Drown the Clown by Gary Duehr

“Dats right, genius,” muttered Jeckles, flicking his cigar ash onto the gravel. “We iz a dyin breed, we iz.”             From the lawn chair beside his Winnebago, Jeckles eyed the bloody sun slipping down into the thin pines ringing the fairground lot. A red-and-white greasepaint target stretched across his sagging jowls. From his Yankees cap,…

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