Set against the backdrop of the 2020 Covid-19 outbreak, a young woman, Gravely Eaton, is stuck working at the family funeral home with a father she hates. The world is dying around her, but there seems no escape from her boring life with no friend...
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Domagio had a spray of the clown's blood on his face. Crim pulled into a Tim Hortons so his partner could pop into the washroom and sponge off. It had only been ten minutes since we witnessed the gut-wrenching death of the clown, but Healy and I were still shaking. Crim slipped out of the driver's seat and into the parking lot to light his pipe. He looked dispassionately at the two of us cowering in the back of the van. There was no conversation. Not so much as a "How are you?" out of the Englishman. I wasn't surprised. Of the two of them, Domagio seemed the only one with any semblance of compassion. That lack of humanity went with the job, I guessed.
Healy sucked on a Popsicle he'd stuck in his pocket before the clown met the Grim Reaper. My boyfriend's eyes looked vacant, deep in thought. After a minute or two, he came out of his coma. "We should go to the cops," he whispered. "They're killers. We could be next," he gulped. Then he stuffed the Popsicle back in his mouth.
The van's side door opened so abruptly, I let out a girly scream and grabbed Healy's arm in a tizzy. My panic didn't seem to phase Domagio who'd come back from the washroom looking a little less bloody. He barely acknowledged us as he calmly proceeded to root around in a duffle bag at our feet. He came up with a fresh shirt and a bottle of Southern Comfort.
"First one can be off-putting," said Domagio. "Try some liquid courage." He held out the bottle of amber liqueur.
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I immediately snatched it and took a long gulp. I handed it to Healy and he followed my lead.
Domagio proceeded to peel off his blood-spattered golf shirt and tuck it into a green garbage bag. He put on a fresh top, then lit a cigar. I grimaced and told him he still had a few drops of blood on his neck and arms and handed him a box of wipes I spotted on the floor. He swiped here and there, looking to me for approval. He wasn't all that thorough, so I took one of the damp clothes and dabbed it on his neck, just under his ear, catching a spot of what looked to be clown brain matter. Healy threw up a little in his mouth, but he swallowed it right away and took another gulp of Southern Comfort.
"I suppose you had a good reason for killing the clown," I said.
Domagio proceeded to sit down on the van's step. He swapped out of his blood-splattered runners for a pair of comfortable looking brown loafers. He dumped the red-stained shoes in the same bag as his bloody shirt. I guessed Crim would have the job of cleaning up the gory laundry when he got a chance. Lucky him. Blech!
