[AUTHOR'S NOTE: To recap, amaebi made a joke about a story called "The Bee-Faced Clown", and I felt the need to write it. It ended up as a pseudo-leather chicken story. Except there's no leather chicken. Or guinea pigs. If something doesn't make any sense, try re-reading my ConFusion report. If it still doesn't make sense, I probably put it in just to make Angie giggle.]

There's a reason I never do household repairs.

It was a warm May evening, and I was coming home from one of my last Tigers games as a single man. In my honor, the team had suddenly started playing like a bunch of nervous grooms, blowing a 7-1 lead in the last two innings when the bullpen collapsed.

Sadly, the hapless Blue Jays hadn't been able to take full advantage, and the game had dragged on for 13 painful innings before Gary Sheffield's third walk-off homer of the season. With Sheff hitting like Babe Ruth and the young pitchers all taking another step forward, it was starting to look like the Tigers were the best team in baseball for a second straight season.

So I was idly imaging another massive October paycheck as I pulled off I-75 and started heading for our house. It had rained all morning, and the dirt part of Edison still looked like a swamp, so I made lefts on Campbell and Sixth before doing what amounted to a wide U-turn into our driveway.

As I shut off the Saturn, Taylor Swift's voice faded away. I usually listened to the BBC World Service on the way home, but they had been doing an endless story about Pakistani folk music, so I had switched the satellite radio to the country channel. Angie would have been horrified - she hated "Tim McGraw" - but I always figured she would have felt differently if the song had been named "Dierks Bentley".

Or even "Dirk Gently."

I walked up the porch stairs, trying to dig my keys out of my pocket without dropping my laptop bag. For some reason, I always put my keys in my left pants pocket, leaving me an awkward grab for them with my right hand.

That's why I wasn't prepared when, just as I ascended the final step, the porch light went out. I yelped, stumbled and banged my kneecap into the wooden swing before regaining my balance. Muttering four-letter words under my breath, I unlocked the door and entered the house.

All three cats were in the living room, staring wordlessly at me. They all had that cat look - the one that says "We know what you just did, and on the inside, we are snickering." Well, Kai and Moonlight had that look. Spark's was more "YTRYRFUFYDDOO!!! OH MY GOD! MY HEAD IS ABOUT TO IMPLODE!!!," which was pretty much normal for him.

I put my bag and jacket on the couch, zig-zagged through the mocking felines and headed upstairs. Walking as quietly as I could, I started saying, in a soft, reassuring voice, "Sweetie, I'm home. Don't scream."

I repeated the phrase at the top of the steps, and again as I approached the bed. Angie didn't make a sound until I was about two feet away, which is when she opened her eyes and screamed in absolute terror.

Even though she had done this every night we had lived together, I still jumped. I was still coming back down when she screamed again. This time, though, it was because the airspace above her body had suddenly filled with flying cats. As usual, Moonlight had followed me upstairs, and as usual, Spark had decided to chase him.

The result was the same as it had been each of the other 522 times they had done this. Moonlight would time his leap so that he would land just over the railing at the foot of the bed, then duck. Spark, racing at nearly the speed of sound, would take off like a rocket, sail over Moonlight and either crash into a pile of pillows and blankets, or if big brother had gotten the angle right, the kitten would fly right off the edge of the bed and into the wall.

This time, he ended up careening into Angie, causing her third scream in 10 seconds.

"I'm home," I said. That seemed obvious, but when Angie was sleepy, you could never be too sure.

She blinked at me.

"OK."

"Tomorrow, I'm going to fix the timer on the porch light. Now it is going off automatically at 1 in the morning."

Blink.

"OK."

"I don't want one of our guests killing themselves, and it's only two weeks from the wedding."

Blink.

"OK."

"Sweetie, the Christmas tree is on fire."

Blink.

"What?"

I chuckled, said good night and kissed her. She was asleep before I got back to the stairs and wouldn't even vaguely remember this in the morning.

I woke up late the next day, long after Angie and Brittany had left. I might have slept until noon, but Moonlight had arrived at 10:00 to lie on my chest for some petting before his morning nap on Angie's side of the bed.

I got up, threw on a t-shirt and some sweatpants and headed downstairs. I munched on some cold Frosted Brown-Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts - the one true Pop Tart - while trying to find some information on the web about our porch timer.

Our house, like most built in the late 1940s, had been extensively altered over the years, including the addition of many modern conveniences. The only problem was that the previous owners had apparently done all their shopping at flea markets, because we didn't exactly have name-brand stuff. We had fixtures that took every kind of light bulb ever invented, and the back deck had been built using cubits. The last time I had tried to fix something, it took me four months to track down a manual for the air conditioner, and its remote control covered in odd hieroglyphs and a Celsius thermostat. It turned out to be Norwegian, which explained why its only two settings seemed to be "Off" and "Arctic".

The porch-light timer proved even more elusive. The brand name was in Cyrillic - well, I thought it was the brand name - and using the Google didn't turn up a thing. I hauled out my old Russian dictionary and tried to convert the word to our alphabet, but I ended up with something that looked like "Larionov", and I was pretty sure Igor wasn't selling porch lights.

I went back upstairs - the stairs in our house probably account for half the weight I've lost - and started fiddling with the timer. After much prodding, we had finally gotten it to work, but we hadn't come close to figuring out how to set the time or control how long the light stayed on.

I played with the colored dials and switches and buttons for what must have been two hours. I tend to get obsessive about things like this - ask Angie about me spending a week researching the science of wind patterns in order to figure out the average temperature of a city in my fantasy world that's 2500 miles away from the setting of my story.

Eventually, after a lot of twiddling and experimentation, I found what looked like the right combination of settings. I looked at my watch, saw 1:45 and set the timer. To my utter joy, the glow of the porch light immediately lit up the translucent glass panel in the door.

I threw my hands in the air with a loud cry of "Yes!", and was mortified when the doorbell immediately rang. I opened the door, embarrassed to have my silly celebration overheard, and was faced by something out of a nightmare.

It was a clown. In a bee costume. Holding a large styrofoam cooler.

I bit back a scream and just stared in horror.

The clown held out the cooler and said "Buzz?"

Fuck it. I screamed.

And slammed the door.

Now, despite what people might tell you, bees, clowns and styrofoam are not my three biggest phobias. Granted, I'm utterly terrified of bees and clowns, but elevators are in the mix as well.

I still remember the day that Dana and I were on the glass elevator at Ford Field - just the two of us - and she was keeping a concerned eye on me, knowing I hated it.

Her concern lasted until the next floor. That's when a clown got on the elevator. For the four floors she (it?) rode with us, Dana leaned against the wall, visibly shaking with the effort of holding in her laughter. As soon as the hellspawn got out of the car, she lost it. She giggled hysterically for the next 10 minutes, only stopping long enough to tell the story to everyone within 100 yards and to say, over and over, "I just kept thinking 'damn, it is a good thing that clown didn't have a beehive!'".

Still, I'm a rational man, and I know that my hatred for clowns is irrational. Bees almost killed me as a kid, and elevators can send you hurtling to your death on a whim - I saw that episode of Mythbusters - but clowns are just creepy.

And I'm not afraid of styrofoam! I just don't like touching it. It makes a nasty squeaky noise, much worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.

So, after a shudder or three, I reopened the door. Nothing. I walked out on to the porch and down to the sidewalk, but there wasn't a sign of the clown anywhere.

I took out my cell phone and called Angie. I told her the story, and when I finished, she was silent.

"Hello?"

"I'm here," she replied. "I'm just confused."

"About what?"

"If the person was dressed up as a bee, how could they be a clown?"

"They had bee face paint, and a clown suit! They even had size-77 red shoes! I'm telling you, it was a bee-faced clown!"

"Sweetie?" she asked, trying very hard not to sound patronizing.

"Yes?"

"Have you been taking your meds?"

"Yes! It was a clown!"

"With a bee face."

"Yes!"

"And a styrofoam container."

"Yes!"

"I'm sure it was just someone playing a joke on you. Dana or one of your sportswriter friends, trying to make you laugh with the wedding coming up."

"I'm not laughing! It scared me half to death!"

Eventually, I calmed down enough to go back in the house and get on with my day. I didn't sleep well that night, having vivid nightmares about bees and clowns and George W. Bush, so I was trying to take an afternoon nap when the doorbell rang.

I sleepily pulled my clothes back on and was heading downstairs when the chimes sounded again.

"I'm coming, dammit," I yelled as I crossed the hardwood floor, trying to not step on Spark.

I opened the door, and there it was again. The same clown. The same face paint. The same cooler.

"GO AWAY!"

As I slammed the door, I noticed the porch light was on. I looked at my watch and saw "1:46". At least that was working.

After peering outside to see that the monster had vanished again, I set the "on" switch to something more useful, like 8:00, then wandered to the back of the house. I certainly wasn't going to be able to sleep, so I did some chores and settled into my comfy chair to read a book called "PURGE". It wasn't great, but I liked the main character and the sex scenes were fabulous, so I was still reading when Britt got home.

We chatted for a bit before she ran off to pack. She had just finished figuring out which Wii games to take to her dad's for the weekend when he arrived and whisked her out of my life for 48 hours.

Angie wouldn't be home for hours because of her Friday night math class, so I kept reading. Just before 8, I flipped on the TV to watch Countdown with Keith Olbermann, but just as his trademark music started, the doorbell rang.

I hit pause on the DVR, cutting K.O. off at "Which of these stor..." and walked through the house. I was still contemplating the physical possibility of one of the sex scenes when I opened the door, so I wasn't at all prepared for the damn clown.

I screamed. He held out the container and said "Buzz?". I slammed the door.

I started to look for a phone to call the police, but quickly changed my mind. What would I tell them? "Hello, officer, I'm being stalked by a clown that wants to give me something."

I pictured saying that to Fin Tutuola or Jim Brass or the dude that played Jim Craig in Miracle, and realized how stupid it would sound. I then pictured saying it to Olivia Benson, Lindsey Munroe and Sara Sidle and felt much better.

I opened the door, but the only thing I saw through the glass beyond was the porch light. I stared at it, and then I stared at the timer.

Was that what this was all about? Had I somehow summoned this clown by fixing the stupid timer? Was the strange writing an ancient form of Transylvanian and my repair had opened some kind of gate to a world of unimaginable terror?

I laughed. I needed to stop hanging out with Hot Horror Babes. It was just a simple electrical timer, and the clown was someone playing a sick practical joke. The fact that they had shown up at the exact time that the porch light had gone on was just a coincidence. There couldn't possibly be a connection.

Thus reassured, I went downstairs, got a hammer and returned to beat the timer to smithereens. As it shattered, sparks flew out from the crossed wires, and I saw something that looked oddly like the city inside Signourney Weaver's fridge in Ghostbusters.

I nodded to myself, went back downstairs to turn off the circuit breaker for that room - I didn't want the sparks to catch a cat on fire - and replaced the hammer. It had probably been a bit drastic, since there was no logical reason to do it, but I felt much better.

I called our hippy handyman and he came out the next day and put in a new timer with a real brand name and everything. It worked perfectly, and although I'm sure it was a coincidence, the clown stopped showing up at the door.

It took me a while to be sure he was gone - I was extremely rude to some door-to-door salesmen, and Rennie and Jen were both very amused when they joined me on walks around the neighborhood, because I kept furtively watching for what my friends had taken to calling my "stalker bee".

The worst moment came at a Tigers game, when I came around a corner in the bowels of the stadium and bumped right into a horrifying creature. Before I could scream or run or shoot it, Dana grabbed my arm.

"Relax. It's just Paws. You know, the mascot."

"Oh. Right. Ha ha."

After that, I never had enough time to think about an odd clown. The wedding came at us at warp speed, but even with a million last-second things to do, Angie had everything under control. We were swamped, but we got everything done, and even got a few hours of sleep the night before the ceremony.

That Saturday was a dream come true. The weather was perfect - 70 degrees and sunny - and our church was filled with our family and our friends.

I started out alone at the front of the church with Rev. Beu, but at my look, Pam gave me a radiant smile and started to play. My brother and Trina came down the aisle, followed by Dana and Rob. Dana looked spectacular in her periwinkle dress, and she reached over and squeezed my hand as she took her place as my Maid of Honor.

Then the song changed, and Brittany and Angie came into view. I'm a sap, but I started crying the second I saw them, and Angie had tears running down her face when she got to me.

The rest was a blur. We got through the vows and the rings and the kiss - that took a while - and then it was all cheering and flashbulbs poses and a ride to the reception while Rob sang us filk ballads.

The reception was the best evening of our lives. Dana and Rob gave beautiful, funny, touching toasts, and we both cried when the time came to recognize Dad and Angie's parents in their absence.

At some point we ate, and then we were on the floor for our first dance. It was a song I sang to a sleepy Angie when we were just starting out as a couple, and we both sang it again as we danced.

Then I danced with Mom, with Dana, with Trina and with so many people that mean so much to me - Jen and Kath and Marcy and Lisa and Stefani and Mari and Rennie and Jo and Shannyn and so many others, including one really tall woman.

There were other things going on - we tossed the bouquet and the garter, cut the cake, giggled at Dana dancing with Rob and threatened to fire the DJ if he played the Chicken Dance.

Eventually, it was just people from the head table and a few close friends, eating pizza and listening to Edwin McCain CDs. We didn't want to leave, even though we were completely exhausted, because we never got to spend time with all these people at once.

It was pushing midnight when Rob and Dana did their honor-attendant duties and threw us out. With hugs and kisses and promises to see us in the morning, we were stuffed into the limo for a ride to our hotel.

"Sweetie?"

"Mhm," mumbled Angie in reply as she dozed on my shoulder.

"Was that Ruth Riley with Ed?"

"Yep."

"How did that happen? They had a game today."

"She's hurt, remember? So she brought the present from the team and ended up dancing with Ed all night."

"Oh. So that also was really a large green alien with Marcy?"

"No, dear. That was G."

"Oh, good. I was worried."

Angie patted my hand and settled back beside me. I watched out the window as the hotel came into sight, just as she formed her own question.

"What was the deal with the guy that ran off just as we got to him in the reception line?"

"I'm not sure. It was a really short guy - maybe Jen's height - and he mumbled something about not being able to do this any more."

"Oh, I think I met that guy at some point. He said his name was Jack."

I shrugged.

"He must have had a bad day."

Angie nodded as we pulled to a stop outside the Troy Marriott's lobby doors.

As Angie wistfully talked about her pajamas, the limo's privacy screen slid down. The driver turned and my new wife stopped talking as the painted face of a bee looked at us.

"Buzz," it said, before opening the door and walking away.

Angie and I stared at each other, stunned. She spoke first, with a voice that quavered with fear.

"Dave, look at the bar."

Before I turned my head, I knew what I was going to see. Angie never called me by name unless something was really wrong.

There, jammed into the limo's bar, was the styrofoam cooler.

"Do you think we should call someone?" Angie asked.

"No, I think we should open the cooler."

"What if it is a bomb?"

"Sweetie, if it's a bomb, we're going to be just as dead if it goes off inside the cooler. Styrofoam isn't bombproof."

Angie giggled despite the tension.

"It's probably not even bomb-resistant!"

I smiled.

"OK, we'll open it, but let me do it," she said.

"Why?"

"Because this is obviously designed to bother you, so maybe it won't be as upsetting for me to see."

That made sense, so I handed her the cooler. As I did, something rolled around inside ominously.

Angie opened the box slowly, before shrieking in terror. She flung the cooler away from her, and a spherical object bounced off the seat before falling to the floor. Before I could react, a piece of paper fluttered on to my lap, and I looked down at it.

Now you can lick it whenever you want.

My eyes shifted to the object on the floor. It was the severed head of John Scalzi, with a popsicle stick where his spine should have been. One of his eyes stared blankly at me.

The other had been covered by a pirate's eye patch.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE II: The theme of ConFusion 2008 is "Johnny (Scalzi) vs. The Pirates". It is a longstanding tradition at ConFusion for people to lick Scalzi's head. I apologize to Mr. Scalzi and his family. The box was supposed to contain a Strawberry Moon Pie, and I don't know what happened.]