“Go! Go! GO!” Mike barked into his
radio. “Everyone move! Get inside that tent!”
Sam was forced
to sit and listen as Mike dashed from the van and scores of undercover officers
swarmed Maven’s tent. Through the earpiece, he heard the pandemonium: shrieks,
shouts, and clomping feet, amplified. He
imagined Maven and his cohorts scrambling to get away as Philadelphia’s finest
slapped the cuffs on them. Inside, the
scene was far more chaotic.
“Breach!” Maven snarled, just after
the very first plant in his audience screamed, “Police”.
In a blink, the
unfortunate souls under Maven’s spell reacted to his embedded command. They immediately
attacked the undercover officers in their group. Those responding to Mike’s call received an
unpleasant welcome as they stormed inside the tent. With fists and feet,
Maven’s puppets lashed out at anyone who tried to get near their commander. As rapidly as possible, the offenders were
snapped into handcuffs but that didn’t keep them from continuing their
attack. They kicked, bit, and even head-butted
until, eventually, enough back up arrived to contain the assailants.
“He’s on the run,” one of the
officers screamed into his radio.
In the
confusion, Maven managed to slip through the curtain. As he dashed through the fairgrounds, pieces
of his costume fluttered to the grass below, to be trampled underfoot. To
cover his jet black hair and help him blend into the crowd, he snatched a baseball
cap from a nearby vendor’s table. Two
patrolmen followed on foot, desperate not to let Maven give them the slip. They had him in their sights; pressing hard
to close the gap between themselves and their quarry when Maven did the
unthinkable. Realizing that the law was
gaining on him, he launched his body into a crowd of people. Bodies flew in all directions; an elderly
woman fell from her wheelchair and babies toppled from their strollers. A
flailing teen on crutches crashed into a hotdog cart; spilling scalding, greasy
water, overly processed meat-by-products, condiments and buns, everywhere. The
domino effect was in full force, knocking a clown with a massive balloon
bouquet down on top of screaming children.
The officers had no choice but to assist the downed civilians. They radioed
to their compatriots hoping somebody could intercept Maven in his attempted
escape.
“Suspect, white male, black hair, dark
eyes, approximately five-eleven, weighing one hundred fifty pounds now wearing
black denim jeans and a black t-shirt.”
Defying Mike’s
orders, Sam sprang from the van, sprinting full speed toward Maven’s suspected
route. With flashing lights and blaring
sirens, Philadelphia’s Police Department squad cars wove through traffic,
speeding to assist. Vowing to reinstate
his gym membership, Sam ran despite the cramps and his seemingly narrowing
windpipe. Just as he was about to give
up, he caught sight of Maven scrambling down the side of an overpass. Newly
invigorated, Sam pressed on. Without taking his eyes off his target, Sam pulled
his cell phone from his pocket.
“Call Mike,” he commanded to the
voice dial option.
It took a few
repetitions but eventually his phone obliged.
Panting, he told Mike where he was and requested backup.
“You’re supposed to be in the van!”
Mike bellowed, angrily. “Just what do
you think you’re…”
Mike’s rant
stopped dead. The distinct sound of gunshots choked the words before they
escaped his lips.
“Sam? Sam!
Oh God, please tell me you didn’t shoot him, Sam.”
There was no
reply. Mike’s mind reeled with the
implications. He shouted Sam’s name
again but still there was no answer.
Furious, Mike flagged down a squad car and hopped a ride. He fully expected to see Sam in cuffs and
Maven’s dead body outlined in white.
Instead, Maven was nowhere to be found and Sam was strapped to a gurney,
blood pouring from the wound in his chest.
“I’m….sss…sorry…I…”
Every word was a
struggle to produce. Sam’s face had
paled and he struggled to keep his eyes open.
The EMT placed a comforting hand on Mike’s shoulder and confirmed that
they’d already injected Sam with something to ease the pain.
“Shh, don’t try to talk right now,
buddy,” replied Mike as soothingly as possible.
“They’re gonna patch you up and then.…then I’m gonna kick your ass! What were you thinking?”
“I’m no doctor but I don’t think
screaming at him is gonna help much, Mike,” his partner interrupted.
Mike regained
his composure and was permitted to ride along in the ambulance while the others
continued the search for Maven.
In an attempt to plea bargain, Maven’s
assistants not only spoke the command to release those trapped under their
bosses spell, they spilled the beans. They revealed every single detail they
could remember, incriminating Maven for everything from murder to extortion,
blackmail and fraud. They could not; however, come up with anything to help the
police find the man himself.
Sam had been fortunate. The bullets had
not pierced any major organs or arteries.
Despite his threats, Mike did not kick Sam’s ass after he recovered.
Instead, he threw a huge bash the next time Sam and Jenny visited …to celebrate
their engagement.
The negative press did irreparable damage
to Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival. In
wake of the scandal, BT had no choice but to close down and sell off all shares
and assets associated with his beloved carnival. Using his own personal funds, anyone who
filed a claim for damages, received compensation. Though he was no longer the owner; the spirit
of Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival endured.
All of the titles and equipment was purchased by BT’s original
staff. The name, of course, was changed
but BT was hired on as the ring leader. He changed his appearance and went by Big
Bill or BB but being a part of the circus was all he’d ever wanted. His joy was beheld by all, in each and every
performance. Tina made sure to send Sam
and Jenny an invitation to the grand opening of their brand new circus: Chancley, Bankes & Deene Family Traveling
Circus. A wonderful time was had by all.
In spite of a strenuous search and a joint
venture with the FBI, Maven was never found.
It was discovered that he had used a fake ID when he applied to Mystic
Magill’s Big Top Carnival. Even the rentals on the various PO Boxes where
victims had mailed in their cash yielded no results. The original owner of the
boxes had all died, possibly even by Maven’s hand, but there was no connection
between the box holders. Eventually, the
hunt ended and the manpower reassigned to other, more pressing, cases.
*********************************************************************************
ONE YEAR LATER:
A scraggly man with a shock of platinum blonde hair sprouting from darker roots,
stroked his greasy goatee as he absorbed the ambiance of his surroundings. A fleabag traveling carnival with rusted,
deathtrap rides and plywood stands for rigged games sagged under the recent
downpour that had tapered to a gloomy drizzle.
He pushed through the unlocked gate, looking for a sign of life.
“We’re closed,” a surly man slurred
before taking another swig from a lukewarm can of beer.
“I’m looking for the owner,” he
replied with a commanding tone that didn’t suit his emaciated frame. “I can assure you, he wants to see me. Tell
him, I come bearing an offer to help turn this pigsty into an event to rival
Ringling Brothers in their heyday.”
Shrugging, the
disinterested guard staggered off in search of his boss. As he waddled off, the man at the gate smiled.
“Dance, puppet,” he hissed. “Dance. Soon, I’ll own you all.”
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