I sensed trouble when I saw Roger grinning like a madman, his stained teeth exposed to us in a smile as we came through the door.  He was clutching a bottle of beer, sitting at the scarred kitchen table, which sat near the only window in our studio apartment.  His glistening eyes denoted drug abuse. Nothing new here.

“Where have you pinheads been?” he said with a drawl.

“Outer space, man,” Mr. Clown said, his voice muffled through the rubber clown mask he always wore.

“We were walking around,” Mr. Chimp said, another muted voice in a Halloween mask.  “And Mr. Clown was going to tell us about his special dream.”

Roger shook his head at the thought, his greasy pony tail swinging.  He sucked on his lower lip and winked at me.  “I see you have the twink with you.”

I hated when he called me that.  I didn’t even know what it meant, but it was obviously demeaning.  They all laughed when he said it, and I wondered again why Mr. Clown and Mr. Chimp were my friends.  They acted like asses when they were around Roger, their drug-dealer, lowering themselves to his sub-level.  But what could I do?  They had taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, feeding me and giving me their dusty couch to sleep on.  The whole place was a mess, with paint, easels and works of art scattered about, like a museum exhibit after an earthquake.

It had been a couple months since I had moved in and I’d become dependent on them whether I liked it or not.

Roger stood, his frame gangling like a praying mantis, and reached into the t-shirt pocket beneath his black leather vest.  “Was it a toot-iful dream, Mr. Clown?”  He extracted a short metal straw and a glass vial filled with green powder.

“It was toot-toot-toot-iful,” Mr. Clown sang as he mock-staggered towards Roger, his hands held out like claws aimed at the offered vial and straw.  Unlike Mr. Chimp, who wore jeans and a dirty t-shirt, Mr. Clown had the full ensemble to go with his mask: a red polka dot yellow shirt and pants and dusty oversized clown shoes.

Roger unstoppered the vial of sparkling powder. 

Mr. Chimp, who had been following closely behind Mr. Clown, now stood at his back, scratching his own ass, anxious for his turn at the drug.

I sat down in the rickety chair that Roger had vacated, and reached into the cooler under the table, grabbing a cold beer.

“Are those your beers, twink?” Roger said to me.

As I pondered a smart-ass response, Mr. Clown sucked green stuff through the straw and into his red rubber nose, making oohing sounds like he was having the orgasm of all orgasms.  When he had finished, he handed the straw and vial to Mr. Chimp, who greedily snatched them away.

“This isn’t your beer,” I said defiantly and popped the top off the bottle against the table’s edge.  Taking a long swig, I stared Roger in the eye.

Roger sneered.  “I don’t know why these guys let you hang around.  You’re just homeless street trash they picked up because they felt sorry for your queer-bait ass.”

“Oh, but Roger, he can paint so delightfully,” Mr. Clown said, indicating a row of paintings leaning against one wall of the cluttered apartment.

Brown splotches and black streaks clashed to create much of my art, although some pieces had hints of red and yellow fighting to be noticed through the darker hues.  The paintings reflected how I felt inside most days: depressed.  I don’t ever remember having a “bright” period; my paintings having always signified dejection.

“I think you’ve been wearing that mask too long, Mr. Clown.  That stuff looks like shit to me--literally.”

Mr. Clown held up a finger.  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Roger.  Chimp and I have sold quite a few of Danny’s paintings; they’re what pays his rent.  Why don’t you just stick to drug designing and leave the art criticism to us?  We are the experts, after all.”

“Toot-toot,” Mr. Chimp said, clutching the drug paraphernalia and swaying loosely.

“Don’t you want to hear about my dream, Roger?” Mr. Clown said, seating himself on the sofa, which at one time may have been blue but was dirty gray now--the same sofa where I spent my nights.  Dust puffed up as he sat down.

Roger sneered at me again.  “Get me a beer.”  He held his hand out.

I grudgingly reached into the cooler, then held a wet bottle out to him.  Without thanks, he snatched it out of my hand like Chimp had snatched the drugs from Clown.

He sauntered over to the sofa and sat next to Mr. Clown, creating a dust cloud of his own.

Mr. Chimp stood at the back of the apartment listening at the only other door in the apartment besides the entrance--the one that led to Clown and Chimp’s bedroom.  He was swaying and waving his hands as if directing a band, lost in the effects of the dope.

I lit up a Marlboro and nursed my beer, glancing outside at the rain which had begun to patter against the window, streaking it in city filth as it ran down the pane.  The room dimmed as the sky outside darkened with the coming storm.

“Lean back and relax, and I will tell you all about my wonderful and prophetic dream,” Mr. Clown said, his hands fidgeting in his lap as if they were wrestling with each other.

Roger dropped his arm atop the back of the sofa behind Mr. Clown, sending another cloud of dust pluming into the air.

“I dreamed of a thing that could only have been shown to me by God.”

Roger leaned towards Mr. Clown and I sat up. This was going to be good.

“It is a secret that I imagine few know, or maybe no one knows except me and the Creator.”

Mr. Chimp still had his ear to the bedroom door and seemed oblivious to the rest of us.

“And now I will share this occult knowledge with you because you are my friend, Roger, just like Mr. Chimp and Danny over there.  Soon we will all know the secret.”

“Hey,” Mr. Chimp said, pointing at the bedroom door.  “There’s someone snoring in there.”

“That’s my woman Cindy,” Roger said.  “She drank too much wine this morning.  Just let her sleep it off, Chimp.”

Mr. Chimp nodded and paced back and forth behind the sofa, his hands behind his back, as if he were enjoying a leisurely stroll through a beautiful park.

Mr. Clown clapped his hands to his head. “What the fuck?!”

Roger laughed.  “That’s just the Crystal-Green fucking with your mind.  It’ll pass pretty soon.  Then you’ll feel real sweet again.”

Clown stood up, still clutching his head.  He stomped back and forth in front of the sofa as Roger snickered.

“Fuck you, Roger.  This is some nasty shit.”

Roger flapped his hand at Mr. Clown.

“Sit down, Clown.  You’ve had worse.  That’s my finest creation yet--don’t leave home without it.”

What surprised me most was not Clown’s symptoms or his reaction to the drug, but that I had become so accustomed to scenes like this that I soon became a bored, and wished Mr. Clown would return to telling us about his Big Secret Dream.

Mr. Clown staggered about for a while, like a real circus comedian, acting funny.  He tripped over newspapers and paint jars, spreading dollops of color onto the dirty hardwood floor.

He eventually plopped back down on the couch.  The cloud of dust caused Roger and Mr. Clown to sneeze simultaneously.

“Anyway,” Mr. Clown said, sniffling. “As I was saying, I had an important dream.”  He leaned forward then, hands outstretched for dramatic effect.  The clown mask looked almost sinister in the dimness, but you could see his wet eyes back in there. 

“And do you know what God told me?”

Roger, eyes wide and red from dust and drugs, shook his head slowly, eating up what Clown was laying down.  Roger always got off on Mr. Clown’s adventures in dream-land and believed him to be some kind of oracle or prophet.

Mr. Chimp suddenly grabbed his head and shrieked inside his mask, but nobody paid any attention.

Clown continued: “I dreamed how to make slaves, Roger--our very own slaves who will do anything we desire.”

Roger’s jaw dropped, as did mine. This was a wilder dream than usual.

“How, Mr. Clown?” he whispered in awe, a goofy smile spreading across his face.

Mr. Clown stood and reached into the pocket of his baggy trousers.  Pulling something out, he pivoted and showed it around the room, as if he were about to perform a magic trick and wanted the audience to see clearly the item to be used in the illusion.

It was a nail--a plain old carpenter’s nail.

Clown walked over to a large gunmetal cabinet which held art supplies, tools, boxes of food and other things we had crammed in there.  He dug around and finally produced a rusty toolbox.  Setting it on a nearby wooden crate, Mr. Clown opened the lid and withdrew a hammer. 

He displayed the hammer and nail around the room, walking past Roger, me and Mr. Chimp, who was no longer shrieking and just stood with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“Mr. Chimp, if you will attend,” Mr. Clown said.

Mr. Chimp scurried over to stand beside Mr. Clown.

“Mr. Chimp, would you please get the woman from the bedroom?” He turned to Roger.  “I think it very fortuitous that you brought her along today.  It’s another sign from God.”

Mr. Chimp clapped his hands in a rapid patter and skipped off to his appointed task.  Roger still sat on the couch with his jaw hanging, staring about as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was.  He had a glazed look in his eyes, just like the rest of them. 

Except me.  But I was feeling pretty good off my beer and enjoyed watching the magic show, or whatever it was.  I assumed it to be another of Mr. Clown’s “artistic” performance pieces.  And I wondered what the hell was going to happen next.

Mr. Chimp returned with his arm around Cindy’s shoulder.  She was a slightly overweight blonde wearing a loose dress with a flower pattern.  Whenever Roger came over with his latest drug creation, chances were that Cindy would be tagging along.  Unlike the rest of these goofballs, she seemed nice and normal, and I liked her for that. Her feet were bare and I worried that she would step into some of the paint that Mr. Clown had spilled, or something worse--like glass.  Who knew what lay hidden in the mess on the floor?  She seemed half asleep as Mr. Chimp brought her to a stop at Mr. Clown’s side.

“Now, gentlemen,” Mr. Clown said, still holding up the hammer and nail. “How to make your very own slave-girl.”

He stepped behind Cindy and placed the nail against the back of her head. Then he drew the hammer back.

He was really going to do it.

“No,” I said.  “Stop.”

I sprang up and reached out and moved quickly toward Mr. Clown.  His head swiveled, facing me as I grabbed at his hammer.  Pulling away, he danced across the room, leaving the groggy girl confused as to what the hell was going on.

Roger stood up and began moving towards me, arms spread wide as if for a tackle.  Mr. Chimp approached me as well.

Words flooded out of me: “What? Are you guys crazy?  You can’t just hammer a nail into someone’s head; you might kill her or cause brain damage.  You’re all high.  Why don’t you wait until you come down off that shit and can think clearly.”

“Roger,” Mr. Clown said from behind the sofa. “Mr. Chimp.  Grab him.”

They both lunged at me.  I tried to evade them and run for the front door, but Chimp nabbed my arm and dragged me to the ground.  Then Roger swung his giant fist into my face.

The world exploded and that was it for me; I’ve never been much of a fighter.

***

The thunder outside rolled and a dim light bulb was the only illumination.

I numbly looked through half-lids at myself to discover I had been tied to a wooden chair.  Testing the ropes that held me proved there was no way I was escaping my fate, whatever that would be. I lifted my head and winced because my jaw felt like it had been hit by a sack of ball bearings.  Next to me, in another wooden chair, Cindy was tied up in the same manner.  Her head hung low and she had multiple bruises on her face.  Both of us had duct tape spread across our mouths.

Standing before us, with stupid grins on their faces (one real, two false) stood Roger, Mr. Clown and Mr. Chimp.

“Oh, good,” Clown said.  “He’s awake.”

I struggled further, but they stood still, confident that I could not escape their handiwork.

Then I noticed Cindy staring wide-eyed at Mr. Clown.

Mr. Clown was holding up the dreaded hammer and nail.

Rain hissed against the window, the only sound besides Cindy’s whimpering.

Then someone giggled: Mr. Chimp.

“Now Cindy’s going to become my slave,” Roger said dreamily.  “I’ve tried getting her to experiment but she only wanted to do the same boring sexual positions.  Now she’ll do anything I want.  Right, Mr. Clown?”

Mr. Clown nodded slowly.

Chimp shook in a fit of laughter.

I wondered what kind of sick fuck would do this to their own girlfriend.  Then I guessed: a sick fuck on kitchen-sink drugs.  And how could this dumbass clown and chimp turn on their supposed friend--me?  A friend who supplied art with which they probably paid their utility bills and rent.  I sure had fucked up in the friendship department.  I felt not only angry and sore, but stupid and ashamed of myself.

Mr. Clown shoved past Mr. Chimp and moved behind Cindy.  Then he said, ”And Danny will be next.  Oh, yes, I have a nail with his name on it as well.”

Mr. Chimp jumped up and down and shrieked like his namesake.

“Then Mr. Chimp and I will have our very own slave to do with as we wish.  God has decreed it.  Let it be done.”

I shook in cold fear then, more chilled than I had ever felt in my entire life.  Even when I was out on the streets sleeping behind dumpsters, wrapped in cardboard because my father had kicked me out of the house, I had felt safer than this.

I cursed myself for a fool.

My teeth chattered behind my duct-taped lips.  If my knees had not been tied together they probably would have knocked.  I somehow managed not to piss myself, not that it would have mattered; not in this hopeless predicament.

“Here we go,” Mr. Clown said.

I heard a light tap of metal on metal.

“Now she is my slave,” Roger said like some idiot child, eyes sparkling.  Drool ran down his chin.

Cindy exploded. Her head shook back and forth so rapidly that it blurred.

Mr. Clown took a step back, holding the hammer up in front of him, as if it were a cross and Cindy were a vampire, freshly risen.

Cindy growled deep in her throat like a hungry cougar.  Beneath the coils of rope, her body undulated like a snake on speed.  All this motion caused her chair to tip over sideways.  She fought against her restraints and I saw them loosen as if the thick rope were string.

Mr. Clown and the rest stood about, confused.  Roger’s leering expression had transformed into something between wonder and fright as he witnessed his girlfriend bucking, kicking and twisting in a frenzy.

There was a loud snap, and then the ropes hung loosely about her.

She was free.

Roger, Clown and Chimp all took a step back as Cindy got to her feet.

Still growling that unholy growl, Cindy ripped the duct tape from her mouth. She launched herself at Mr. Clown, sending him flying across the room.  He had no time to react as he hit hard against the large supply cabinet, bounced off, and smacked the ground, face down.  The sound he made when he hit the floor was like a piece of meat being slapped against a cutting board.

Then the large metal cabinet, having shifted in the impact, tilted slowly forward and crashed down on Mr. Clown.  From beneath the toppled receptacle protruded an arm and a leg. Neither of them showing any signs of life.

I struggled against the ropes binding me to the chair, but they would not loosen.  When the madmen had tied me down, they made sure I would not escape.

Quick as lightning made flesh, Cindy swung around and thrust her arm out like a striking cobra. Her finger and thumb jabbed deep into the eyeholes of Mr. Chimp’s mask.  He waved his arms uselessly as blood sprayed from beneath the mask onto himself and the madwoman. Still gripping him by the eye sockets, she swung him around, knocking over an easel and a floor lamp with his flailing body. Then Chimp stopped moving.

Flinging the limp body aside with a blood-drenched arm, Cindy turned to face Roger.

Streaks of crimson lined her face and hair and her mad eyes shone beneath it all, like the white orbs of Ms. Death come to call.  After seeing those eyes, I wished I had not looked; they were like pits of the blackest hell.  There was no kind of sense in them at all, and I figured most mad people probably had saner eyes than hers.

Cindy’s head weaved back and forth as she moved toward the wailing drug dealer.

Roger had his back against the wall, his hands clawing at the cracked paint there, as if he hoped to sink through and away from the abomination slowly approaching him. One of his booted feet had punched through one of my paintings.

Somehow the same hammer that had tapped the nail into the back of Cindy’s head had now appeared in her fist.  Roger saw it and held his shaking hands out in front of him.

“You’re supposed to be my slave...to listen to me,” he said.  “Please stop.  We were only kidding...a joke...”

Cindy roared and leapt upon him. The hammer came down on Roger’s head with a wet crack, dropping him to the floor and crumpling him into more of my artwork.

Cindy’s arm pumped like a piston, and she hammered up and down, up and down against Roger’s skull, moving her hips against him as if she were fucking him.  I felt relieved his head was hidden from my view because a sick crunching sound now accompanied each blow.  And then the crunching became a wet squishing. And the squishing became the sound of the hammer pounding repeatedly against wood; it had made its way through the bone and meat of Roger’s head and to the floor beneath.

Then Cindy stopped pounding.

She rose and glanced about with mad electric eyes.  She let out a fierce howl like a wolf and held up the gore-drenched hammer, waving it back and forth like a metronome, gazing at it as if hypnotized.

I screamed beneath the duct tape.

Her dress was soaked in blood and clung to her heavy breasts which swayed over her round stomach as she trod toward me.  When she was a couple yards away, she screamed hideously and jumped on top of me.

The momentum of her attack knocked my chair off balance.  As we fell, she struggled to gain control. I was somehow aware of blood and brains from her dress smearing wetly against my face and getting into my eyes and mouth.  I heard a sharp crack and screamed again, thinking the hammer had begun its lethal work, but it was only the sound of the rickety chair breaking beneath us as the weight of our bodies fell against it.

Straddling me as she had straddled Roger, Cindy raised the hammer high.

I instinctively held out my hands to ward off the killing blow. And to my surprise, they had come free from the ropes when the chair had broken apart beneath our weight.

I rolled to the left as she swung the hammer at my face.  The hammer nicked my ear and Cindy fell with the momentum.  While she was down, I reached behind her head, digging my fingers into her hair.  With my other hand, I held back the arm that held the hammer.

But she was too strong, too fast. She scrambled on top of me.

My hand still clutched her hair.

She had freed the hand that held the hammer.

My fingers found the nail that Mr. Clown had put in the back of her head.

Cindy growled and squealed as I collected her hair into my fist.  The hammer came down and smashed into my shoulder.  I heard a snapping sound, just like the wooden chair had made, only this time it was accompanied by extreme pain because it had been my bones.  Her face pressed against my good shoulder as she ripped into the meat there with her strong teeth, growling as she chewed at my flesh.

I shrieked in pain.

And then I yanked the nail out.

She slumped down on top of me, unmoving.

Both my shoulders were in agony and my jaw was sore from Roger’s knockout punch, but somehow I managed to roll Cindy off of me.

Realizing I still held the nail that started all this, I dropped it to the floor.

With a weak hand, I wiped tears and sweat from my eyes and looked down at the unconscious Cindy. Between her delicate pink lips, between her blood-stained teeth, she held a piece of my t-shirt. And a piece of my shoulder. A trail of blood trickled down her sweet face.