Hunted

but his tremendous belly had put a stop to that ability a long, long time ago.
It wasn’t easy being a psychic, morbidly obese clown.

2
Hilario’s van was special.
It was a 1966 Ford Econoline Club Wagon, white in color. At one time in its life, the van had been a mild mannered delivery truck for a rural egg farm down in the Brokken Valley. It claimed to still have dark mud from the old farm still stuck up in its fenders.
Fortunately the van didn’t talk very much. That was one reason why Hilario kept it around. He didn’t like objects that complained or bragged too much. He got too much chatter from everyday objects as it was. Every lamppost, screwdriver and dinner plate seemed to want to relate its (incredibly boring) life story.
Or, even worse, the objects would make up wild stories about their adventures. Dinner plates that spun baloney tales of serving thick, juicy steaks to Albert Einstein or some such important person back in the day. When, really, the best they’d ever managed was holding the contents of an Alpo can while the dog horked it down.
But the van…it endured in stoic silence. Hilario admired that in a vehicle. Especially one that had to haul around a five hundred pound guy dressed in a clown suit.
Complaining about how much its shocks and struts hurt when Hilario climbed inside was how his last vehicle got fired.
The other reason Hiliaro kept the van around was the work his lost friend Ted Denton had done on it. Ted had been a machinist who worked and lived down on the south side of town, who had a magic touch with machines. Perhaps literally. Hiliaro had never been able to figure that one out for sure. He had never been able to sense any powers of the unseen world in the man. But then sometimes these things worked on levels he couldn’t touch. Even with all of his, um, experiences.
Ted had fixed the van up with a heavy duty suspension that balanced out the otherwise awkward van. He’d seamlessly stretched the driver’s side door to accommodate a person of girth, and replaced the seat with a much, much stronger one that swiveled.
He’d also done other things such as extend the steering wheel and put it on a gimbal that allowed it to swing up to ease Hiliario’s entry and exit from the vehicle.
There were other goodies, such as hidden compartments for objects that Hilario didn’t wish to have lying about. And the privacy screen and compact makeup station for when he needed to change in and out of his uniform. As well as altering the gas and brake pedals so they could be safely operated with his big, floppy clown shoes on.
Normally Hilario left the house suited up and in full makeup. His armor. But having the option to change in the van was helpful. Though incredibly awkward.
His 500 pound bulk didn’t maneuver well in tight places.
If the van had any complaints about Ted’s modifications or Hilario’s weight, it kept them to itself. As it should.
And it always started when Hilario turned the key.
He hoped that wherever Ted was, assuming he was still alive, he was making magic with machines.
He also fervently hoped the van never broke down. Because who in the doodley poop was he going to get to fix it?
And now, how was he going to get the ghost of his other friend, Larry Sparrow, out of it?
Larry put his ghostly hands to his head and let out a tremendous wail of pure soul cracking agony. Not physical pain. Larry was, unfortunately, unencumbered by a physical body any more.
But spiritual pain…
“Hilario! How-a could-a this-a happen to-a me?” Larry Sparrow shouted, “And how-a come-a you-a can see-a me-a?”
Hilario closed his eyes. Counted to five. Breathed in and out. Practiced a little calming exercise his coven boss had taught him for dealing with frantic, freshly cleaved spirits. Made his clenched fingers relax their death grip on the wheel.
He opened his eyes. Glanced down at the ignition key. Maybe if he just drove off, Larry’s spirit would fade away. Most spirits stayed where their bodies died. At least until the black angels came to collect them.
Truly agitated spirits wouldn’t go, of course. The old unfinished business thing. Or maybe they were just afraid of the black angels. Who, he had to admit, were pretty terrifying. They certainly didn’t fit the modern image of heavenly angels come to take the dead off to paradise.
Then again, most people had no clue what really happened after death.
Unlike Hilario.
He reached for the ignition key. Glanced outside the windshield as he did.
And his heart nearly stopped in a jolt of sheer terror.
The black angels were already there. But so soon?
Spiky black shapes moved through the crowd of still living humans. Spindly and tall, the beings carefully avoided touching the living–though he could see a couple humans shudder as the creatures passed by. Most living creatures wouldn’t see them. But occasionally the black angels could be felt if they passed close enough.
The black angels, featureless silhouettes that seemed to be made of shards of broken glass, moved with slow grace toward the smoking ruin of the the Stung Sparrow. Where the freshly dead still lingered. The spirits’ faces were still blank with shock. They drifted in and around the living. Some tried to get the living’s attention. Others just stood. Stared in wide eyed shock at the scene before them.
None of them had noticed the black angels yet. The spirits weren’t quite attuned to the plane of the unseen world. The black angels would be shadows at the corners of their vision.
“Why are they here so soon?” Hilario mumbled