Step Right Up! (Misanthropiclove & PadanFain)

[Rudolph Quin]

The night air was filled with the cacophony of voices and music warring for dominance in the ears of those who populated the carnival grounds. Laughter, the calls of the mike-men and the gasps and sighs of wonder from the crowds competed with the music from the rides and the crash and clang of the games on the Midway. Bodies pressed close together as patrons wandered from sight to sight, the bright lights of the attractions making it seem as day among the tents and stands. Everything demanded attention, from those at the concessions to the show masters calling in audiences, the people's eyes bright and shifting from one thing to the next in a daze of awed delight.

Unnoticed, a woman stood off to the sides in the alley between two tents, smoking a cigarette and watching the river of people flow by, seemingly unmoved by the jubilation that overwhelmed them all. Blond feathered, shoulder length hair moved in the warm summer breeze that swept by, the stream of smoke curling around her head like a crown as she took a drag, her eyes leaving the crowd briefly as the glorious tainted mist filled her lungs. Tossing the bud down to the flattened grass, she stepped on it and moved out from the shadows, blending into the stream of people and yet completely set apart from them. Wearing a patterned silk shirt, flowy and with buttoned cuffs, and a dark skirt seemingly wrinkled yet purposefully so, she moved with a fluid grace, wading in the tide of flesh like a majestic swan floating on a pond. A dozen bracelets hung around both wrists, heavy and gaudy, jangling as she walked, the rings on her fingers catching the lights as her arms swayed with her leisurely saunter. Overall, she looked like a walking thrift store and although not terribly aged, there was an ancient air about her, a depth to her features that went beyond the mere numbers her body and face portrayed.

As she passed by a vendor for a stacked bottle target game, she nodded at a man in the crowd who was approaching with children in tow. The vendor who was a thin, bleach blond, dark eyed man, nodded discreetly back and called out to the Mark she'd indicated. The man with the family was instantly hooked and reeled in by the vendor's spiel and the pestering of the two children with him for one of the cheap plushes on the back wall of the booth got the man to bring out his fat, overstuffed wallet. The woman smiled and moved on, her gaze sweeping over the other booths she passed and over those in the crowd, her dark, bright eyes not missing a thing. Then she walked into the area of tents with shows and attractions, the mike-men calling out to the gathered crowds, drawing them in for the performances inside. Unhindered, she walked into one side of the long tent, bowing her head as the burly man in the doorway lifted the flap for her. Weaving through the crowd of on-lookers she went from tent to tent, stopping briefly to watch the performances. For one such performance she stopped and stood in the back of the crowd, her eyes fixated on the man standing on the small platform.

Reese held the fan of knives with blades pinched between the fingers of both hands, eyes blindfolded with a red scarf. Several feet in front of him within view of the audience, a scantily clad woman stood in front of a large wall with a ringed target on it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her cleavage supple and inviting in the tight bodice she wore and sweat glistened on her face, neck, arms and belly. A look of nervous fear was on her face as she eyed the sightless man with the knives and the crowd stirred with the palpable tension. His chest bare except for a worn leather vest and dark pants, Reese sweated as well under the heat of the bright lights shining all around him.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he raised the knives deliberately and drew his hands back. The crowd held it's breath as the woman tensed, her eyes wide. And at the last moment, just as planned, an anonymous voice yelled from the crowd, "Hey, Reese!" at the split second the knives were leaving his hands. The man on stage turned towards the voice, even as the blades whizzed into the air and the crowd gasped as the woman squealed a startled yelp. The hollow sound of metal striking into wood went unheard as applause rose up from those who were watching, the blades wedged into the wall in an outline around the young woman's body. Removing the blindfold, Reese drank in the applause, feeding on it, smiling as the woman stepped from the wall unharmed and smiling for the crowd, without a trace of her earlier nervousness.

"Give a nice round of applause for Reese, The Knife Thrower, and his lovely assistant, Miss Rajita!" the announcer standing off to the side said in his loud voice. That having been the last part of the act for this performance, the two held hands and bowed for the crowd. Then they were walking off stage and the crowd was making it's way out of the tent, back out into the night to view more sights and wonders, murmuring amongst each other about the act they'd just witnessed.

As he followed the young woman off stage, Reese felt the eyes on him and glanced to the back of the tent where the older woman had been standing, but when his gaze came to rest there, she was already gone.

 

[Misanthropiclove]

The carnival seemed like every other one, really. From the outside. That is how Ringleader Luke Ivanovich liked it. Most people knew him as The Ringleader, some knew him as Luke, others as Father. Only his patroness in crime knew his real life. Luke Ivanovich had been born a poor, helpless child in Europe back in the days people liked to idolize in their fantasy novellas. The actuality was much less romantic: Luke had had to dredge through horse shit as a serf for the first twelve years of his life. He had been afforded no childhood these spoiled wretches of the days had gotten. He had barely been given a name. No, the Ringleader had not been a success.

His current appearance was one of a combination of PT Barnum and Snidely Whiplash, a perfectly kept criminal moustache of the blackest night. His hair, in keeping with his name, was black with slightly blonde roots. The real coloration had slipped Luke's mind back in the early fourteen hundreds, but he could every now and then imagine it was brown. Either way, it didn't matter. The old life was gone. He had forced his way up into the ranks, stolen knowledge that no mere human should have known, shelled out the souls of 'priests' to dark powers in trade for favors. Luke was a dangerous man and his elongated life and position at this circus showed this. Yet, he could always remember his beginnings, if only through a shattered lens.

At the age of twelve a serf boy named Charles had been taken into a monastery, being told he was needed to help organize it. He did organize some things, but was mainly a catamite for the repressed monks who's depravity knew few bounds. Even the horses he hid with in the morning knew the depredations of a horny brother. Luke never held it against them; the tomes and occult artifacts being held at the monastery had influenced the people to their deeds. Luke just struck a bargain and helped them on. His life had been okay since then, in retrospect.

Luke turned to the statue in his special room and rubbed it down with a cloth made of the finest silks and touched with tears of virgins. The typical pseudo-satanic bullshit that seemed to drive these creatures wild. Luke was a good vassal: he didn't question why his dark Lords would like their shrines filled with the placentas of still borns or twelve white peaches burned in a pile on the blood moon. He just did it. That kept him alive. There was a knock on his door and he turned, his dull black eyes eying the wooden thing, "What is it?"

"Father, Father! We have a potential new recruit. He comes from Old Natasha's Carnivale and Amusement," the voice behind the door relayed.

Luke thought of this as he scrubbed down the statue. That carnival wasn't so bad. Not as full of complete hoaxes and rubes as some of the others. Perhaps this one had potential, "I will see him in a little bit. Offer him a seat and something to occupy his time. And, for the love of whatever helps you sleep at night, keep him away from the freaks."

There was a rather ragged looking man in a waiting trailer, a long gone lollipop stick in his mouth that he kept chewing on. He looked, for the moment, like a Goodwill punk. His black hair hadn't been brushed since he woke up, the long tresses falling in clumps behind him. His shirt was a lovely bit of sarcasm that had Farrah Fawcett and a logo of "JUMP INTO THE SEVENTIES!" that was obviously many times handed down. His pants were patched with by the looks of it whatever had been handy. His left ear held an odd looking piercing, almost as if it was a small yet working syringe. His eyes were slanted, yet his eyes were a ruddy brown. His skin color was a dark mix, the color that every white person at the beach dreamt their body would tan as. His frame was rather bulky, more as if from his bones than any real muscle or fat, but it was really hard to tell as he had as much as he could covered up by clothing. Even his hands had gloves on them, which was odd for this weather. His right ear seemed to twitch every now and then, as if he was just a bit jittery. The truth was much different.

They're here. Can you see them? Can you? We should help them all. We should. There are sooooooo many! The voice always was interrupted by a chiming staccato of needles on concrete, as if the creature in his head was standing on some kind of flooring. Jude could talk to the thing, and did often. It was more as if it was a smattering of consciousness that flitted through his brain, but he did. 'Look, we are settling down here. If only for a bit. I notice the ghosts too, and the other spirits.'

Yes, they are tied. They can't leave. We'll need to sever the connections, let them free. Nnnnnnnn, I cannot wait to start. Yet...something else is here. I can sense a cancer. The creature always seemed to be just a little off kilter. The other's like himself that Jude met generally didn't have a great connection, but he had met one's with creatures madder than his. Others were silent, or just strange. Jude had come to accept his lot a long time ago, 'As I said, we'll see. I don't think we need to get arms deep without taking everything in first. Don't let the flood of their corpuses get to you.'

Mmm, yes. You are right, Nurse. I am giddy. I have not felt a conglomeration of spirits like this since the atrocities. The one before that fire man. Such ample times... The being seemed to get lost in thought and the giddy "click-click" of the needle feet stopped. The door opened then, which was impeccable timing, really.

The man who stepped in was dressed in a black tuxedo with a top hat that looked like it should be utterly ridiculous. On Luke Ivanovich, it worked. He was a quintessential ringleader, the type that inspired nostalgia in the elder visitors and a yearning for a time never lived in the younger ones. "Ah, Mr. Ngyuen, good to meet you. May I say what fortuitous timing it is that you have graced The Olde Time Carnival!" The tone was of a nice, generous businessman, one who had every eye out for what was good for you.

Jude didn't buy it for a minute.

"You can call me Jude. I never really went by a title before. Anyway, I have come because my last job has gotten me as far as I could with my skills. I'm a fortune teller and medium. More medium than fortune teller, but even those who don't believe in ghosts like getting their future read." He held out a pack of tarot cards that were worn from over use. they didn't show any hint of the fact he had bought them two weeks prior and then spent several hours just shuffling them in the improper ways.

"Ah, I see. I knew you had some type of oracular abilities. We welcome all of your kind to our family, which we are, Mr. Ngyuen." Jude repressed a grimace, which was particularly easy for someone with his own past. Not only did he continue to call him Mr. Ngyuen, but he spoke of this place as a family. Well, it could be worse, "Now, Mr. Ngyuen, do you believe in your gifts?"

"I can tell you that I do in fact believe in the supernatural. Yet, to tell you the length of my gifts would be rather improper. To reveal your secrets leaves the crowd with no reason to come back, so to speak." Jude gave a performer's smile, bowing and coming back up to place his cards in a pocket.

"Very good, very good. I believe you can fit right in. So, tell me exactly, what you would bring?"

"I would be running a small tent, or perhaps show, of oracular and fortune telling abilities. I also can do medium aspects, whether the customer wants arcane spirit writing or even some baroque seance requiring flowers from the far orient and the sap from a dragonsblood tree. I can specialize in Catholic, Oriental, and Hispanic traditions. That covers most people, but I tend to get less appeal from those who want Vodoun traditions. I can easily fake Neo-pagan though."

The Ringleader nodded and thought about it, "We did lose a gypsy lady recently. You honestly can't expect to keep up with a gypsy though, can you?" He paused for the polite laughter and went on as it was given, "One last question; how long have you been with circuses?"

"Since I was nineteen, Mr. Ivanovich. I have traveled with three, one that actually stopped moving, so I left. I like seeing the world, even if it is just America, with my job." Plus, it made it much more likely his family couldn't track him down.

"That seems good. We will start you off with a small trailer and a stall. The circus will take half of your profit, but provide you with food and shelter, plus bathing areas. Feel free to make your own schedule, but take no more than two days off a week. We won't start advertising you until our next location, so take your time to make up your stall. Please follow Brandon here to your trailer."

Jude nodded, figuring he would have gotten the job anyway. He was just glad he hadn't had to resort to any of his abilities. He followed the tall black man to his trailer and thanked him, dragging his items in with a bit of help. Jude didn't own much, a few knick nacks and some clothing mainly. He looked about the trailer and figured it would do. He absently picked up a piece of chalk from one of his bags and started to draw a circle. It started near his bed and went up the wall, going to the ceiling, and ending up where it began. 'Remind me of the symbols again?'

A rapid fire amount of imagery would come as he started drawing arcane and powerful symbols in chalk around the circle. He completed this activity an hour later and checked it out, stepping across. Suddenly, the rush of ghostly voices he had been pushing out of his mind stopped. He gave a smile, his eyes sparkling. "Good, goooood. This will do."

He stepped back over, grabbing a bag of jerky and went back to bed, turning off the light as he went. He would finish unpacking in the morning. He had time. If it was anything Jude always had, it was time.