Arthur should have predicted that this might happen. Maybe he, too, is too used to John not having physical form, or maybe he just wasn't thinking; either way, he's not braced for an attack, and he can't see to dodge it, so when John hits his legs he goes backwards like a dropped sack of potatoes.

The clown keeps screeching and laughing at them, its sensors set off over and over by the violent motion going on in front of them.

"Agh," Arthur opines as his shoulder cracks painfully into the display shelf behind him. Several of the animal decorations there fall, and for a moment he's bathed in a shower of plastic skeletons with empty eyes and anatomically-confusing ears.

"Shit," he elaborates, as he lands on his back on the floor, just barely catching himself with one arm before his head cracks into the ground, his other arm momentarily paralysed and clanging with pain.

"Fuck you," he adds in summary of his argument, kicking with his legs as hard as he's able, hoping that a knee or foot will hit something vulnerable.