Clown in the Moonlight Read Online Free PDF Page A

wait.   His vicious scrutiny tells me all I need to know about how this is going to play out.  
    He turns over slowly and his scheming expression shifts into pure psychosis, and then into something unreadable beyond insanity.   I don't know what it means, but you're always proud to push the guy beside you to the next stage of his evolution.  
    He notices my wounds.   The rug burns, scrapes, gouges, teeth marks.   He whispers something I don't catch.   I frown at him.   He whispers it again.   He says I smell like Gwen's asshole.   He's not lying.
    I page through his copy of The Satanic Bible .   It's been a while since I've read it.   It was hokey back when.   Now it's even more ludicrous.   But it has representations of ancient drawings and the word Satanism has taken on new meaning lately.   PTAs all over the country are banning books and music for brainwashing kids.   School dress codes are tightening, no more wallets hooked to your belt with chains, no more metal stud , no more pentagrams, devil's horns, or heavy metal lyrics on the back of your jean jackets.  
    There are kids out there suddenly recalling years of repressed memories.   They're claiming satanic cults forced them into slavery and sex rituals involving butchered newborns.   If you believe the ten o'clock news, then just about every other church is being desecrated and being used for black masses.   Anton LaVey alleges tearing a photo of Jayne Mansfield in half and causing her death by decapitation.   Anton LaVey is a fraud who's done a lot of damage.   Baphomet keeps a fixed gaze on us.
    Ricky's jean jacket is stained with dried spatters of mud and blood.   It's frayed at the collar and singed at the cuffs especially.   Wherever he's got his blade stashed, it's well hidden.   He's got on a black T-shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, just like me.   He hasn't taken a shower in at least a week and he stinks like a sewer.   He smells like Gwen's asshole too.
    I offer the book back to Ricky and he tells me, "Keep it."
    I say, "No thanks."
    "I insist."
    "You can't."
    "What?"
    "You can't insist upon someone who won't allow it.   You can only insist upon someone who acquiesces.   Like Gary."
    The name just makes Ricky's face twist more crazily.   I wonder what the Acid King sees when he sees me.   He grins a baboon grin.   He refuses the book.
    I stuff it back down between the cushions.   I wait for him to try to put his hand on me.   He doesn't.   I know he wants to go for the blade.   He just keeps staring, features contorting in a variety of ways.   Sometimes I recognize the expression, sometimes I don't.   His features contort so much that I wonder if the juice I drank was spiked with LSD.   He almost seems to be melting.  
    He's puzzled by me, and he's got me curious.   If he wasn't a crazed murderer, we might be on our way to a solid friendship here.   He cocks his head one way and then the other.   His eyes half-close.   He bobs his chin in time with the music.   The lead guitar is performing a painfully simplistic solo that's got the punks worked into a frenzy.   They're playing air guitar.   Ricky's fingers move like he's striking chords.   Then he sinks back, relaxed.   For a minute he sleeps.   He snores heavily.   The music is loud enough to bring the cops down on us, but they don't come.   The neighbors don't call.   They're afraid of kids.  
    Somebody puts in a new cassette.   More weak metal.   The lyrics are just as bad as before.   The Devil is leading children through the forest.   The Devil will return your love tenfold.   God is dead.   Paradise is a lie.   The world is hell and that's so beautiful.   The theater of the inquisition is open to all.   Prepare for pain.
    The girls try to dance but it's not the kind of rhythm you can really move to.   They gyrate and sway in a sexless manner.   The punks bang their heads.   Long hair whips back and forth like the cat o' nine tails that