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The circus tent breathed with the rhythm of the wind, but the painted smile in the shadows didn't move. Known only as Clown, he didn't need a nose or a wig; he wore the tanned skin of his last audience member stitched crudely over his own. He stepped over a pile of discarded popcorn, his oversized yellow shoes silent on the sawdust. In his gloved hand, a jagged hunk of funhouse mirror caught the moonlight, reflecting the terrified eyes of the acrobat hiding beneath the bleachers. Clown tilted his head, letting out a wet, wheezing honk from a bicycle horn tied to his belt. The blade descended, turning the circus floor into a permanent center ring of crimson.