Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

2. BELOW

The hated wooden building had taken a battering which had ripped like skin its cracked shell to show the secrets of its horrid flesh, and show the man who was its beating heart and scheming brain for years uncounted, every day doing secret things, terrible things the world just outside the house doesn't want to know of. Much less does the world far, far above want to know of the experiments, arts and pleasures of the man, and the often living flesh he uses as clay playthings. Nor does it want to hear the pain that is his music, conducted with pale twitching fingers. The Funhouse owner is known to some as, and loves to be called, "the Matter Manipulator." And how he loves the furtive queasy looks they give him, the way they hurry out of his path when he goes outside that battered wooden cage to ogle the flesh he may one day use for his projects.

Some repairs have been done to the Funhouse of course, for it has been nearly a year since the night of Kurt's rampage through the showgrounds, the night the proprietor was provoked at last into bursting out of his human form and devouring everything he could. Some planks were hammered over, cracks plastered, leaving only the glow of reddish light to bleed through slim gaps and cracks like unwelcome light seeping in through eyelids of waking sleepers. Just the occasional shuffle and moan can be heard by the gypsies and dwarfs now and then hurrying by that foul place . . . and of course, they tell themselves they'd not heard a thing, and refuse to remember that this or that old acquaintance had, long ago, been sent to that house for some breach of circus rules, never to return. There is much else to busy one's mind with. George Pilo, Kurt's brother and the new boss, has given his orders, barked and spat them like gunfire all about the place, apostrophized with the crack of that dreaded, hated lash. There is work to do, so much work repairing, resurrecting, cleaning, rebuilding. The world needs its distractions and entertainments, after all. It needs its circus.

Down to the circus's very foundation pulses a growing urgency, restlessness, and hunger. Yet like something injured it has held off, held off, not yet sure enough of itself to brave the rigors of its trade, troubled by premonitions of its own total doom, troubled that some of them up there know the circus is here, have seen it naked without its glamour to shield their eyes and memories. And it is nervous. Its collapse has left a gap in the world which will be filled sooner or later, by their show or by someone, something else's. This fear too gnaws through the showgrounds, so that little by little each day's activity grows more hurried: the tap tap of hammers, clang of tent pegs, flutter of unfurling newly woven canvas, the carny rats bustling around frantic to look busy and escape the lash.

But the circus needs performers—the show, as they say, must go on. And death in some of the world's secret shadowy parts is little more than an inconvenience.

Below the Funhouse, beside a sacrificial stone slab long unused, a tunnel twists into the showground's true depths, covered with a lid of wooden boards. It is not so very far down, in truth, despite being far from sight and mind. Its rock walls shine red and orange. Where that tunnel ends and meets the stone cavern floor, a pair of baggy clown pants sit in a crumpled neglected pile. Forlornly, half-heartedly, the pockets now and then bulge with magically conjured bits and pieces summoned in the vain hope of escape: a small parachute puffs out to catch a gust of hot wind; a climbing pick clangs uselessly to the floor, a white flag of surrender weakly flutters. In time, all of these things dissolve back into air.

The owner of these magic pants had been ripped away from them very soon after he was carried to this hidden place by the former circus proprietor: Kurt Pilo. Of that, Gonko has no memory. He only remembers a locked trailer, shaking to tip them out and George's shrill barking voice.

Both Kurt and Gonko have wandered the tunnels since, through labyrinths and catacombs of stone which now and then give like sponge and bend inward underfoot, as would the skin of something living. For nothing here is as solid or physical as it appears. Hanging clumps of rock burst into the motion of a million crawling insects eager to bite, only to seem stone again soon after. Kurt and Gonko avoid when they can the grasping hands and meat-reeking hot breaths of their tormentors, whose forms change but whose tastes do not.

Gonko hides now as he usually hides, naked in a dark small corner beneath a folded lip of stone, out of sight of giggling growling fiends who often prowl by, looking for sport. Kurt has found no good hiding spot yet. Each day Kurt's screams carry back to him, as do the whispers which seem to come from the stone itself. They speak of many things, the breathing stones, of many circus secrets. Gonko has learned much. Now and then he visits Jamie's dreams. Jamie's dreams and other people's dreams, where with pleasure he kicks around the furniture of their subconscious and makes as much mess as he can. Mostly he dreams himself, of escape. He has tried to climb out many times but it is not allowed and each time they catch him and make him hurt so very badly.

George Pilo is an angry man, has always been, and that is no secret. But a word has not yet been invented to describe the extent of poisonous murderous hatred that seethes through Gonko's veins like lava when he remembers George trapping him and the other clowns in the doomed caravan, that night. Gonko has dim and jumbled images of it all—falling from the caravan is the last thing he knows, so George is (as far as Gonko can tell) the one to thank for his being here, trapped below. He sucks his teeth and soothes his burns and hurts with a promise to himself: there shall be revenge.

"Gonko. Oh, Gonko?" a familiar voice, deep and cheerful, calls from somewhere in the depths. The stones whisper the same words back, mindlessly mocking. Snapping mouths form in their not-physical clay.

Gonko bunches up in his hiding place. Scuttle thump scrape come limp footsteps through the tunnel just to his right. "Gonko! Gonko, come, we must speak. Of many interesting things."

Kurt. Same old jovial cheer no matter what has happened to him just an hour before. Just like it had sounded in his trailer, the desk piled high with bibles and crucifixes. Gonko peeks out and sees him, a thin hunched blackened thing of bones, plates, and claws, taller than a man but all bent and hunched over. A human face is stuck on the head at an angle, Kurt's old face with its fat lips over teeth too big, round red cheeks, serenely smiling eyes. Gonko ignores his calls up until Kurt says, ". . . must speak, Gonko. I have exciting news for you. You have tasks, up above."

Wary, Gonko sits up. He whispers out into the corridor, knowing the stone will bend and play with the sound so it seems to come from all around Kurt. "I'm listening, boss."

"Oh, ho ho," Kurt laughs sadly. His scuttle thump scrape edges back along, back toward Gonko until the huge bent-over insect-like mess of bone and face stands just outside Gonko's hiding spot. Nonetheless Kurt does not look in at him, pretending—so it seems to Gonko—to be gazing around in search of him. "You must not call me ‘boss,' Gonko. For now, I'm just an employee. Like you. Although you are clown boss, aren't you Gonko?"

"Guess I would be, if I had any clowns."

"Hmm. Yes. Well that's one thing we ought to talk about. I've had a word with . . . upper management."

"I heard the screaming, boss. Kurt."

"Oh ho. They like a vigorous chat. And they like to emphasize their points, with many unique methods of . . ." Kurt's face contorts, retches; the black glistening rib-like cages of bone all up his spine rattle and shake for a minute or two. "But one must now and then deal harshly with underlings who do not perform. Or who . . . how to put it . . . destroy the enterprise altogether."

Wasn't me who wrecked it, Gonko thinks, suppressing a burst of rage, but I'm down here with you, Kurt, you big dumb shit puke. Aloud: "Wasn't your fault, Kurt. Or mine. We got sabotaged."

"Hm, well the buck must stop somewhere. With you and me, it seems! Our superiors have many valid reasons for their . . . disappointment. Before all the unpleasantness, why, did you know that they were getting ready to expand? Oh my, yes, many surface operations they had in mind, and the time, the conditions, were nearly ripe! But now . . ." Kurt sighs sadly. "There's much to do up there, Gonko, to make things ripe again."

The first faint stirrings of hope mingle with Gonko's rage and fear. "Is that so?"

"Mm, indeed. More interesting to me, Gonko, was that our superiors have superiors of their own! My goodness, the chain of command just stretches up out of sight, doesn't it?" Kurt's head twists around, eyes darting. "Or down. Have you been to the farthest depths of these passages and chambers, hm? Just hiding here near the entrance, are we, with no spirit of adventure? Then, why, you'd not have seen the great back slab of metal, thick and high. I saw it, Gonko. It has hinges and a handle, and goodness me, it reminds me of a door. For so it precisely is. Only . . ." Kurt drops to a whisper, "they can't come through yet. Oh no, not yet. It takes a very long time before a world is ready, for them. Rather like, I dare say, waiting for one's bath water to reach an ideal temperature. Those down here? They want very much to go . . . up. This circus, Gonko, is but a foothold in the world for them, just a vestibule. They've been here a rather long time. So a little longer to wait, why, it's displeasing to them, but not . . ." Kurt's eyes gleamed. "Not the end of the world."

"I'm with you, boss," says Gonko. "Say. You hear anything about maybe getting me the fuck out of here?"

Kurt's smile pushes up blush-red cheeks. "As it happens, yes! I have indeed. You're to go up at once and do a few things. To help the show back to its feet. They are nervous, our superiors. The world above has heard of us. Knows a little too much rumour and gossip. There is a list of names waiting above. You are to tie loose ends, at your discretion. And you are to gather your clowns again for the eventual purpose of capering, delighting persons, and amusement causing. All persons deserve entertainment, don't you think, Gonko?"

"You know, boss, I happen to agree with that."

"Hm."

"Only thing is, the crew's dead. You might recall biting out their organs."

Kurt raises a claw like a thin twisted spike of metal. He'd be finger wagging, Gonko knew, if he had fingers. "Tut tut! The positive, Gonko. Never focus on the may nots and could nots. Scrape the remains of your clowns together and visit the Funhouse curator. He'll know what to do. In the meantime the show shall be run by my . . . dear . . . brother . . ." Kurt's voice descends to the growl of something so hungry it can never be sated, "my dearest brother, George."

Gonko nods. Quickly, he debates in his mind, then risks it, whispers: "And say, Kurt. If it turns out George can't run quite as mean a ship as the previous boss did? Just supposing George's show don't turn out so great? What then?"

Kurt's head swings slowly, slowly toward him, and the big white eyes meet his for a long time. Gonko shrinks back, certain he's just blabbed his way out of any escape from these caverns. Kurt, whatever else he may be, is loyal to his bosses, and Gonko has just hinted at sabotage. On and on the gaze bores in.

At last Kurt speaks. "If that happened, why, I imagine the previous proprietor would be re-instated, Gonko. And I imagine he would have certain favored performers about the place, whom he would be extra nice to, every chance he got."

"I think we understand each other." Gonko feels no small relief when Kurt finally limps away, broken parts of himself trailing behind. The boss is peculiar enough that he may have quite innocently taken the question as purely hypothetical and detected no agenda there . . .

But no one likes George Pilo, especially Kurt. And Gonko figures even fewer will like him after a stint in charge of this place. He crawls free of his hiding place, finds his shirt and shoes, gropes for the entrance, and puts on again his magic pants for the climb. From the pockets two climbing picks spill out. Here is where monstrous hands usually stop him and wrench him back down, but nothing inhibits his escape, this time. Weakened, thin, in pain, slipping on the rock, the climb is over with minimal fuss—all he has to do is imagine George Pilo's gloating grin just a foot or two ahead of him. "Bet you can't," imaginary George sneers at him, "bet you can't get up there, shit head." George's face is the wooden floor above, soon smashed to splinters as Gonko crawls back into the showgrounds, then collapses.

•

Gonko blinks at the artificial evening light of the carnival's fake sky, throwing over everything a purplish twilight. Blood and splinters sprout from his knuckles. His clown shirt is a tattered mess of candy cane stripes. Although evening was knock-off time in Kurt's day, there is still the frantic sound of assembling, cleaning, and tinkering from near and far. The odd toneless whistle and drunken dwarf shanty carries through the noise of the circus being brought back to life. A smell of buttered popcorn and cotton candy weaves through the air's chill.

Gonko dreads the moment he will come face-to-face with George, feels as if rage will explode from his skin like a burst of thistly vines he cannot control, which will strangle George and let him off far too easy. But Gonko remembers circus life now, and it is slow and winding time. Revenge this time must be nuclear and total. This is no mere acrobat-style feud. Gonko thinks of the shaking trailer again. Before all this is through, he will see George down that tunnel, will smile and wave cheerio from the top as the tiny body tumbles, legs flailing, to wrathful masters.

So, somehow, with these promises made, he keeps the red from his vision as George's hollering voice screams, "Polish those guns! Get that line of ducks straight! They move too fast! You stupid ugly shits must be hungry, have a taste of this!" And the lash cracks. Gonko's teeth grind, his body shudders with purest hate as he staggers toward the sound.

•

Carnies are cunning folk. The circus is understaffed, rather badly in fact, but enough dwarfs, gypsies, and other assorted breeds collected over the ages survived Kurt's massacre to recruit more of their kind, stealing up now and then to the surface, stealing back with tied up bundles mmphing through gags or masking tape. The new ones are given a taste of powder, taught the old ways, conditioned through certain rituals to their new life, and then they belong to George.

George expects no one to love his style of management, or he himself—in fact he'd not have it otherwise. He means to be a tyrant, a terror, loathed by all. Yet the very mention of Kurt still puts the fear in every single one of these wretches, even the new ones who have only heard the tale, and they know well that George doesn't have it in him to throw that kind of tantrum. However fondly they may look back on the more relaxed regimen of Kurt's time at the helm, they'll tell themselves they're better off now. George has a plan, in fact, to keep the memory of that massacre and their fears nice and fresh. But that's for later.

George has not been idle in the year since that day. The show will be different now, with more emphasis on rides and games than on performers—at least, that had been his plan, since after Kurt most of the original performers pretty much resemble mince. He's been anxious to get things underway immediately, a minimalist show with small trick crowds to farm a little soul dust and keep his hand-picked security detail, the lumberjacks, pampered and loyal. But then he moved into Kurt's trailer, and discovered the phone.

All this time, he'd never known exactly how Kurt got his occasional directives from Below. There in the second desk drawer, still half buried under a litter of rattling molars, premolars, canines, and incisors, a bright green telephone quietly rang the very moment he found it. He'd answered ("what?") and a voice breathed winter in his ear: "Not yet," it said, and said no more. There was nothing for it but to hang up the phone, cancel next week's show, and find someone to lash to ease his frustration.

The phone rings every day at roughly the same time, the chilly voice every time: "Not yet." Once or twice he has tried to find out when the shows should start, or at least get the delay explained. He's even groveled, picked up the phone before it rings to plead, "Look, sir, the dust! We're running low and they're grumbling, I have to pay this sorry bunch of maggots or we'll have riots—"

"not . . . yet," came the answer on what he'd actually hoped was a dead line.

"Look, why not yet? I got rides up and running, got new acrobats trained and conditioned. We kidnapped some Olympic gymnasts and trained 'em. Clever, eh? My idea! I got a lion tamer and a magician. Look, I got everything but the fortuneteller and some clowns. Why not yet?"

"not . . . yet."

Every day. He got the damned point already—okay okay, enough! And yet, ring ring ring . . .

Three days ago George whined as the cursed phone rang yet again. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His own stash of powder saved over many years was long gone, and Kurt's was almost gone. He could stand no more. "Listen!" he screamed into the mouthpiece. "Do you want me to run this circus or—"

The voice interrupted. It sounded oddly cheerful. "Get ready. Shows begin soon."

George trembled. "How soon?" But the line clicked dead. And George hopped around his trailer gleefully, until the click-clack of a typewriter in another desk drawer got his attention. There had been no typewriter there yesterday, he was sure. Invisible fingers knocked down the keys until a sheet of paper emerged with the words: for gonko followed by a list of names. For Gonko? George mouthed to the mirror opposite his desk (it was a funhouse mirror, warping his reflection so he appeared three feet taller.) "Why ‘For Gonko?' Gonko's dead. All the clowns are dead! My show doesn't need clowns. We got rides."

The typewriter had no paper left, but George followed the keys' depressing to spell out the reply: "You will need clowns, George. And clowns you will have."

It is not then with much surprise that George spies Gonko staggering through the twilight toward him. An odd mix of triumph, amusement, malice, and something George would not recognize in himself as fear bubble through him like fizzy soda pop. George is riding on the back of his favorite new asset, a goon he has fashioned with the aid of the Matter Manipulator from an especially large lumberjack. A saddle is lodged in the unfortunate's back, with long nails drilled into his bones. A small machine is wedged as a control panel in the thing's head, ensuring total obedience and giving it the free will of a potato. In a more perfect world, George thinks, everyone would be as controllable through knobs, joysticks, and levers.

George still has nightmares about how close he'd come that night to a bullet in the back of his neck, just after it seemed the danger had passed with Kurt dropping to the depths of the Funhouse basement. A clown, one of Gonko's own men, plugged two shots into the trailer door right beside him. A lumberjack—no fool, a real forward thinker who saw the lay of the future ahead and sought at once to curry the new boss's favor—crash-tackled the old clown, named Watson or Winston or something, and wrestled the gun away. "Shoot!" George had cried, his pants wetted. The lumberjack obeyed, and the old clown became just another casualty of the night, while the lumberjack earned George's trust, gratitude, and the privileged position he now enjoyed. He was, of course, George's ride-on goon.

The goon stomps clumsily to Gonko, lash in hand. George dismounts, marches over, the typewriter paper bunched in his fist, but something in Gonko's shocking forced smile stops George short of assuming the position (head pressed into Gonko's navel, eyes glaring up.) Gonko's smile spasms, twitches, seems ready to blow steam out his ears, so determinedly is it being held in place. But the eyes don't lie. Out it comes, raked over his teeth: "Hello there, George. I've missed you real bad."

George scoffs, tosses the bunched up paper from the typewriter, aiming for that smile but hitting Gonko's red clown nose instead. It makes a small ding like the shoot-a-duck game when a bullseye lands. "Your orders," George shouts at him.

Gonko spasms again, all over.

"That list has names on it. Get it? Names! You go up there and fetch like a good doggy. Priority one: fortuneteller. Get her back here. Then do whatever to the rest." George tosses a pass-out at him next, hits the clown nose again: ding. "No rush either," says George, backing toward the safety of his goon as Gonko's eyes go blood-red. "No clowns needed in my show. You're gonna run errands, you're gonna cook and clean, do outside jobs. No performing for you. Not til you earn it. Other clowns are buried out by the dung pit. Be careful who you bring back, Gonko. No room for traitors in my show."

George expects a pleasing outburst, maybe even some grovelling, but a thoughtful look comes to Gonko instead. "You name it, George," he says. "My clowns will just work themselves stupid to make this the finest show you'll ever run." And he bows, then topples over, collapsing.

"Eh, that works," says George, content enough, and rides his goon back to the trailer, working the controls to flip the lash at any carnies who get close.

•

When Gonko rouses from slumber, the taste of hot dog with mustard sings in his mouth, so sweet and good he chews down hard and bites off something a little more bony than expected. A shriek of pain follows and the dwarf falls back, clutching a hand which now drizzles blood everywhere. Gonko knows the dwarf, one of his old contacts from Sideshow Alley who used to report to him now and then with intel on the acrobats, back in the feud days. He's called Curls, after the fire-red beard obscuring pretty much all his face apart from eyes and nose, the bushy eyebrows just an extension of the beard. Beside Curls is a plate of hot dogs, donuts and a paper cup of fizzy drink.

Gonko finds even the finger rather succulent, but he has no beef with Curls—he nibbles just a little meat from it and spits it out onto the dust. "You made it through the mess?" says Gonko, by which he means Kurt's rampage.

"Oh, yep," Curls grunts, pocketing the finger and wrapping a handkerchief around the stump. He grimaces but lays not a word of blame, which Gonko notes with approval. A decent dwarf, is Curls.

"So why you stuffing food in my mouth?"

"George's say-so. You were out nearly a whole day. George says you got stuff to do for him." Gonko's burst of George-rage wakes him up better than coffee. Curls reads his look. "Got something in mind?" he whispers, shifting back a little.

"Listen. How many chums you got? Trusted chums. Keep their gums stapled shut no matter what?"

Curls attempts a finger count, grimacing. "Nine," he ventures. "More if, you know, you dropped a nice thing in their pocket. George cut back pay from half bags to quarters, now he's paying by the grain. By the grain! But them lumberjacks is getting paid good, so they bust whatever heads George tells 'em to." Curls leans close. "Why, I tell you, if the shows wasn't about to start again, why, half of 'em would up and—"

"Shh," says Gonko, devouring the remaining donuts and hotdogs in a few wolfish gulps. "Gonko gets the picture, Curls. You get in their ears, my chum. Whisper this or that about secret missions up there." Gonko thumbs toward the sky. "Fresh air. Full-grown ladies all over the place. The techno marvels of whatever fucking century this is. Only to some real savvy trusted carny rats, you dig?"

Curls digs. "Will we get to see the ocean?"

"All five of 'em. Better pay too. I'm talking happy pockets here, chum. But first, go get us some shovels. We're going treasure hunting."

Curls runs off. Gonko feels the thing taking shape in his mind, going from an indiscriminate lust for payback into an actual plan. It'll be risky, it'll be bold, but it'll be curtains for George Pilo if it all comes off. Curls soon returns with picks and shovels in a wheelbarrow larger than he is.

All night they dig around what George called the dung pit, the patch of earth the gypsy cooks somehow get their meat from. There are hot dog plants and cotton candy shrubs, popcorn bushes and little sizzling pools of fizzy drink, burbling up like oil. It is some time before Gonko's pick strikes through what feels kind of skull-like. Up comes the pick, pulling a mound of soil along with Goshy's corpse. The head is preserved enough, the torso too, but below the waist there's liquefied mush that reeks of swamp gas. They scoop up all they can into the wheelbarrow, gagging, coughing, puking. Goshy's face, still as stone, looks surprised. "Ugly, ugly bastard," Gonko whispers at the quivering flesh pile. He wheels it to the Funhouse, spills the lot just outside the door, unmindful of the liquid gluey mess across his shoes, then slowly takes the wheelbarrow back to fetch the others.

•

By morning it is done, or close enough. He finds most of Rufshod, the top half of Doopy, and speaks to them while he wheels each one across the turf to the Funhouse, saying nice things about the days to come, how they'd frolic on stage like dolphins at sea. Their bodies join Goshy's in a hideous pile spreading across the ground at the Funhouse door.

Gonko does not go back for Winston—that there is trouble he doesn't need, he knows that without George's warnings. Nor does he search for JJ—according to the typed list, JJ is up on the surface world, hiding out. He remembers JJ's treachery in the trailer too, and although the resulting rage does not hold a candle to the supernova George has ignited inside him, there is no question a solid beat-down is called for. If JJ survives it, whatever of him is left will make a useful clown in the new act.

Gonko pounds the Funhouse door four times. Slowly it creaks open and an eye peers out the crack. "Yes?"

Gonko pokes the clown parts with his shoe. "Bring 'em back."

The door opens wider and Gonko shoves his way in. The Matter Manipulator's beak-like nose constantly sniffs, and his eyes betray the kinds of thoughts he has. He is taller than a dwarf but not by much, moon pale with a slicked-back wedge of greasy black hair. He has never had the chance to punish Gonko, so Gonko has no fear of him. The reddish light of the studio glows upon furniture made of human beings, all of them so preserved and lifelike Gonko wagers some of them are in fact alive. He wins his wager when the chair he pulls up—its legs actual legs—gives a soft groan of pain as he slumps down on it.

The Matter Manipulator rubs his hands together, nonplussed. "This procedure, reanimation, is difficult, is time consuming," he stammers.

When Gonko replies, the Matter Manipulator cringes back like a hand has been raised to strike him. "How long's it gonna take you? Shows start soon. And we got other work to do."

"Varies. The time since death, the age of the—the organism. Too long and it is impossible! The time the, shall we say, essence has had to wander wherever essences go, once they escape the flesh." His hands flutter like birds and he laughs, nervous.

"Bring 'em back," Gonko repeats wearily.

"The, um, ah, payment?"

Now Gonko does rise to strike him and the Matter Manipulator leans eagerly forward, excited. "Orders," Gonko barks. "From George himself. And from higher than George. Geddit?"

"Ah!" Even more excited. "Any news of below?"

"Kurt says ‘Hi.' And says, do what you're told. He won't be down there forever."

"Do as I'm told! Then, we shall see. Keep it hush! I shan't be pestered by all who have lost a friend or enemy, or I shall never cease reanimating. Other works, hobbies with the living, far more interesting . . ."

Gonko begins shoveling the clown remains inside, for passing carnies have paused out there to stare at the mess. They ought not see his crew in such a state, it's a bad look. The Matter Manipulator vanishes to a back room and returns pushing something resembling an electric chair. Wires in thick bundles trail across the floor behind it, spitting sparks. "How long?" says Gonko.

"Check with me in three days." The Matter Manipulator's a little petulant now, for Gonko has clearly distracted him from any number of projects.

"I'll check back in an hour. Then an hour after that. And you're gonna mind your p's and q's and be real super hospitable and you're gonna work around the clock, or Gonko's gonna get a little antsy, and he's gonna hurt someone real, real bad."

A touch stunned, the Matter Manipulator recovers quickly, smiles. "Something wrong, Mr. Gonko?"

Gonko startles them both with the discovery of a tear in his eye, an exaggerated clown tear which is big as his fist and bounces when it hits the floor. "These are my . . ." he chokes off the words.

"Your underlings?" the Matter Manipulator ventures.

"Goddammit, they're mush now. Glue. Look at this filth." He kneels in said filth, clutching Doopy's discolored head by the hair bristles. "I'll bring you back, Doops. You'll see. Chuckle times ahead, Doops, you and your brother. We'll ride the cackle train to giggle town. We'll knock 'em dead, all of 'em, just like old times."

"Impassioned. Moving." The Matter Manipulator hustles about now, clearly seething at orders and threats, likely filing them away for when Gonko is sent here for punishment, which will surely happen sooner or later with George running things. He brings out a spatula, razor, a portable freezer holding lumps of human flesh, a sack heavy with rolled up skin, scissors, some pink gloop Gonko's never seen before. Composing himself, Gonko says, "They'll be the same, right?"

"Oh, more or less."

"They better be."

"Some enhancements, mayhap. Some minor defects." The Matter Manipulator pulls on stained gloves, assembles vials and jars of various colorful liquids. He measures out a large swath of skin, plugs in a machine with antennas and flickering dials next to the big wired-up chair. Its little screen shows a flat pulse line.

Gonko paces around the disgusting furniture. From various bits and pieces eyes follow him, silently pleading. "What's this?" he says, picking up what looks like lipstick.

"Lipstick," says the rather annoyed Matter Manipulator.

"For?"

"A variant of clown face paint. George is considering a kissing booth, lust being a . . . harvest mechanism, yes, the show has not used in some while. We'd need a female specimen of sufficient beauty, I suppose. The lipstick will enhance her further."

"It works?"

"Never tested." The Matter Manipulator straps on goggles and fires up a small flame welder. "Take it and try it, if it pleases you."

The lipstick is already in Gonko's pocket, along with what looks like mascara and eye shadow. He watches the horrid little man at work for a while sawing lengths of bone into carefully measured pieces but can stand only so much. "Hurry back," he whispers to his ruined crew.

Through the showgrounds Gonko wanders until he finds the old clown tent, now rebuilt, refurbished, and apparently used as a storing room for everyone's miscellaneous shit. Somehow the sight of old fridges, caravan doors, half-made tables, and brass backed mirrors pokes him in an unwelcome place, and the rage bursts forth. "George," he whispers, not knowing what he says, seeing only red with lightning forks of white lashed through. "George. george. georrrge!"

The crash, shatter, thud, split, and boom carry across the showgrounds while broken things fly out through the tent doorway. Some come to watch Cyclone Gonko in awe. Most, more wisely, flee the scene.

Later, on his way back to the Funhouse, Gonko strolls almost lost through the new circus layout, where George's orders have all but robbed the place of its character. The tents are all the same size, the same distance apart, perfectly swept, and it's all sparkling clean, from the swept floors to polished poles. Signs are up all over, with George's face on them, only a more noble handsome version of George, peering down from high places with the words george is watching and traitors beware. Gonko is baffled that not a single sign has been defaced.

He stops by the acrobat tent, where to his astonishment another sign out front reads: george's pet favorites (for now!) In smaller letters: suck up and rat out your friends for your chance! Three sublime bodies laze about inside, dripping with sweat from rehearsal. The new acrobats laugh and sip iced tea. Gonko sifts through fuzzy memories of that night; it takes him a while to recall the old acrobats are gone, and that Curls said something about kidnapped Olympic gymnasts replacing them. But by the time he's remembered these things, Gonko has already picked up a clump of hard dirt, yelled "Hey, fuck face," and hurled it as hard as he could at the first one to turn around. The throw strikes its target in the throat. Eyes go wide, cough cough splutter and all that caper as the others rush to the aid of their fallen friend.

"You beast!" one hollers at him. All three are weeping. The casualty rolls around with (admittedly) beautiful catlike grace.

Gonko remembers at that point there's no actual feud (til now maybe). But the way the place has changed, some old familiar touches are plenty welcome. "What the hell?" he says. "Sven would have fly-kicked me by now. Don't you know how to acrobat?"

"We abhor violence!"

"So this is gonna be one easy feud, is what you're telling me?"

They run off crying, leaving Gonko to pace restlessly around the grounds. It's a long spell of time for him—he feels like an expecting father outside the delivery room. Word reaches him that the acrobats have tattled to George and that George is on the lookout for him, but George has plenty of others to scream at and lash, and Gonko (rightly) suspects George has got a whiff of the menace oozing from his pores and is in no real rush to find him. Nonetheless he plays safe, hiding out whenever the unsteady stomp-stomp of George's goon comes near.

Things have changed all right. Rumor has it that among the punishment options, George takes particular delight in seating squabbling performers for demeaning "reconciliation" sessions with some therapist he grabbed from the world above, the same way he grabbed that accountant from back a little while. Quarreling parties are made to discuss their feelings and resolve conflicts, sometimes before an audience of carnies. It sounds truly diabolical—Gonko has to hand it to him, he knows how to spoil the fun, old George.

Sparks hiss and fizz behind the Funhouse door whenever Gonko prowls by. Word spreads that something weird is afoot in there, weirder than normal even, for very few carny rats come near in those hours. Not real keen on the décor in there himself, Gonko waits outside as much as he can, but when he hears from within "Breathe! Breathe!" he dashes in.

The floor is a repulsive mess of off-cuts in discarded piles, bone pieces leaking marrow. Lumps of flesh and organs sit in buckets. There's a zap in the air which stands hairs on end, more richness of graveyard and garbage can stink than surely have ever existed in just one room before. But there in the chair, with a blank expression behind newly applied face paint, is Doopy. His head is big and round as a basketball, with black bristles sticking out here and there. He is short, pot-bellied, glancing apologetically at the entire world. Blinking, breathing. Alive.

The Matter Manipulator wheels about, hands rubbing together. "The first attempt succeeds! Most pleasing. He lives, in his way."

"G-G-Gonko?" Doopy stammers, whispers. He lurches from the chair, falls in a heap. A banana peel has felled him. Gonko yanks him upright. Doopy paws his shirt. "It's cold over there, Gonko. It's real cold, and, and they make you do stuff."

"There, there," says Gonko, keeping his relief and joy in check because the Matter Manipulator is peering at him. But another clown tear betrays him, bounces off Doopy's shoulder as he thinks to hell with it and embraces his fellow clown. "Get busy," Gonko snarls at the Matter Manipulator, whose smile is ugly. He hauls up on his medical stretcher a squarish slab of flesh, sharpens his cleaver, holds back a tear of his own. The truth of it is, he's not felt so moved in many long years.

•

It takes just a day and a half longer before the rest of the crew are back around the same old card table, passing around the same old cards. Gonko watches them closely to see how they've pulled up. Aside from the occasional staring-into-space silence, Doopy's screaming nightmares about something he calls "Mr. Bigbad," and in Goshy's case an errant limb coming half off when he moves too fast, he is satisfied they are the same clowns they were before.

Although he hasn't got the whole crew yet. "Lean close," he says when Doopy and Rufshod finally finish their battle for who gets the last pretzel. They lean close, and he tells them the grand plan. They don't seem to hear a word of it and go right back to fighting over the now eaten pretzel. Goshy stares about, baffled by everything in sight. All systems normal.

•

"Tonight," Gonko tells his crew after a day or two of letting them settle into life, "we go up. Ruf, I'm avoiding George ‘cause of some acrobat drama. Go get us some pass-outs. Might take a while to find JJ, but we'll hit up the old haunts first. We'll split up but keep track of each other. If you spot him, find out where he's staying. Then it's beat-down time and we scare him real bad."

"Gonko, is, can I, is it," Doopy stammers.

"You may use the restroom, Doopy. And if you ask me again I'll bury you back in the sludge where I found you."

Doopy cringes. "Aw shucks, Gonko. It's bad over there, real bad, I just can't go back there, it hurts your eyes and they make you do stuff."

"I liked it over there," says Rufshod. "Made some friends."

Doopy takes off his already soiled pants and dumps them in the latrine, putting on a new pair but not before giving everyone along the way an eyeful of the poetic license the Matter Manipulator has taken with his remolding job. "Oh Christ," Gonko mutters in disgust. "Doopy, I want the extra dick gone by morning. Don't even want to know what that other thing is, but cut it off too."

"It's tingle itchy, Gonko. But when I rub it, it goes tingle ouchy."

"Oh, Gonkoooo," George coos from the tent doorway. From atop his ride-on goon—which evidently scares the bejesus out of Goshy, who runs stiff-legged from the room and squeals like a kettle—George beckons. Behind him stands the acrobat recently assailed, and so the clowns are delayed an hour and a half as, with George in the corner eating popcorn and now and then braying out a one-man laugh track, Gonko and Claudius (the acrobat) discuss their feelings with George's new toy, the therapist.

She is forty-something, dressed in soothing earthy browns and greens with frizzy hair, spectacles, and a long neck on which her head constantly bobs in perfect understanding. Gonko's hands throttle the arms of his chair throughout. Claudius at least seems to find it all of value. "I guess what I feel—when a clown attacks me?—is a sense of rejection."

The therapist nods understandingly. "And maybe Gonko when he threw the mud, or feces, whatever it was—was protesting against some rejection he has felt in the past?"

George in the corner almost dies laughing.

"It's great your proprietor cares enough to sit in on our session," says the therapist.

"I feel a little validated by that," says Claudius, "though also the frequent laughing? Gives me feelings of confusion."

The time crawls by slower than it ever has. At the end Gonko cannot remember his name or occupation for the rage has conquered all. He manages somehow to hug the acrobat when ordered to and to say something resembling "sorry." When the angry mist clears, he is standing ankle deep in the rubble of a wagon, with various aches indicating his own hands and feet destroyed it.

The other clowns gaze on respectfully, clapping. (Goshy claps by puffing out his cheeks and slapping them against his gums, which he will do on and off for the remainder of the night.) The gypsy wagon owners stand by, less impressed, and Gonko remembers the grand plan. "All of you, grab a piece of this wagon," he tells the gypsies. "We're taking it up. Fix it up there. You're coming with us. Secret mission. There shall be pay and perks aplenty."

"Up where?" says one of the gypsies. These are more Kurt survivors; some of them have been here so long the world above has become almost mythical.

"Come and Uncle Gonko will show you." Few who'd watched his display would disobey him so the gypsies reluctantly pick up the larger pieces of the wagon while the clowns gather up some of the rest of it. There isn't room in the lift for all of them plus the wagon parts so the clowns go up first. "Here is the grand secret plan," Gonko says, "and this time, listen." Already stuffed close, the clowns lean closer, the contact provoking a range of comic sounds from chiming bells, popping toast, to flatulence. "Our own show. Up above, in the place tricks come from. That caravan I trashed is the first part. We sneak out more bits and pieces, stash 'em somewhere til we're ready. Then we take a real long time to deal with this." He holds up the list of names George has given him. "We farm us some powder, see? We pay more than George is paying and bribe anyone we want to be part of the new show."

"But what if George wants us to be in his show?" says Rufshod.

"He don't. We'll be lower than gypsies down there—he said it with his own gob. And these orders come from higher than George." He rattles the list for emphasis. "So unless one of the big-bosses wants to crawl up that tunnel to tell it different, we make the rules up here, we do what we want. Which is whatever Gonko says. Got it?"

"Just clowns though?" says Rufshod. "I mean we're just clowns. What about a freak show and acrobats and lion tamers and shit?"

"In time," says Gonko.

"Gosh," says Doopy.

"And it gets better, my lovelies. In time we starve out George's show altogether. How? Ticket collectors. Geddit? We get our own people on that job. We make 'em send down to George only tricks we already entertained. Tricks who been sucked dry. No dust for George. And in time, no circus for George, when no one's getting paid down below, and the boss-bosses ain't getting their cut neither. Think they'll put up with George for long?" Doopy, frantic, raises his hand. "Speak."

"I had this great idea, Gonko," and Gonko tunes out as Doopy relates everything Gonko has just said, which takes the entire length of the trip up.

They surface through the elevator to a port-a-john in a Brisbane City construction site, vacant now since it's night. The gypsies have to make four more trips for the rest of the wagon parts. Gonko tells the carnies to steal a truck, load the wagon parts in, and then head north before they fix it. They have no tools or anything, but carny rats fix shit like magic. Gonko will find them when the time comes, once he's found a good site for the new show.

The other clowns step cautiously from the lift, out into the crisp air of a winter Brisbane evening. Suddenly they are all silent and stand there in a daze, their faces mirrors of Goshy's perpetual surprise. "What's the gag?" says Gonko. "We got stuff to do."

Doopy points at the stars. "Wh—what are them pretty things, Gonko? No foolin', you just gotta tell me."

"You seen 'em before, ain't you?"

"Heck no. Gosh they're pretty. What is them things?" Rufshod looks equally confused.

"They call 'em sky-pretties," says Gonko. "All the real super duper clowns get a chariot ride across the sky to have a lick. Like ice cream, is what I hear."

"Gee, swell!" Doopy's voice is awed. "And them tall things?" he points at the buildings.

"You seen it all. Don't you remember outside jobs for Kurt?"

Rufshod laughs, embarrassed. "Bit scattered," he says, hitting his skull with the corner of a brick, presumably to work out the kinks. Each collision makes a sound like a dog's squeaky ball toy, causing Goshy to wildly spin around seeking whoever in the gloom around them shares his secret language.

"It's all spooky," Doopy whispers. A car horn blares. "Goshy's scared, Gonko. Don't leave us here why don't ya?"

A van drives slowly by, with mr. muscle cleaning service painted on its door and rear, with a small cartoon man resembling Popeye cocking a bicep. Rufshod stiffens. "I know that fuck!" he yells. "Hey, Mr. Muscle! Remember me?"

"Ruf, relax."

"He owes me. Owes me big!" And he's off, tearing across to the fence and over it in one bound before Gonko can collar him, sprinting after the van as it rounds the corner.

"Whatever," says Gonko. "All right, you two. Have a look around, a quick search of the city. See that club where JJ used to work before we clowned him. Stay in the dark, don't get seen. See if the sights jog your memories, looks like the MM turned your brains to custard. Meet you back here in four hours."

From his pocket Gonko pulls a compass with the letter J for JJ instead of N for North, and R, D, G for Rufshod, Doopy, Goshy instead of East, South, West. The compass point will keep track of any of the clowns when he twists the dial. He is nonetheless nervous about setting them loose up here. "Let's find this rat bastard," he says, grabbing another compass for each of the clowns. Though the dials do not always agree where the J ought to be pointed, they seem reliable enough to at least keep track of each other. "Here." He tosses them each a large poncho, pulled from his pockets. "Cover up. You ain't clowns for a little bit, just to be safe."

"Gee, Gonko. That's mighty confusing. Cause see I coulda sworn we was . . ." Doopy elaborates at length, but Gonko has already fled, following the J on his compass til it leads him to a bridge above a passing train. He drops onto its roof and clings tight as it carries him north.

•

Gonko arrives after midnight to stand before the brick two-story home, sniffs the air, and can somehow tell JJ has been here recently. But as he stands at the driveway the compass point twists about and points south, frantically extending its point to indicate JJ is a long way away. It means either his magic pants are damaged from their stint below, its trinkets damaged with them, or it is just some quirk of circus magic, whose mechanics often escape those who wield it; perhaps it is not merely leading him to where JJ is but also the best time when to find him. An older version of JJ, some trick relation, looks out a curtain and sees him. Gonko contemplates busting down the door and causing some possibly fatal damage to the trick, but decides against it, in case it puts JJ on notice that he's hunted.

He rides into town on the roof of a freight train, unseen in the dark except for the glint of garish color now and then catching the corner of someone's eye as the train sails by. Not far from the house he visited he eyes again the parkland by the river when the train rumbles over a bridge through it. It's a campsite, tucked nicely out of the way of the main roads with plenty of room to set up some circus acts. Maybe this place will make a decent first stop for his new traveling show. He kisses the little compass. Looks like it steered him well, after all.

It is near dawn when he tracks down Doopy and Goshy who stand exactly where he left them in the construction site. They have not moved so much as a footstep. The ponchos sit at their feet. Doopy's head is tilted back. "They taste like ice cream, Gonko, ain't that swell? Just like ice cream, and all the real super duper clowns, they get to—"

It is hard to stay mad at them since it feels good to have his crew back, so a quick round of slapping suffices. "Don't hurt him, Gonko, gee-whiz, it's not funny," Doopy reproaches him as he slaps a little sense into Goshy, who in turn peels back his lips, body heaving up sobs as clown tears fall at his feet and flop around like dying fish.

"Wise up you dick maggots," Gonko snarls. "Where's Ruf?"

"He, why, he beat up Mr. Muscles, Gonko, got him real good, and got back that tire Mr. Muscles owed him. Then he went chasing Mr. Whippy."

"He's got his own pass-out anyway. You sorry pukes need a little more time to adjust, it looks like. Daytime now. Time to hide."

"We gotta find JJ, Gonko, we just gotta, or Gonko's gonna be soooo mad . . ."

"Truer words never spoken, Doops." They take the porta-a-john elevator back down below.

•

When he returns, Gonko sees JJ's trick chum Steve slowly making his way from the elevator, with a withered old hag in his arms who looks vaguely familiar. She looks to be, say, three hundred years old, give or take a decade. Gonko mugs the guy for his pass-out (never hurts to have spares in case George gets shitty and confiscates them back) and thinks no more of it.

Steve, not too bothered by the mugging, watches the clown boss strut away, lashing his boot at various inanimate objects that seem to bother him. Feebly the hag whispers in Steve's ear. He sets her gently down. "I'll be right back," he assures her. "You're already looking better."

And she is. As the minutes pass, days of age fall away from her. Steve finds his way to George's trailer, breathing with relish the popcorn-scented air he has missed so badly, marveling at the newness and polish to everything. He clears his throat, knocks on the trailer door. "Excuse me, Mr. Pilo? I'd like my old job back, sir. And I've brought the fortuneteller."

A little later George stomps over to Shalice and laughs himself hoarse. She looks a sprightly hundred-and-fifty now, but it's comedy gold to George. "Don't dress too skimpy please," he warns. "This is a family circus. You want directions to the freak show?"

The crone regards him with ancient eyes. "I've missed you terribly," says Shalice. She produces a tear.

George falters—he's slightly touched. Conflicting emotions wrestle briefly across his face. He spits. "Eh. Get set up in your booth or whatever. And don't let the clowns know you're back. I send 'em up looking for you every night." George laughs at their shared joke, and she favors him with a smile. "Show day soon," he says happily. "I'll send your crystal ball and some instructions from below. You'll be busy, lots to do up there."

"Thank you, Mr. Pilo," says the now hundred-year-old crone, curtseying from a seated position while George bustles away. She too takes a deep whiff of the popcorn-scented air, but unlike Steve her face sours as if she has scented pure death.

•

It is five days before Rufshod returns triumphant, dragging with him a tire, an empty box of ice cream cones, a computer monitor, and all manner of other bits and pieces, most smashed beyond recognition. Gonko is too busy scheming to be pissed at him. While naturally someone has raided Gonko's main stash of velvet bags full of wish powder during his long absence, they haven't found the secret compartment holding his smaller emergency stash. Nineteen bags sit in a happy pile, probably more loot than George himself has got these days. He first wishes himself a quick S&M session with a virtual Marilyn Monroe, gets his rocks off, which keeps the George-rage at bay a little, then commences doling out bribes. As instructed, Doopy starts a war of words followed by a war of head-butts with the acrobats to distract George, who is soon popcorning his way through another "Reconciling Our Differences" therapy session (although judging by how little mirth George gets this time, it sounds like Doopy is just sitting there confused, agreeing to whatever is said to him and babbling about Mr. Bigbad.)

Gonko visits Curls. "How close does George watch your crew?" Gonko asks, none too subtly wiping his forehead with a velvet bag.

Curls watches its every move. "He don't care about us," he says. "We look busy and it's all right. We go to him if there's a problem. We're just carny rats; we don't matter none."

"Here's the deal, Curls. You're a ticket collector now." He tosses Curls the bag. "I'll go chat to the other collectors and tell 'em what's what. What's what is that you're their boss. And don't do nothing without seeing me first." Curls makes the velvet bag vanish into his pockets like magic. Gonko can feel the envious eyes beaming out from hidden places; powder has never been scarcer.

Which helps Gonko set things up nicely: instructions for smugglers, with maps pointing to the upstairs show site. Using Doopy's pass-out, they sneak up— slowly, and with great care—tent canvas, pegs, crates of costumes, and other supplies. It takes two full bags of powder to convince a gypsy who keeps the Ferris wheel working to knock on the Matter Manipulator's door and distract him—no fun job, admittedly—and also a promise that he can join Gonko's operation "up there." The Matter Manipulator clearly sniffs a rat by the way he looks around upon leaving his house to follow the gypsy.

Gonko dashes in, steals two tubs of clown face paint, a chair made of living human parts and from a back room swipes a head in a glass case, presumably an unfinished freak show creation in progress. It's a fifty-something-year-old professorial head with severe eyebrows, fat cheeks, and an impressive glower. "Buh, hm, what? What's all this? Preposterous!" it grumbles as Gonko covers it in a towel.

Not much of a freak show yet, he knows, but it's a start. When night falls, he takes it all up to the surface world with Doopy's help and checks in on the carny rats up there. The caravan has arrived and is assembled; all is in order. The carny rats each get an other full bag of Gonko's stash, which ought to keep them sweet til it's just about show time.

•

A week has passed and it's time to head surface-wise for the JJ hunt. Gonko figures the clowns ought to stick tight since they're all still a little sludge-brained, which works fine til Rufshod spots a Super Geek PC repair van with a cartoon nerdish version of Superman painted on it, then he's off into the night with a war cry of "Not this time you don't, Super Geek." Thankfully, Gonko got a trench coat on him in the lift so the only clownish thing about him is the face and shoes. The other clowns are similarly obscured, but the trench coats sit uneasy on them, eager to slide off or tear and spill clown out into the cool evening.

A leash for Rufshod seems to be in order next time, Gonko decides. On the plus side, a check of the three compasses—Doopy's, Goshy's, and his own—shows the arrows agreeing on the direction of "J," give or take the odd flicker. Gonko leads them through the city. They thread through crowds of shoppers, students, commuters, and tourists, people who don't seem to really see them. The only ones who do are a few homeless men, presumably whacked out on some kind of perspective shifter, given how they cringe back and in one case run away at a fast hobble.

The compasses point them around the block a few times, indicating JJ is on the move. Goshy waddles along behind, bowling people over who don't quite see him and causing a grappling match between two young hotheads in the process. That aside, it's uneventful until they come to the corner of Adelaide and George Street, where Doopy grabs Gonko by the shoulder and says, "Gee-whiz, wow! Look, Gonko, George has got his own street up here, up here where tricks come from. Ain't it swell?"

When below, Gonko can emotionally prepare for interactions with George so this kind of thing doesn't happen. Right now his guard is down, and as he stares at the george st sign, it turns into George Pilo's sneering face, laughing with popcorn spilling out its gob, before everything goes red with flashes of white lightning. Suddenly little Georges are all around him. "George," he says quietly. "George . . . george. georrrrrge!"

Doopy and Goshy observe Gonko stampeding over the pedestrians to get at a couple of rather swish cars which evidently remind him of George, since he proceeds to stomp them. Expensive car alarms blare in panic. The passing people suddenly see Gonko crystal clear. "george! george!"

Doopy leans close to his brother. "Goshy, we gotta help the boss, we just gotta! Let's go find JJ, coz Gonko, he's just, he . . ."

Goshy makes a low whining whistle—a sad sound.

"I know, Goshy, I know. I don't wanna wear the not-clown clothes no more neither." So off come the ponchos and the two of them leave Gonko (now on the run from some police who'd cruised by) and head towards Queen Street, where JJ used to have his old job when he was just a trick they were stalking.

"Just wait here, Goshy," says Doopy, going to some length to shove his brother into the exact right spot, right in the middle of the mall. "I'm gonna climb that building and bring back JJ, so Gonko won't be so shouty-breaky. You remember JJ, don'tcha?"

Goshy's left eye narrows.

"Now, don't be mean! Aw c'mon, shucks, don't you be mean when I fetch him, you gotta promise! Gonko's gonna beat him up, beat him up real bad, so don't be mean, okay?"

Off goes Doopy, leaving his brother startled and confused, turning on the spot and forgetting to keep hidden in the shadows. It is not long before he acquires a crowd of drunk and tipsy Friday night revelers who stand in a ring about him. They laugh and point, all of them shouting things he doesn't understand. He tries to shut the sound out with his fists, spins about, looks for a way to escape, but there are just faces, faces, faces, laughing, laughing, laughing . . .

•

Doopy is up on a windowsill of the Wentworth Gentleman's Club when the scream rings out. His grand plan was to pry open the window, sheepishly call, "Hey, JJ?" then climb back down, but that will have to wait. His descent is a comet strike into alleyway garbage cans. He bounces over the fence. And there, a crowd of people are holding their ears, some writhing around after having been trampled. "Hey, you, you shouldn'ta ought not done did it," Doopy yells, barreling into them and laying several people flat in a human traffic pile up. His fists windmill about, his boots thud down, his buttocks are swung like a club. It's a weird but effective way to pound a lot of people, but someone manages to brain him with a rock or brick, which snaps him out of attack mode. There ahead Goshy waddles fast, fists firm at his sides, kettle noise steaming "mmm, hmmm, hmmm," and beyond him at the top of the mall the redheaded JJ makes a running escape.

Gonko appears at the top of the street in a snazzy fake beard, glasses, a new trench coat, and has no cops on his trail. Doopy jogs on the spot for a moment, nervous and undecided. Being alive is hard without the boss to think for him. He waves until he has Gonko's attention then points to JJ, who ducks around a corner.

Gonko herds the other clowns together, absentmindedly swats them both, but their target is close: the compass is working properly and has them on his tail. Fifteen minutes later the clowns have found Jamie's building. "The nerve of this guy, living it up like a normal trick," Gonko says as they stare up the rows of windows. There, that place: a light goes on right as they watch, and a redhead stands at the window with binoculars briefly trained on the opposite building.

"We goin' up there, Gonko? We just gotta get JJ back."

"Tomorrow, after we find Rufshod. Then JJ will get his beat down."

***