A strange chill is in the air tonight, carrying the moldy smells of the long dead in the tail-like whips, the fragmented breezes, blowing in through the asylum’s barred windows. Good evening my fellow inmates. Just now I spy upon the horizon the final beams of the day’s sun fading in glorious orange and yellow swells upon the darkening sky. This oncoming night is the night of Friday the Thirteenth, and it is time for By an Idiot. I am your idiot, Mr. Clown.
I think we all felt the weight of the day, all felt a little quieter—it was that or our nurses trying to shut us up with a little extra valium. But I think from the lowest accountant suffering a mental breakdown, to the queerest psychopath with a body count a mile long, one and all we knew ourselves bound together in a brotherhood, and that bond deepening at the ever encroaching night.
It is for us, the insane, to know this night unfit; for tonight are fears realized, are things nature abhors given their sway, and it is only our broken minds which dare see beyond reality’s veil. It is an hour of darkness upon the earth, the time the dead awake.
In dealing with the undead, it is important to not play with a full deck, to loose one’s marbles. Otherwise you’d see the rustling wind for what it was, and not know it a ghost’s overture; the creaking limbs of the dead tree are just that, and your sanity would deafen you to the wailing damned. It is tonight our fears and anxieties are realized, a night fit only for those off their heads.
Verily, I am distracted by one fear, that reason for my commitment here, and worry he’ll this night return. But how could he, unless he were invited in?
I fear the orderlies are becoming more used to my tricks, for there’s one at the door now. I am sorry to cut this broadcast so short. This has been Mr. Clown.