Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

4. BELOW

George had been too busy getting the ship in order to bother himself with the clowns' comings and goings. Pleasingly, new staff freak-outs and psychotic breaks (as their old selves rebelled one last time against what they were now a part of) had tapered off and the place was looking show-ready. Much as he detested them on a personal level, more coldly viewed, the clowns were useful tools for the business. They had been in the show longer than most, and should George need some heads busted, Gonko was at least smarter about it than the lumberjacks. They'd not be performing any time soon, not until George received some serious sucking up, but they were fun to torment.

Speaking of torment . . .

When the phone in George's trailer rang just yesterday, the icy voice said, "three days." Before the dial tone could cut in George had cried, "Wait! There's someone down there with you who I need for the show."

A long watchful silence followed. Slowly: "I am not . . . down . . . there."

George broke out in goose bumps and shivers. He'd not expected a response, had at best hoped to be heard before he, she, it, hung up. Quickly he went on, "I need more performers. My brother Kurt. I wanna make him part of the act. Got it all figured out. I know he was in some trouble with the high ups, but can I have him? I assure you he won't enjoy it."

Then the dial tone cut in. Not a yes, but not (as far as he knew) a refusal either.

Now he stood atop his goon, whose glassy eyes stared dead ahead while drool splashed off the goon's chin. They stood in the Funhouse basement with four strong lumberjacks, who had spent the past week building a carefully designed cage of iron and wood. It was welded into a cocoon of circular ribs, which could be tightened by twisting thick iron screws. Even on the night of his rampage Kurt would have been unable to break out of this contraption; now he'd be starved and weak, just as Gonko had been when he'd risen from the depths.

A long thick chain dangled down the tunnel below the Funhouse. Four strong lumberjacks stood holding the end, ready to pull. Like fishermen they waited for a tug on the line before they began. They had been waiting for two hours. George hopped down from the goon's saddle, and held a megaphone to his lips. "Kurt! Grab the chain. Can you hear me, Kurt? You're coming up. I'm rescuing you."

More tense minutes crawled by. Maybe Kurt hadn't been permitted to come up after all, or maybe they'd have to come back tomorrow and try again. But then the chain rattled a little, tensed. Frantically George waved his arms and barked orders. The cage was wheeled in place. The muscle men had been briefed on what to expect. At the first sign of trouble George would scream the pre-arranged code words—"drop the chain"—at which point they'd drop the chain, sending Kurt back below.

The lumberjacks heaved, dragged. Gradually a figure—even smaller than George had envisioned—appeared against the tunnel's orange glow. Soon Kurt was so close they could see he looked relatively human from the collarbone up. The rest of him was more like a blackened skeleton of mismatched bones tangled together. The familiar thick lips curved up in a puzzled smile. George shivered, hatred and pleasure all mixed up. He spoke into the megaphone, "Welcome back, brother."

"George. What is all this? Rather a fine surprise."

"Oh, it gets better Kurt." More frantic arm waving. The muscle men got into position. Kurt passed through the tunnel's outer lip, the chain passed through the cage, and George screamed, "Go! Now!"

Struts were hit away; bolts snapped. Wood and metal fell in place. Kurt's smile crawled away and died somewhere. His eyes glared straight ahead. George cackled, danced, giggled, and capered. The lumberjacks tossed a black tarp over the cage, leaving only Kurt's head exposed. They wheeled him to the freak show tent, where Kurt's head was put inside a custom made glass case. In the darkness of the freak show, with some careful lighting, the bulk of him was hidden, leaving the illusion that only Kurt's head remained.

When he could at last rein in his laughter and wisecracks, George reached into the glass case and patted the head. "Welcome to your new job," he said. A sharp stick was leaned against the glass case; a sign hammered into the ground nearby said: poke the freak—see him change!

"Brother George, do you suppose some food—"

"Oh, sure," George said. "First we better test this out, don't you think? Before the tricks come through. Thousands and thousands of tricks, Kurt. Too many to count, as the years crawl by." George had first poke. Kurt still glowered straight ahead, his cheek and forehead dipping in with each sharp jab. Slowly, slowly the color rose in his cheeks until they flared crimson. George went till his arm got tired. "Who's next?" he said, passing the stick to the nearest lumberjack.

By the day's end nearly everyone had been through the freak show tent for their turn, with George making damned sure no one missed out. It took the fifteenth carny poking away before Kurt's face split open, elongated and shifted. The growl from his throat made the carny flee the tent. It was many hours after the last poke that his face resumed its more human appearance. In all, an effective freak show gimmick, George reckoned. He sprinkled some flakes of fish food into the tank, and drizzled in a little water. "You'll be a star, big brother," he said, having a few more jabs while Kurt silently licked up the food, eyes boring hard straight ahead, staring, staring until a black cloth fell over the tank.

***