KJ and I give each other writing prompts each Wednesday, and we have to write a piece based on that prompt, no matter what it is. We are not allowed to reveal the prompts.
This is Prompt as Hell with KJ Marshall and Budgie Bigelow.
Episode 8 – Happy Birthday to Me
By Budgie Bigekow
It’s been five years, and I still regret what happened in the woods that night. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
It took some convincing acting on my part, but I was able to pull it off. I called two local clowns for hire, Boingo and Studebaker. I had to hire them separately, as they couldn’t know about one another ahead of time. I set up the fake birthday party in my mind and gave the information to each of the clowns respectively. It was an early-evening party, and it was at a private campground in Easton. At least that’s what I told them.
I used my uncle’s land on which he used to hunt deer, way out in the woods. There was a single mailbox on the thin road. I tied an orange balloon to it, put up signage that read “Zack’s Birthday Party,” and waited at a clearing at the end of the dirt road, hoping my efforts would pay off.
My patience was rewarded as the first car pulled in. The clown emerged from the red Toyota Camry. It was Boingo, dressed in a blue shirt and red overalls. His hair was huge afro of blue. He looked around, confused. “Where are the kids?” he asked.
I smiled. The second car, a silver Jetta, was only a moment behind. It pulled up alongside the Camry. My second guest arrived, Studebaker, wearing white and blue pinstriped pants, a yellow blouse, and a red mohawk. He looked at me and then Boingo. “What the hell is this?!” he exclaimed. “You can’t hire us for the same party! I’m calling my union rep!”
“Don’t bother,” Boingo said. “Let’s just get out of here. There’s no birthday.”
“Yes there is,” I said, approaching my guests. I tossed a switchblade on the ground. “Only one of you leaves here alive. Happy birthday to me.”
Boingo and Studebaker looked at each other, then at me. Only a moment passed, and they lunged, but not at each other. They attacked me, and I fell to the ground in a blurred fury of white fists and red shoes. They crashed down on me, punching my face and kicking my body. The beating didn’t last long at all, but I felt like it had.
“Stop,” Boingo said, pulling Studebaker off me after I pissed myself. “Don’t make this a murder. Not again.”
“Fuckin’ prick!” Studebaker exclaimed, spitting onto my bloodied face. “Call me again, and I will kill your sorry ass!”
“Let’s go,” Boingo said. “We don’t need any of the public coming by and seeing this.”
“Right,” Studebaker said, walking toward his car.
Boingo gave me one more kick, making sure to nail me in both of my balls as hard as he could. “Call the police, and you’re a dead man, you sick cocksucker.”
Both cars left, leaving me on the ground, bruised and bleeding. Moving hurt, so I stayed still as long as possible. Once the sun had set, I got in my car, slowly drove to the hospital, and told them I fell down my basement steps. Other than the broken nose, my injuries were just superficial and painful as fuck.
I never again attended a child’s party, not even for my nieces and nephews, for the fear the entertainment might be Boingo or Studebaker, the two clowns who beat the shit out of me in the middle of the woods.
That was five years ago today…
Happy birthday to me.