Greasepaint Read Online Free PDF Page A

the alley. Michael’s eyes close partially. His vision hazy, Michael can barely make out a figure attempting to hide behind one of the streetlamps. The bright yellow jumpsuit and shock of synthetic crimson hair is a dead giveaway, though. Michael’s eyes shoot open.
    From around a streetlamp steps Orzo the Clown, in the flesh. The clown smiles…that best smile…and waves just like the show is starting. Michael’s fingers falter and a chord goes awry bringing the music to a halt.
    Michael clamps his eyes shut as the music ends and tears squeeze themselves out despite the desperate clamping. Michael slowly opens his eyes to reveal…nothing. There is no figure at the streetlamp. Slightly relieved, Michael scans the area. A quick motion at the entrance of the alley catches his eye, something white moves like a shot into the alley. Michael turns, staring at the alley, waiting. There is nothing for a moment. Michael continues to stare, afraid to look away and afraid to keep gazing into the darkness. Still nothing.
    The fingers appear around the corner. Oversized and clad in bright white gloves, the hand wraps itself around the corner of the building. The white gloves catch all of the meager light from the streetlamp so the hand appears to gleam. Michael sucks in a breath. The last time he saw that glove it was doing jazz hands in preparation to rape and murder him. Michael stands on the fire escape, stepping backward. Unbelieving, Michael shakes his head and clamps his eyes shut again.
    The sound of the fire escape ladder descending pulls Michael out of his self-imposed blindness. He opens his eyes to find Orzo, smiling, leering, has pulled the fire escape ladder down to ground level. Michael cries out and backs toward the rear of the fire escape. Orzo steps up onto the ladder. Michael turns and cowers with a strangled sob. He holds the guitar out as if it were some kind of crucifix like the kind Peter Cushing would shove in Christopher Lee’s face to save the village from the Prince of Darkness. Michael holds that guitar aloft without looking. He can hear, though. He can hear the clang of oversize clown shoes on metal fire escape steps. He cries out again, not words, but pure verbalized anguish. The touch, his touch, will come at any moment. Michael can’t bear to look.
    Michael isn’t aware of how long he stays in that position but after what seems close to forever he carefully opens his eyes. He is very slow about it, but the precaution is for naught. Orzo isn’t there. Michael stands to find the fire escape ladder back in its original position. He wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt and kicks the steps down. Michael slings his guitar across his back and descends the steps. He lands on pavement and makes straight for the well-lit street.
    Michael walks for hours, He finally finds himself on a darkened sidewalk. The streetlights still dot the roadway. Michael holds his breath as he moves from light to light, in and out of the darkness, from one pool of incandescent safety to the next. The large pane of glass announcing Crazy Al’s TV and Appliance doesn’t catch Michael’s attention.
    â€œIt’s me! It’s me! Your best pal Orzo!” blares from the window. Michael’s attention is caught. He slowly turns, ready for anything. He is greeted by four television screens. Each of them has the smiling face of Orzo the Clown plastered across them. They are all, obviously, on the same channel. Michael, assured that the bastard was not live, moves toward the window. He stares into the devil’s eyes until the camera switches to a studio talk show.
    An interviewer’s desk, like any standard late night talk show, sits off to the side with a guest couch on its stage right. A large sign above the desk reads Late Talk with Monty Reigns. Sitting below the sign, Monty Reigns himself shakes his head in disgust. Late fifties, silver-haired and marginally photogenic,