It’s early morning. The sun won’t be up for another couple of hours. You’re fast asleep in bed, lost in a dream, when the phone rings. Rather than waking up, you roll over and cover your head with a pillow.
Hours pass. The sun rises.
The phone is ringing.
When you wake up, your alarm clock is blaring and the phone is ringing. By the time you will yourself to turn the alarm off, the phone has stopped ringing. You realize that it’s been ringing all morning.
You slide out of bed and press the blinking red button on your phone as you stumble into the bathroom. The phone beeps, followed by the friendly, electronic voice.
“Hello. You have six hundred and sixty-six new messages. Message one.” The phone beeps again, and you’re not prepared for what comes next.”
You spin around, thinking that she’s standing right behind you. There’s pure terror in her screams, accompanied by other disturbing noises. You stand there, horrified, for about ten seconds. Screaming gives way to hysterical, garbled crying before dying out with the sounds of spilling meat and tearing flesh.
The phone beeps again. You’re shaking.
You know those nights where you can’t get to sleep? The ones when you think of every scary thing possible? The ones where you try to go to sleep by hiding under the covers thinking you’re safe. You’re not, that’s when you’re most vulnerable.
There are three men standing at the intersection of a sewer. One of them is very lean and very tall. In fact he looks too tall and seems to sway on his feet, as if ready to topple at the whim of a strong gust. He grips a burlap sack in his left hand. The tall man has provided the firepower.
Next to him is a greasy mustache. The mustache belongs to a stocky Mediterranean-looking fellow with shifty eyes. He digs into his backpack with concerned intent. The mustached man has provided the intelligence and the tools.
Standing apart from the first two men is the clown. Wrinkled columns of green-yellow-blue, green-yellow-blue support an ashen face of sweat and paint. He wears a white clown glove on each hand. Thick locks of crimson explode from his head, aggravating the sweat. His face is on the verge of melting. The clown has provided the distraction, but he does not look happy.
The three men face a brick wall with a hole in the center. It is less a hole than a black gaping chasm, maybe a couple feet wide and stretching to infinity. Mustache maintains that this will lead them directly beneath the bank.