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A Worse Idea 97

Bingo was the sort of clown who’d fuck you up.

Sometimes you feel bad for clowns, y’know? Like, they’re just doing their job: blowing balloon animals, juggling, other clown shit. And you think they’re going to kill you! And you’re like, “Why? Why do I have a clown phobia?”

Bingo’s the reason.

Bingo’s a fucking monster.

He had chainsaws for hands, which was pretty impractical, all things considered. Couldn’t get on an airplane when you had chainsaws for hands. Shopping at the grocery store was a nightmare, which meant that he racked up heavy fees for getting them delivered. Then, of course, there was the not-trivial matter of opening doors. When you had chainsaws for hands, it was very hard to open doors.

That’s where he stood, by the way. In front of the door of a run-down shack on the Bayous of Louisiana.

You see, Bingo had been sent into the Bayous of Louisiana to take out a man-crocodile hybrid known as The Croconator (hey, you have your genes spliced with that of a crocodile, see if you’re smart enough to come up with a better pseudonym).

Bingo was having a lot of trouble with this, because he couldn’t get a good handle on the doorknob. He carefully placed his chainsaw hands so that one was on each side of the doorknob. He pushed them against the doorknob, trying to get a good grasp on it.

He gently began moving his chainsaw hands in a circular motion. He would get the doorknob halfway there, only to have it slip out of his grasp. Four times he tried this.

Finally, in his clown voice, he squeaked, “Goddammit.”

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