The Clown Oroborus by Alex S. Johnson
Reginald Snubb was a man in his late forties, bald except for two cottony puffs of hair that simply resisted the barber’s scissors–sheered, they would grow back in a fortnight, bigger and puffier than before. Other than that, and his prominent round nose, the roseate color of which appeared evidence of secret tippling, and a burgeoning double chin, he was reasonably good-looking, one might say well-preserved for his age. Even so, he was ashamed of his appearance, did most of his business by phone or email, and spent his time immersed between the covers of his favorite books. He loved books as much as he hated clowns. And he really loved books.
Clowns were a different matter altogether. There was something uncanny about them; they, in fact, anything to do with the circus arts, sent a bolt of terror up his spine. When…
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