Its time for Krime

You pick up that bloody, oily hammer and feel a rush of electrical anger charge through your arm from the tips of your finger, a smile crosses your face. Big sickly and wide grin. You could swear you hear a clown laugh somewhere in the distance. You almost can see him, long thin fingers, scraggly hair, sick maine of infected hairs. The Juggler hangs upturned. Knives tossed in a frenzy. You finally realize it's time to level the playing field by playing with no rules and that this will be fun. A true Saturnine Krime-fest is in order.