Running With Scissors

A Mime, A Hipster, And A Frenchman Walk Into A Bar

There are many terrifying entities in this universe that would rob you of your sleep if you ever laid eyes upon them. Countless horrors lurk underneath the surface of normality and decency that mock the very concept of good and spit pure, unfiltered madness through the galaxies and beyond.

You cannot escape them, for they're part of our very existence. They shape our lives, and our reality, like an evil counterweight that prevents us from total peace.

Leviathan, the Biblical serpent whose mere glowing eyes can scare any man to death; The Dullahans, fairies of death who chose who is going to die by throwing a bloody bag at a person, which is filled by their own head; Yath'anhotep, the god of the void, a gigantic locust that is set to devour humanity to bring about an endless nothingness. Even the Teelemins, a race of demonic dust bunnies from planet Epsilon Cartilin, who change your wake up alarm from A.M to P.M.

All of them are terrifying in their own accord, but none of them come close to being the creepiest being in existence: the average mime.

They're absolute savage beasts that under no circumstances should be trifled with. Their emotions are totally fake, so they can pretend to be happy, sad, or neutral, just to lull you into a false sense of security. They can also conjure invisible instruments from out of nowhere, controlling a whole different plane of reality.

Unlike the clown—another terrifying beast in their own accord—mimes are completely black and white, hence, no flashy colors to give away their position. That, combined with their absolute silence and complete mastery of their bodies make them nature's perfect killers. You can never know if, for example, one is waiting inside your closet, waiting for you to fall asleep and trap you in an invisible box to suffocate to death.

In fact, we at "Running with Scissors" highly encourage you to set your house on fire to make sure no mimes are on the prowl.

With mimes being such terrifying creatures, one would be absolutely crazy to follow one down a set of stairs that suddenly opened up under a dingy bar in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. That, or very stupid. Lucky for us, Peter was both.

As they descended the ladder, Peter couldn't help but recognize that hipster mime from somewhere before.

"Hey, you're that hipster mime from the museum!" he said. "The one who drew a smiley face on the Starry Night."

"And you're the hobo that fell on a million dollar exhibit to buy me some time to do it," said the man. "And I'm not a hipster mime. I'm just a hipster who happens to be a mime."

"And I'm not a hobo, as you can see from my Gucci suit," said Peter, as the three of them reached the bottom of the stairs and into a dirt tunnel.

The hipster mime gave him a once-over look, clicking his tongue in disgust.

"That suit's from three seasons ago," said the man. "Even a hobo like you could find one in a thrift shop."

Peter was about to tell him where he would find his teeth after he punched them out of him when Sarah, who had been quiet all this time, spoke up, making both men jump in surprise.

"I'm afraid we've not met yet," she said. "My name is Sarah McGuffin."

She extended her hand for a handshake, but the man took it gently in his' and kissed the back of her palm with the softness and grace of a ballerina made of baby ducks. "Hugo Delacourt. Enchanté."

If Peter didn't trust the man before, he certainly didn't now. He could ignore the hipster part, and barely tolerate the mime part, for more terrifying that it was, but he could never, ever trust the French part. That was an immediate red flag. There was also something there about the way he touched Sarah, but he pushed that back.