The sun, fat and red like a drunkard’s nose, was just sinking past the distant mountains when the tiny car pulled onto Main Street. Crudely rendered polka-dots of all shapes and sizes adorned the vehicle's rusty shell and a pair bright pink fuzzy dice were tied to its front grill. Its appearance was made all the more ridiculous by the expensive sports cars and pearlescent painted SUV's it chugged past. It's filth-encrusted windows obscured its occupants.
At the corner of Main and Elm it sputtered to a stop, the rear suicide door swinging open. Squiggles was the first one out. He stretched up to his full height, which was just shy of seven feet, and his vertebrae made a sound like broken banjo strings as they popped back into place. Letting out a high-pitched giggle, he glanced up and down the street before loping off into the backyard of the nearest house.
The car lurched forward again and careened sharply across the street, the front fender gouging a jagged line across the passenger side door of a Mercedes. As it picked up speed the rear door opened again and a brightly clad figure flopped out and rolled bonelessly across the asphalt, landing in a pile on the corner of Sycamore. Chef Bonko hopped up onto his feet and put his hands on his hips. His bright, crimson painted grin widened as he surveyed the town. Soon his leather bag would be filled with squirming tasties and he would begin to cook.
At the intersection of Oak and Main Dr. Pointy hopped out with a regal air, his large red shoes flopping ridiculously. He waved away the swarm of flies that buzzed around his red stained medical bag and adjusted his grimy surgical mask. He slowly tapped the air bubbles out of a ludicrously sized hypodermic needle as he made his way onto the front porch of a nearby townhouse.
Up and down Main Street the car would lurch and rest, lurch and rest, continually disgorging garishly dressed individuals of all shapes and sizes. One had a mouth filled with shards of bloody, broken glass. Another carried a hammer that took a full minute for its handle to finally clear the door frame. Some carried acid-filled seltzer bottles, others had bundles of balloons filled with spiders. Still others simply tittered and wrung their cartoonishly gloved hands with anticipation.
As darkness finally descended on the sleepy community over a dozen of the creatures were slowly spreading out, making their way across lawns and into unlocked back doors. By the the time the sun rose tomorrow no one would in Silver Heights would ever be the same again.
Someone had sent in the clowns.