Clown

From my bedroom window I see him pacing the edge of my yard. He appears either unable or in no hurry to enter.  When he about-faces at the stack of milk bottles marking my property corner, however, his over-sized shoes encroach my property line. I assume this is a technicality— only the floppy tips and not his toes cross.  

As the sun comes up, he notices me staring down and a giant red-lipped grin spreads across his face as he parades. It’s apparent the 10-lb. hammer, clasped in the gloved hands at his back, is wet with gore.

Enough. I quietly shoulder my .22. I fire.

Ping!

I hit him square in the nose sending him perpendicular in the azaleas. I wipe my brow in relief, but he immediately leaps up. I fumble to chamber another round.

This is so much worse than last night’s relentless line of marching ducks.