Angela sleeps. This is a luxury since the personal assistant to Monty Reigns was on call, twenty-four-seven. The room is frilly, complete with stuffed bears and a four poster bed of faux-Victorian design. The attached bathroom is simple and neat. The room represents everything her professional life is not: prim, proper and stable. Her ever-present “Monty Reigns Direct Line” cell phone lays next to her alarm clock on the doily-laden nightstand.
The cell phone vibrates, rattling against the wood of the stand. Angela, used to ridiculous demands late in the evening, reaches over automatically. She barely turns her head on the pillow before the phone is to her ear.
“It’s late, Monty.”
Angela swings her legs over the bed and sits up, reaching for and turning on the lamp. She is wearing a long, oversized T-shirt with a cartoon cat frowning. It reads, “Insomina is for winners.” Angela stands, phone to her ear, and walks past the open bedroom window.
“Hello? Monty?”
Angela paces, back and forth, in front of the window. She continues to call out to Monty, but receives no answer. She stares at her phone for a moment to see if the signal had been lost when a blurry, multi-colored shape passes in front of the bedroom window. Angela doesn’t have the first clue.
“Whatever. Call me tomorrow and quit drunk dialing.” Angela hangs up the phone with the press of a button and slams it on the night stand. “Asshole!” She says to no one in particular.
Angela sits back on the bed with a sigh and reaches for the lamp. She grabs her abdomen and her shoulders slouch. She will never get to sleep.
“Shit.”
Angela heads for the bathroom. She enters, pulling the door closed behind her. She sits on the toilet and yawns. She hangs her head and waits for the inevitable.
The door to the bathroom opens just a crack, just enough for someone…something to peek in. As Angela looks up, the door closes. She shakes her head, unsure of anything that she sees at this hour.
Angela finishes, stands and turns to the sink. She turns on the water and stares at herself in the mirror. She is far too young to have so much luggage underneath her eyes. She glares at herself and wonders when money became more important than happiness.
The door opens again, just a crack.
Angela decides it is far too late to continue destroying her own self-esteem and bends over to splash water on her face. She stands back up and stares into the mirror to find…nothing, only her own reflection.
Angela turns, grateful to get back to bed, only to have a white-gloved hand press itself against her mouth. Another hand wraps around her head. She can still see, standing before her, what looks like Orzo the Clown…sort of. It is hard to tell, but the colors and face are right. She tries to scream but before she can even get a syllable out, the clown spins her around and lifts her off the ground by her head.
She is suspended like that, swaying in the bathroom. Angela tries to kick her attacker but it is strong and holds her away from the clown-suited body.
Angela can see the toilet before her if she looks down, straining her eyes as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. A clown-shoed foot flips the padded toilet seat up to expose the porcelain edge of the commode. Angela panics, kicking harder. She knows, just knows, that this maniac is going to drown her.
Rearing back, Angela’s head in both hands, the clown rams it toward the gleaming porcelain toilet. Her head slams into the shiny white lip of the toilet causing her forehead to cave inward. Angela doesn’t die instantly. The long dent in her forehead works like a tongue and groove, holding Angela suspended over the bathroom floor.
The clown straddles Angela as her body spasms and shakes. As she twitches, blood seeps from her nose and ears indicating that the impromptu frontal lobotomy has effectively ended her career as Monty Reigns’ assistant.
From over Angela’s head, the clown drops Monty’s cell phone into the toilet. It lands with a plop. With that, it leaves. Angela takes another four minutes to die.