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mood |
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 i love this part... |
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music |
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jack off jill~ my cat |
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"hi georgie," it said.
George blinked and looked agian. He could barely credit what he saw it was something like from a made-up story, or movie where you know animals will talk and dance. If he had been ten years older then he would have not believed what he was seeing, but he was not sixteen. He was six
There was a clown in the stormdrain. The light in there was far from good, but it was good enough so that George Denbrough was sure of what he was seeing. It was a clown, like in the circus or on TV. In fact he looked like a cross between Bozo and Clarabell, who talked by honking his ( or was it her?- george was never really sure of the gender) horn on HOWDY DOODY saturday mornings-Buffalo Bob was just aout the only one who could understand Clarabell, and that always cracked George up. The face if the clown in the stormdrain was white, there were funny tufts of red hair on either side of his blad head, and there was a big clown-smile painted over his mouth. If Georg had been inhabiting a year later, he would have surely thought of Ronald McDonald before Bozo or Clarabell.
The clown held a bunch of ballons, all colors like gorgeous ripe fruit in one hand. In the other he held George's newspaper boat.
"Want your boat, Georgie?" The clown smiled
George smiled back. He couldnt help it; it was the kind of smile you just had to answer.
"I sure do," he said
The clown laughed." 'Sure do.' Thats good! Thats very good! And how about a balloon?"
"Well...sure!" He reached foward...and then drew his hand reluctantly back. "I'm not supposed to take stuff from strangers. My dad said so."
"Very wise of your dad," the clown in the stormdrain said, smiling. How, George wondered, could i have thought his eyes were yellow? They were a bright, dancing blue, the color of his mothers eyes, adn Bill's. "Very wise indeed. Therefore I will introduce myself. I, Georgie, am Mr. Bob Gray, also known as Pennywise the dancing clown.Pennywise, meet George Denbrough. George, meet Pennywise. And now we know each other. IM not a stranger to you, and you're not a stranger to me. Kee-rect?"
George giggled. " I geuss so." He reached forward agian...and drew his hand back agian. "How did you get down there?"
"Storm just bleeew me away," Pennywise the Dancing Clown said. " It blew the whole circus away. Can you smell the circus , Georgie?"
George leaned forward. Suddely he could smell peanuts! Hot roasted peanuts! And vinagar! The white kind you put on your french fries through a hole in the cap! He could smell cotten candy and frying doughboys and the faint but thunderous odor of wild-animal shit. He could smell the cheery aroma of midway sawdust. And yet...
And yet under it all was the smell of flood and decomposing leaves and dark stormdrain shadows. That smell was wet and rotten. The cellar-smell.
But the other smells were stronger.
" You bet i can smell it," he said.
" Want your boat, Georgie?" Pennywise asked. " I only repeat myself because you really dont seem that eager." He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore.
"Yes, sure," George said, looking into the stormdrain.
"And a balloon? I've got red and green and yellow and blue..."
"Do they float?"
"Float?" The clown's grin widened. "oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And theres cotten candy..."
George reached.
The clown seize his arm.
And George saw the clown's face change.
What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke.
"They float," the thing in the drain crooked in a clotted, chuckling voice. It held George's arm in its thick and wormy grip, it pulled George toward that terrible darkness where the water rushed and roared and bellowed as it bore its cargo of storm debris toward the sea. George craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the white autumn sky which curved above Derry on that day n the fall of 1957. His screams were shrill and peircing, and all up and down Witcham Street people came to their windows or bolted out onto their porches.
"They float," it growled,"they float, Georgie, and when you're down here with me, you'll float too-"
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