Beefing with kids in the sewers.

[Sideways massif]

Chapter 1.


I died on a Tuesday. Black ice outside the 7-Eleven, skull cracked open like a dropped cantaloupe. Thought that was it—eternal void, maybe a harp solo if I got lucky.

Instead, I wake up choking on sewer water and the ghost of carnival corn dogs. My mouth tastes like cotton candy and pennies. My hands—Christ—are white gloves the size of hubcaps. Orange pom-poms itch against my chest.

A ruff collar chokes me like a Victorian noose. I look down: striped socks, silver shoes, and a grin stitched so wide my cheeks split and bleed cherry syrup.

Pennywise. The actual Dancing Clown. Something ancient in my gut revs like a chainsaw with a fear kink.
First thought: Jackpot. Second: I need a shower and a priest.

---

Tutorial Level: Kid #1 – Timmy, Age 8 Bowl cut, snot bubble, plastic lightsaber. Lost in the storm drain, crying for Mommy. I float out of the dark—physics optional—grinning like a busted jack-o'-lantern.

"Hey, Timmy. Wanna see a magic trick?"
He swings. Thwack. Plastic on clown nose. Rings like a gong. I laugh so hard a lung flops out, wheezing on the concrete.

"Assaulting a cosmic entity, kid? That's a hate crime."

I grab his ankle. CRACK. Bone confetti. I drag him deeper, humming the Star Wars theme off-key. His lightsaber skitters away, still glowing green. I don't eat him yet. Gotta let the terror marinate.

 

[Sideways massif]

The kid's screams bounce off the concrete sewer walls, shrill and piercing, like a toddler throwing a fit in an echo chamber. I can feel his terror coursing through me, adrenaline spiking like a cheap high, making my heart pound harder under this greasepaint and ruffled collar. He's flailing with his unbroken leg, but it's weak—pathetic, really, like a fish gasping on dry land. I whistle a warped version of the Star Wars theme, dragging it out slow and off-key, turning it into something grating and unnerving.

We push deeper, the wastewater shifting from dirty runoff to thicker sludge that reeks of rot and sour dairy. Faint light filters down from the storm grates overhead—streetlamps from the fairgrounds above, casting jittery shadows. My oversized shoes squelch silently in the muck, the rubber soles muffled by the water. This costume's a bitch to move in, all baggy fabric and squeaky joints, but it gets the job done.

"Stop! Please! I want my mom!" he sobs, snot and tears streaking his round face. His shaggy hair's matted flat against his skull, like a soaked mop.

I stop short, cocking my head with a pop from my stiff neck—too many hours hunched in vans and basements. "Mom? Aw, kid, Mommy's probably back home, wondering where her little man wandered off to. Baking cookies, watching TV. But hey, want a balloon? Kids love balloons."

I pull one from my pocket—red, inflated earlier, shiny under the dim light. It dangles in front of his nose, and for a beat, his eyes light up with that dumb kid curiosity, forgetting the nightmare. That's the trick: bait 'em with something familiar, then reel 'em in.

He reaches out. Stupid move. My gloved hand snaps forward, grabbing his wrist tight. I twist hard—CRACK. The bone gives with a sickening snap, and he wails, the sound raw and echoing. That rush hits me, the panic feeding my buzz, sharp and sweet, mixed with the faint whiff of blueberry gum from his jacket.

"Why are you doing this?" he chokes out, voice cracking as I haul him around the corner. The tunnel widens into a bigger chamber, my hideout: stacks of stolen toys, old bones from strays or whatever washes down here, and junk I've scavenged over the years. A makeshift seat from busted crates and fairground scraps in the middle, lit by battery-powered lanterns that flicker with dying bulbs.

I shove him into a shallow pool of filth, watching him curl up fetal-style. "Why? Because it's what I do, sport. Tuesday, Wednesday—doesn't matter. Fear's my fix, better than any drug. And you? You're fresh meat."

He tries to crawl away, but the walls close in, no escape. I tower over him, my painted smile cracking as sweat beads under the makeup, a drop of it mixing with the greasepaint and plopping onto his Star Wars shirt. That twisted urge builds in my gut, pushing me to finish it, to make it hurt slow.

But hold up—splashing footsteps from the entry tunnel. More kids from the carnival? Or some do-gooder with a phone? My instincts kick in—another target, or trouble. I taste copper on my tongue, anticipation building. Game's just heating up.