Milford has a run in with a clown and a can of spiced ham.
| The water swirled around his ankles as he stood in the cool water of the river. The sun, a glowing golden orb in a crisp, blue sky looked upon him, with an air of indifference, making no comment upon what this petty human was about to do.
Milford dropped the overbearing, dead weight from his shoulders, making a loud splash as it joined the water. He unzipped the heavy canvas bag and rolled out its contents into the river. With any luck, the body would not be discovered for many hours, if at all, most likely providing Milford plenty of time to hike back through the hills and return to town.
He was, by nature, in general not a violent person. He soothed his conscience by telling himself, repeatedly, that it was the clown’s fault. He had it coming. They seemed to always find him and annoy him, beyond what he could bear. And this time he finally snapped.
Milford was walking down the sidewalk, bag of groceries in hand. The street was nearly deserted and he was lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, completely out of the blue, the clown appeared, his ridiculous face paint a mockery of all that is serious, jumped into Milford's own and laughing uproariously, honked Milford's nose, making his eyes water. The clown hopped away, hooting and laughing as he went. In one smooth motion, Milford dropped his bag of groceries, grabbed a can of spiced Spam and hurled it at the clown, now no more than twenty feet away. It was one of those rare moments in his life when he was exactly on target. Unlike the many embarrassing little league baseball games into which he was unwillingly foisted, like a baseball into a mitt, the can of Spam connected with the back of the clowns head. He dropped like a sack of flour. Milford's vision swirled as he realized what he had done. The clown lay motionless on the empty street and Milford felt like vomiting. He quickly ran up to the man, grabbed him by the heels of his over sized horn shoes and dragged him into a nearby alley. A trail of blood followed this strange pair, a constant stream from the clown's ear. Milford checked for a pulse but found none, sat on his knees, a bewildered, quivering mass of confusion.
This twisted event was a four-hour-old memory by the time Milford had gathered the body and dumped it in the river, a two-hour drive and hike into the hills, south of town. He stopped on his return hike and sat on a nearby boulder, his head drenched with sweat from this unusual excursion. He stood and, walking a bit further, turned the final corner on the trail to find his car as well as two police cars at the trail head. Milford collapsed.