"This ain't music." Punk grumbled as that familiar circus tune began to waft from the boom-box. Bobo shot him a dirty look, and Punk responded with a finger gesture. That two-bit punslinger might out-rank him, but he wasn't troupe leader. Fatty and several others laughed at the exchange, and Crier just shook his head. This was no way for a Klown to act. The Klown formerly known as Stretch was definitely a rebel. What kind of Klown wears t-shirts, ragged jeans and jackets, spiked wrist gauntlets and dyes his hair platinum? As troupe leader Crier could have him punished, but it wasn't worth the trouble. He'd grow out of it, hopefully.
Crier pointed a chubby finger at the boom-box, Punk might be permitted to act ridiculous, but he still had duties to perform. As Crier, Bobo, Fatty and Junior piled into the colorful Klown Kar, Punk tied the box to the back of his black motorbike and headed into the unsuspecting town. The others would walk.
It was Harvest Time.
Punk looked down at his fingers as they gripped the bike's controls, by human standards they were bloated, like all Klown's. Three fingers and a thumb. He envied humans' thin, nimble fingers and slender hands, he could never pluck the strings of a guitar with those fat digits. He was stuck with oversized keyboards and cheerful wind instruments since they'd taken his drums away months ago. His oversized sneakers betrayed his disproportionate feet. His pasty white skin might be explained as cosmetics, or, he shuddered, a Goth lifestyle, if not for the mouth. That broad mouth that stretched level to his yellow eyes, bright red lips and fearsome teeth. And that nose, big, round and bright red... No... He could change his clothes, his attitude, but not his body. He could never truly pass for anything other than a Klown.
His mission was simple, as troupe musician, he was entrusted with the hypnotic music box, he was to seek out the local police station and neutralize the human's defences. It was necessary for the safety of the entire troupe that any police and military be eliminated before the attack. There had been times when humans had killed a number of Klowns, and once they even managed to blow up an entire vessel, wiping out a whole company. They couldn't afford to take chances.
He wondered how many would die this time.
It seemed to him that most Klowns enjoyed the Harvest too much, killing for pleasure as well as necessity. He knew they had to replenish their ship's supplies, but to actually enjoy it...
Many humans enjoy killing animals for sport... He reasoned, Some kill each other for pleasure. In fact, more humans killed each other in the space of a minute than a troupe of Klowns took in an entire Harvest. At least this way the deaths would not go to waste.
POLICE STATION. The sign was large and unmistakable, humans never seem to see the obvious unless it is written in giant letters and has an arrow pointed at it. He pulled in amongst the patrol cars, lifted the boom-box to his right shoulder, and walked right in the front door. Astonished faces looked up from three desks and then fell slack, bound by the music.
Three here, at least, maybe one or two in the back, (The music would have affected them, it might be god-awful, but it was loud), hopefully none on patrol. Any prisoners wouldn't matter one way or the other, he'd probably let them live.
He sighed mournfully, "I'm sorry, but we gotta' eat..."
He pulled out his gun and shot off three quick rounds, leaving three large cocoons webbed to three chairs, he left them there for the Kleanup Krew. It wasn't pretty, but at least it was a quick death. There was no one in the back, officer or prisoner, so Punk turned off the circus crap and debated his next move.
Crier was a medium-sized Klown with tear-drops under each eye, wild orange hair and a black and white checkered bodysuit. As troupe leader, he was in charge of the entire Harvest, and that was a heavy responsibility. If they didn't get enough cocoons, they might run out of food before reaching home, and that would be very bad indeed. He looked over at Bobo as the tall, thin Klown with pink hair and blue and white polka-dotted suit picked up the town's 'mayor', a rank Crier had never understood, but knew enough to neutralize quickly. Bobo held up the cocoon, grinning like a proud fisherman, and Crier played along, pulling out a polaroid camera and clicking off a trophy shot.
MUSIC AND MOVIES. The sign wasn't as big as the one at the police station, but it meant more to Punk. He left the boom-box on his ride and walked into the store, immediately going to the CDs. He smiled, revealing his sharp teeth, Jackpot! Billy Idol! Powerman 5000! Korn, Nine-Inch Nails, all the punk and metal he'd heard on the human's transmissions, everything he wanted, and a few feet away players to blast them out.
Charlie wondered if he'd had a bit too much, this just couldn't be real. Two clowns walk into a bar... It was like a bad joke. Yet, he heard people laughing, so maybe these weren't pink elephants after all. The first clown was so fat he could barely squeeze his bulk through the door and his blue-haired, bloated head had no neck, only rolls of fat chins. He was so tall he had to stoop to get through the door, and he waddled like a blue and pink polka-dotted penguin toward the bar. The second clown was much shorter, sported a purple mohawk, and his glossy yellow outfit hung loose around his thin body. "We're thirsty." A thin, piping voice stated matter-of-factly, and Charlie didn't see either clown's mouth form the words. Dave, the bartender, frowned, looking at the smaller clown "You better have some ID, I've got enough trouble with the cops..." There were several inarticulate, drunken shouts, but Charlie knew something was wrong, these clowns had thick-lipped mouths that stretched almost literally ear-to-ear and cheeks that looked like painted doorknobs. He edged toward the back door. "Whooohooo! The circus come ta' town!" Came a shout from a dingy booth.
The human repeated his demand for ID, and Junior smiled, his face splitting almost in half to reveal ugly, sharp teeth. He looked up at Fatty, then both pulled their guns. The humans didn't recognize the danger, they only saw a pair of hand puppets. "Puppet show!" Somebody shouted in the back, and Junior fired at the human confronting him, showing him all the ID he needed. Streams of pink swirled from the gun, and within seconds a pink cocoon hit the floor. More rays began to spray across the room, and Fatty found himself wondering if the high alcohol content would affect the taste...
Josh walked out of the bathroom and into a pipe dream. An eight-foot tall clown dressed in punk gear ripping off his store? Was this a joke?
"Hey, what the hell's going on?"
Punk pulled his gun and turned quickly, confronted by the clerk. He hadn't seen him as he came in, he must have been in the back. He was young, thin, dressed in ragged jeans and a red t-shirt, and his hair was dyed platinum. Yellow eyes met blue, and both widened.
"What the..." Josh suddenly noticed the gun, and backed up, holding up his hands, "Don't shoot! Take whatever you want, just don't shoot!"
Punk stood paralyzed for a moment. He couldn't believe it, if he were human, he'd look a lot like this one...
Then, it hit him like a blow to the nose. Here he was, dressed as a human, speaking their language, listening to their music, even changing his name to reflect their culture. He knew they were people. People like him. Often people better than him.
And he was killing them the whole time.
He was worse than a poser, he was a hypocrite.
The clown lowered his gun, and shook his head, somehow managing to look miserable despite his painted smile. "We have to do it... We have to eat..." He mumbled weakly, Josh just stared at him. He was either high or crazy...
"W-w-whatever, man, just take the money and..."
"Even if we only hunted animals, humans would try to kill us. They can't live with something like us... We have to kill to survive... I'm not like Bobo. I don't enjoy it..." It was true, humans were highly xenophobic, they would never accept aliens, they couldn't even accept minor differences in themselves! What choice did they have? Predator and prey, one must die so that the other may live, that was the natural order of things. But killing prey so much like yourself, thinking prey... It was obscene.
"Humans? What do you...?" What was this clown smoking?
"What are we supposed to do, starve?!" He shouted to himself, and Josh jumped back. Blown away by an eight-foot tall raving lunatic punk clown. He'd never expected it to end this way... At least he had good taste in clothes...
Punk wanted to go home. It wasn't like he'd thought it would be. He'd seen other worlds, but at great cost to the people of those worlds. Once he got back home, he knew he'd never work another Harvest. He couldn't, not anymore. He'd stick to his own planet.
Screams rang out as the Harvest progressed. The troupe had arrived in force, and it was The Killing Time.
Josh turned his head at the sounds, he heard screams, silly music and laughter. Laughter more horrible than anything he'd ever heard in his life. What the hell was going on out there?
Punk left the CDs where they were. He didn't deserve them.
Josh watched as the clown turned and slowly headed for the door, then turned back to face him, a strange sadness gleaming in his yellow eyes.
"I suggest you lock the door and hide here until the sun comes up, it'll be over by then."
Punk walked out, flipping the store sign to 'Closed".
Forget the Zombie Apocalypse, fear the Klownpocalypse!
Don't steal music! I in no way endorse stealing music! A true fan pays for their entertainment, and bands can't keep making the music you love if they don't get paid! If you steal music, the FBI and Killer Vampire Alien Klowns will find you...
The Klowns are vampiric creatures, the cocoons break down a victim's body into a liquid that they drink through silly straws. Since everything about them, even their weapons, are circus-themed, I assume they use circus terms like troupe in reference to themselves. A Troupe is a hunting party, a Company is basically a tribe made up of all the Klowns on a ship.
Head Klown- The Great and Powerful leader of a Company, the largest, strongest, toughest male on the ship. A.K.A. Klownzilla. He stays on the ship and coördinates the Harvest from there.
Troupe Leader- Field Leader, second in command.
Troupe Musician- A much lower rank, a, well... Musician.
Kleanup Krew, also known as Parade Klowns- An even lower rank, they gather all the cocoons and take them back to the ship.
Yes, it's 'K', not 'C'. I use 'Klown' when they're referring to themselves, 'Clown' when humans are referring to them, as they don't know they're aliens.
Punk is an odd character, even for me. I can't really classify him well. He's Evil, as he knowingly kills intelligent beings for food instead of animals. But he has to eat to survive, and he's not killing humans out of malice or for pleasure, it's actually fear, (if you were going to a planet where the natives tortured and killed the man millions of them believe to be their God, you'd be afraid too...). He also feels remorse, but that also means he knows what he's doing is wrong. He steals, but Klowns don't see it as wrong, as they usually have just killed the former owner anyway. He's not Lawful, as he's rebelling against his own culture, but he's not full-out Chaotic, so I guess he's Neutral Evil. Almost all male Klowns are Chaotic Evil. Females are Neutral, and don't hunt.
Real Name: Stretch
Race: Klown (A Breed of Vampire)
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Hair: Platinum (Dyed from blue)
Punk is young and rebellious, his adopted attitude may reflect repressed guilt over killing sentients for food. He justifies it by "We have to eat or die." or "We have to kill them before they kill us." He finds it disgusting that other Klowns take pleasure in killing people. He prefers a motorbike to a Klown Kar. Fatty is his brother, and they're actually very close, despite their different outlooks on life.
Klowns can grow to at least 15' tall, so 7'5" is not really extreme. There are many more Klowns in the troupe, but I only focused on a few to make it easier to read (and write).
I have nothing against Goths, but I figure they are probably on the opposite side of the spectrum to Punks. I doubt either would appreciate being mistaken for the other.
Killer Klowns From Outer Space belong to the Chiodo brothers and MGM