Sarasota Florida
Circus capital of the world. The winter home of John Ringling, his wife, his circus, and later all the major circuses of the United States. Now a carnival nightmare. Sarasota is the only town in Florida that is not overrun with the walking dead. Sarasota is overrun with something far worse. Something only your darkest nightmares could produce.
The street is empty except for that one silent striped wearing mother fucker. He's stuck in his damn box. Yeah, like I'm gonna fall for that. I know he's probably got a whole Theatre of those bastards hiding in the shadows readying their shit. Well, he's got another thing coming, poor bastard. He's gonna wish he had a key to that box.
"Alfie, you're up."
"What the fuck Bongo?! I thought it was Clicker's turn."
-click click-
"Calm down, Clicker. Alfie knows it's his fuckin' turn. Don't chya Alfie?"
"Yeah yeah. Where's my trike?"
A bizarre scene unfolds; the diminutive Alfie rides out from behind the building and up the center of the street on a red tricycle with paint chipping, handlebar streamers falling off. He makes his way riding an "S" pattern toward Marcel. As Alfie gets close, a twisted sneer grows across his smeared white face. The single star looks out of place under his maniacal eyes.
Without warning, Marcel unlocks the box he was trapped in, at the same time pulling a Mac-10 from behind his back. Alfie swerves out of the line of fire, brandishing his own weapon, a 357 Magnum with an extended barrel. As smoke fills the air, those in the alley lose sight of both men. Then the smoke clears…
"Ha ha haha HA! Ha HA hahaha!"
The demented laugh is answered by laughing from down the block. The troupe emerges, once colorful, now bedraggled and sodden from constant warfare. The battles rage for the intersection of Bayshore and Eastchester, the border between the Harlequins and the Pantomimes. The home of the John & Mable Ringling Museum.
"Sonofabitch was alone. Go fuckin' figure."
Crack!
The rifle rapport sends the troupe scurrying into the nearby shadows.
"Holy Shit! Bongo's head exploded like a fuckin' watermelon!"
"Shut the fuck up, Alfie and try and figure out where the shot came from."
"Who died and made you king, Auguste?"
"The fucker with his brains leaking out like fuckin' spaghetti."
"Oh right."
The clowns peer from behind cover in vain.
"I don't see shit moving, Auguste."
"That's what everyone is saying over the radio."
"The Big Man is going to be pissed!"
"Just grab a couple guys and get Bongo."
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