He slipped quietly into the costume of a clown, the white paint of the mask eerily glinting in the soft light of the street lamp sifting through the window.

The shoes were big, but it was no matter. The mask was large, and covered his entire face, an artificial and senile smile plastered on its plastic lips.

The diamonds of the silk costume were softly jolted around as he fastened the sleeves and trousers on his hands and legs.

It was a quiet night, and the only awake residents of the street were the fireflies, chasing each other around underneath the yellow glow of the lamps overhead.

He watched the dark window he was aiming at, thinking about the outline of the couple that had just laid down to bed.

The light had switched off, as it had every night, promptly on nine o’clock. They never missed a beat, these people. He should know; he watched them all the time.

He readied the canister at his wrist, and smirked to himself.

This town would never think of clowns the same again.