As Earl opened his case of equipment, Bozo hummed a clown lullaby, stroking Happytooth’s fluffy mane while the animal purred like a buzz saw. The boss’s back was turned. Earl knew it was the perfect time to strike, but he wasn’t mentally prepared to go through with it. As he filled the syringe with sodium thiopental, he wondered if there was any other way out of his situation. He had a little over half an hour to send a photo of a dead clown to the Frenchman or his family was done for. He thought about telling the mob boss about his situation, try to get his help to save his family, but he couldn’t risk Bozo turning him down and throwing him out on his ass. There was also the police, but what good would they do? They’d just get his family killed. His best option was to follow the Frenchman’s orders, even if there was little chance of him saving himself. With those guards outside the door, all he could hope to do was send the picture to his wife’s phone before they plugged him.
“Don’t worry, Happytooth. He’s gonna fix you up good as new.” Bozo wiped a tear from his cheek and turned to Earl. “Almost ready there, Doc?”
“Yeah,” Earl said, holding the massive needle in the air.
When the boss turned back to the lion, Earl lunged at the clown and stuck him with the syringe.
“What the fuck?” Bozo cried. His tone changed from sad to livid.
After he was done pumping the fluid into the clown’s arm, Earl jumped away seconds before the boss could grab him by the throat.
“What the hell is this shit?” asked the boss, looking down at the needle sticking out of his arm.
Earl’s hands were so shaky he could hardly hang on to his phone as he dug it out of his pocket. He switched it to camera mode and pointed it at the boss, waiting for the big man to fall over.
But the boss clown stayed standing.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Bozo asked.
Something was wrong.
“Why are you still upright?” Earl cried. “I injected you with enough sodium thiopental to put down a cow.”
The boss pulled out the needle. “You didn’t inject me with shit.”
The arm fell out of the clown’s sleeve and plopped onto the floor. It was made of cloth and plastic. It was a fake—a gag arm used for practical jokes. Earl had no idea how he hadn’t noticed it before. He could have sworn the clown was using both hands when making the balloon animals. But there it was, lying there before him. The clown must have switched it out when he wasn’t looking. But it didn’t matter anymore. He failed his mission. He failed his family. He never should have taken this job.
Earl shook his head as the big man got to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”
Bozo’s real arm slipped out of the baggy sleeve. His fingers curled into a fist. “You no-good rotten prick.”
The last thing Earl saw before blacking out was a row of white knuckles coming at him like a brick.