continued, “I see you like to collect toys. I have a nice treat for you.”
The clown pulled out few long, sausage-like balloons and began to twist and bend them together with preternatural skill using his spidery hands. Within moments he had crafted what appeared to be a kitchen knife. He bent over and presented it delicately to his guest. “Here you go.”
Killbo remained unmoved.
“Come on,” the clown’s smile grew even wider and he whispered, “it’s yours.”
Killbo did not take it.
The clown gave the saddest, most deflated, hurt puppy look anyone could possibly muster. “Fine. It’s just a stupid balloon. Just look at me. All dressed up like this. I’m ridiculous. Maybe I should have listened to my father and went to law school after all!” In a histrionic fit the clown threw the ballon. Rather than float away as one might expect, it cut though the air like a real dagger and stuck into the wall. At second glance, the balloon had magically transformed into a real metal blade. Then the clown’s giddy enthusiasm instantly restored, and he lit up. “Ah! Here’s an idea. How about I give you a time bomb instead?”
Killbo’s impatience stirred him finally to speech. “I’m not interested in your thaumaturgy, warlock. I’m here because you promised me a sweet kill.”
“Ah, that’s right, business before pleasure as they say. You’re awefully serious for one of your race, you know.” The clown stood straight up and folded his arms, tapping his fingers against his elbow pensively. “Did you bring a lunch? Most of your kind would offer to have lunch before discussing work.”
“No meals for you here, jester-devil. I know you partake only the foodstuffs of souls.”
“Sweet souls. Delectable, juicy souls. Ever tried em? They’re succulent little jellies. Though some are a bit sour. Evil tends to sour a soul. I bet a bite from yours would really pucker the lips.” The clown said “pucker” wetly and with emphasis, and deliberately lisped the word “lips”, dragging his nasty tongue across his own, red and grotesquely slug-like lips as he said it.
“You’d do well to remember that I’m the hunter, not prey, demon.”
“The two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive,” the clown said in a scholarly tone, “unless you’re an apex predator.” It leaned in and revealed fangs in its cruel smile. “And even then you might still have to fight the competition. Do you really think you’re the biggest, baddest thing hiding in the dark holes of this city?”
Killbo gripped one of his trusty blades on his belt. “I don’t have to be.”
The clown straightened himself out and stood up straight. “You look so adorable when filled with hostile tension. Where were we again? Ah yes, your contract. There is indeed someone I’d like you to coax from their mortal coil, someone very rude and now that I think about it, someone who shares a few of your personality traits as well. Maybe killing the will prompt some self-reflection from you.”
“Just give me the name and let’s be done with it.”
“But of course. The wee runt whose existence I’d like you to rectify is one Vilne Butterhump. He’s a priest, after a sort. I’d do it myself but you see, I’m obligated to follow certain rules. Clownomancy is primarily an illusionist school of magic. Its offensive capabilities are only effective if the target has a sense of humor to pervert. Mr Butterhump is a rather dour fellow, I’m afraid he wouldn’t find me very…funny.”
“Where do I find him?”
“The big church.” The clown spoke this with complete sincerity, as though it were sufficient information in itself. Killbo knew he was referring to Saintess Elenoria Pillowfluffer, whose gothic cathedral dominated the skyline of this part of town.
“What do I get in return?”
“Wanna be let on a little secret? Deep down everyone wants to be seduced into their own death. It’s everyone’s most perverse fetish, so perverse they won’t ever admit it to themselves. Nobody likes to imagine themselves shitting and puking on themselves on their deathbed. Without glory, without dignity, without beauty. Even if that’s how most of them will go. They want the clouds to part and the sun to shine down and the angels to weep, they want lights, camera, action. They want closure. A moment where it all makes sense, just as the curtains close. But to seduce someone into their own death, to make them want it, to make them forget fear, to see death for what it is, a sweet, pure, obliterating release, why that, my dear Killbo, is godly, it is God itself.” The clown looked gravely solemn for a moment, like a preacher who believed every last word of his gospel with the utmost belief.
“I saw you notice my works earlier,” the magician said, referring his ballon transmutation magic. “You didn’t react, but I know you noticed. Beautifully slaughter this being and render his soul unto me, and I will teach you the ability to turn anything into a weapon. Accomplish this feat, my sweet Killbo, and your murderous prowess will be irrepressible.”
The clown evaluated Killbo with self-satisfied pleasure as he saw the hobbit’s gaze soften in silent reverence. The clown nodded knowingly.
“Step through this portal, and return to me with proof of the deed,” Dimply said. “And be safe.” He said with warm parental care.
A whorling vortex of trashed formed in the center of the stage. Killbo uncritically stepped into it and in a swirl of filth, like a turd flushed, found himself back in middle of the heartless gutter of Hobbitville.