The Freaks Come Out At Night- Part 3

At Maven’s insistence, two new staff members joined the team that very evening.  To smooth ruffled feathers and calm the nerves of his co-workers, Maven agreed to pay his new assistants out of his own pocket until the carnival was out of danger and restored to its previous glory.  Known simply as Alec and Drake, the newcomers were surly and intimidating.  Their jet black hair painted a stark contrast to their pale skin.  In that respect they mimicked their master but where Maven was lithe and mysterious, his cohorts were bulky and ominous.  From that evening forward, Maven was never seen without his two assistants in tow.  They vigilantly guarded the entrance to Maven’s tent while the show was in progress, no peeking allowed.  Sure enough, one week after that fateful meeting, attendance at Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival greatly increased.  Even when they pulled up stakes and moved to the next town, attendance grew exponentially.  Each new town brought larger crowds and, for the first time in a long time, there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. 

            “BT!  BT!  BT Magill, please report to the main entrance ticket gate immediately!”  Tommy barked into the walkie-talkie.  His tone was urgent.  The collective hearts of the entire staff seemed to sink.  A call like that over the radio could only mean trouble.  BT ran as fast as his plump legs could carry him.  Panting and sweating, the owner reached the front gate and steeled himself for dire news.  Anxious patrons stood in lines as far as the eye could see, gaping at the old man and wondering if his heart could bear that kind of exertion. 

            “Tommy,” BT panted.  “What’s wrong?” 

            “We’re out of tickets!” He exclaimed gleefully.  “There’s so many people here I ran out of admittance tickets!”  

The Freaks Come Out At Night-Part 2

     Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival was an eclectic blend of carnival folk that had bonded closer than most true families. They bickered like siblings but were fiercer than a lion when someone threatened a member of the clan.  Regardless of their station, no one believed themselves to be better than another inside the carnival.  As BT always said, they were a gigantic machine and each cog kept the wheel turning; each piece vital to production.  At one point or another BT had bailed each and every staffer out of some sort of trouble.  It was high time they returned the favor.  Admittedly, it had taken some time for the staff to work out a solution since BT was, quite literally, their ring leader but loyalty was one thing the carnival folk had in spades.  The plan was risky but each and every soul vowed to do their part to help their intrepid leader. 

            “I, for one, know I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for BT.” Jared, one of the animal trainers, declared as he rose from his seat.  “Like most of us, BT took me in when I had nowhere to go and no family to look out for me.  He taught me a trade, treated me like one of his own…hell, he’s even bailed me outta jail, but he never gave up on me.  He sat up with me as I went through detox and he helped me kick the habit.  No way am I gonna turn my back on him.  I’d steal, cheat or kill for BT to keep this place up and running!” 

If anyone had even the slightest doubt, Jared’s words won them over.  There wasn’t a single soul in BT’s employ who didn’t own him a debt of gratitude. 

            “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Maven hissed.  “If everything goes the way I’ve planned… it will be smooth sailing from here on out.”

     Maven was the only member of Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival that truly frightened the staff as well as the customers.  His little sideshow tent left patrons quivering with trepidation and it was the sole attraction that none of his coworkers attended.  He had started out with simple “mind reading” but has since embraced a darker, more spine-tingling approach.  Though BT asserted that it was merely an act, the others sensed there was more behind Maven’s mystique than showmanship.  It was that underlying fear that made the others agree to put Maven’s plan into effect without even hearing all the details.  And that suited Maven just fine.  

The Freaks Come Out At Night- Part 1

August 1999

            “You can’t mean it,” Bill sobbed.  “Aren’t you the one who always says, ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’?  Well, I’ve got the will so there must be a way!”

His hurt expression made him look more like a child than a man well past fifty but Bill, better known as “Big Top” or “BT” Magill’s heart was breaking. 

            “C’mon BT, don’t look at me like that.  That was my father’s favorite saying, not mine.  If there was a way, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.  You know I love the place as much as you do but, let’s face it, it’s long past due.  Kids today want a Game Boy or that Playstation.  They want to surf the web.  They don’t want to go to an olde-timey carnival like we did in the old days. They don’t stick baseball cards in the spokes of their bicycles and ride through town to play stick ball with their friends anymore.  They don’t go anywhere. Not just because the streets aren’t safe either.  They wanna sit in front of their TV’s and play video games or go on the computer.  Why would they want to watch clowns hosing each other with seltzer water when they can shoot virtual lasers and blow stuff up on the screen?  They watch their lives through Windows.”   

Mason chuckled at his play on words but he knew the old man wouldn’t catch the reference; he still thought of Windows as a pane of glass anchored in a wall not a computer operating system.  Big Top was from a different generation and the kids today just didn’t make sense to him.  In his eyes, the “kid” behind the desk was just as confusing.  It didn’t help that Mason had inherited the book keeper’s position.  The elder Mason Burke had been the one who helped BT launch his dream nearly thirty years ago.  Even with his diploma framed and hanging over the desk, Big Top still saw Mason, Jr. as a little boy not a man with a Master’s Degree in Finance. 

            “Besides, a man your age should be enjoying his golden years not slaving away at a nickel and dime carnival and certainly not squandering what’s left from a lifetime of hard work.  Retire now….before you lose every penny to the bank.”   

            “You used to love the clowns, Mason.” BT muttered sadly.  “I remember the first time your daddy took you to one of our shows.  You told me when you grew up you wanted to be a clown in my carnival.” 

Big Top’s eyes grew misty; they always did when he reminisced.  He waved off Mason’s apologies and shuffled toward the door.  His mind was elsewhere, in a happier time when his business was booming and children all over the country were thrilled to see Mystic Magill’s Big Top Carnival come to town. 

      That evening, BT had gathered his employees to give them the bad news.  He looked out over the eclectic gathering, sequin bedecked acrobats, painted clowns, animal trainers, amusement ride operators, ticket-takers, game managers and everyone who, over the years, had made his dream possible.  His loyal staffers looked up at him with growing unease; nervous whispers tittered through the room. 

            “I’m sure you all know why I’ve called this little meeting,” Bill ‘Big Top’ Magill’s normally jovial, booming voice sounded thin and defeated.  “I’ve just come from the accountant’s office and he said…” The old man’s voice cracked.  He cleared this throat and tried again.  “That is, he’s recommended….”

BT couldn’t go on.  His large frame shook with heart-wrenching sobs.  He’d let his family down.  His loyal friends and companions who had become closer than blood, what would become of them?  Fat tears streamed down his cheeks, inside his broken heart shattered even more.  GoGo the Clown rushed up and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.  He took the handkerchief and as he did, another pulled from GoGo’s pocket. In seconds, a rainbow of colors trailed from BT’s nose down to the clown’s pocket.  The old scarf trick brought a wan smile to the old man’s face.  He took a deep breath and relayed the sad news…the carnival would be closing but this time for good.  Time seemed to slow down and then, as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button, BT was in his trailer alone.  His only companion a bottle of Jack that he’d picked up on the way back from Mason’s office.

            “Fifteen years on the wagon and for what?” He scoffed bitterly, pouring his drink. 

His hands trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips.  Just then, his dearest companions burst through the door.  Before he could voice his objection, Tina the Tumbler snatched the glass from his hand and downed it in one gulp.  Clairvoyant Clara grabbed the bottle and tossed it to GoGo. Manny Muscles, the strong man, gripped BT in a bear hug and held him tight as the others poured what remained in the bottle down the drain.  They had been prepared to incur BT’s wrath but were pleasantly surprised when the big man sat down without a word.

            “I guess I should thank you.”  BT muttered, finally breaking the silence. 

            “You know we couldn’t stand by and let you flush fifteen years down the toilet,” Manny insisted.  “You’ve worked too hard to throw it all away now.”

            “Speaking of…”Clara interjected.  “After you left, the rest of us had discussion and we want to help you rebuild the carnival to its glory days.  We have a plan, if you’re willing to let us give it a try, that is.  Give us three months and if you’re not back on top we’ll go with Plan B, closing for good.” 

BT agreed to allow his staff, beloved members of his carnival family to ‘give it the old college try’. 

“Clown College, that is.”  GoGo quipped. 

Inspiration

Happy New Year!  My holiday hiatus is over and I am back in action. To get started off on the right foot, I have a short story to share. Enjoy "Inspiration"

Once again he is huddled all alone in the dark, under a worn and faded blanket.  The bluish light from his monitor casts a sickly, eerie, glow on his already pallid skin.  It is here, in the waning hours before dawn, that the fickle wench known as inspiration usually appears.  But on this night she is nowhere to be found.  The vast emptiness of a blank page is staring back at him, mocking him.  His muse, he’s concluded, has sought shelter elsewhere. Somewhere in the world, perhaps even just around the corner someone, more fortunate than he, was luxuriating in her warm embrace.  Gentle as a lover’s kiss, she is whispering words (or maybe tonight it will be a melody) into another artist’s ear.

            “Tramp,” he sneers like a jilted lover discovering his sweetheart in the arms of another. 

He throws the blanket aside and paces the floor in frustration, fury and anguish tag-team his heart strings.  A familiar, though slightly dated, quote, springs to mind.  “There is nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”.  Though the typewriter has been replaced by a laptop, the sentiment still rings true. 

            “You’ve got that part right, Mr. Hemmingway,” he whispers.  “I might as well open an artery and pour out my life’s blood.” 

Glaring at his keyboard, he scoffs.  Just as he sat back down to give it another try; a strange noise catches his attention.  He slips to the window and pulls back the binds.  Out in the street, a young couple was walking hand-in-hand.  He rolls his eyes and snorts derisively at the pair as they pause under the streetlight, huddled together in a passionate embrace.  Despite his apparent disgust, he watches as their kisses become more demanding, urgent and wanton.  The same noise, louder and closer now, makes him jump.  He yanks the blinds back, scanning the street below for a car that had backfired or kids setting off fireworks. If the noise had come from outside, the amorous couple took no notice.  This time the noise is so loud it could have come from his own bedroom yet the couple outside doesn’t even flinch.  He shakes his head in disbelief.

            “Love may be blind but who knew it was deaf, as well?”

The chuckle at his own joke freezes on his lips as a cold hand settles on his shoulder. 

            “Who the…”

He spins around; trying to control the fear in his voice, but the room is empty. He’s sucking in air in huge gulps, trying to quell his racing heart.  He was certain that he felt someone’s hand, cold as the grave, touch his shoulder.  Subconsciously, his own hand creeps across his body to caress the spot where he’d felt the touch.   Convinced it’s just the late hour and his mind playing sleep-deprived tricks on him, he moves to switch off his monitor.  A bony finger tap-tap-taps on the back of his skull.

            “No, there’s no one there.”  He insists, willing himself to resist the urge to turn around. 

He stands as still as a statue, waiting to feel another touch.  The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds until he’s determined that he has allowed his imagination to kick into overdrive.  Incensed that his imagination failed him when he sat at the computer, he feels his skin flush and his hands clench into fists.  He takes a step toward his desk and a force, with the strength of an NFL linebacker, slams him across the room.  Before he can stagger to his feet an invisible foot connects with his jaw.  His scream is suffocated by a gush of blood flooding his mouth.  A gurgling cough sputters flecks of red on the wall and down his shirtfront.  Globs of blood smear across the back of his hand as he wipes his lips dry.  Without warning he is lifted from the floor and hurled, face first, into his desk.  His monitor comes to life and the Word document is no longer blank.

            Tramp?

            Tramp?

            Tramp?

The word continues in neat columns, filling the page.  Before he can scream, the force of impact knocks his head back and it lands with a thump on the desk.  In the split-second before he loses consciousness, pain registers in his brain like a baseball bat to the temple.  As blood pours from the gashes, it spills onto his keyboard.  “Tramp?” is erased from the screen.  Instead new words begin to form on the page, one letter at a time…..

              Once again he is huddled all alone in the dark, under a worn and faded blanket. 

Zombie Claus is Coming to Town

     I suspect there's a story in this....mall Santa becomes infected and stalks the parking lot for his next meal. Crabby retail managers, stressed out mom's or thrifty widowers, they're all part of the never ending buffet for Zombie Claus.  In celebration of this wonderfully magic time of the year, I will leave Christmas to the cheery elves and flying reindeer instead.  But it wouldn't be the holidays without some presents so here's a little gift for all of you: a Zombie Claus portrait.  Enjoy!  

Thirteen on the Thirteenth

It was that same dream yet again, falling from the thirteenth floor; that woke Mitch from his slumber.  Bleary-eyed, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rolled over.  The glowing red numbers on his alarm clock read 8:45.  He sprang from his bed in a panic.  The alarm never went off, though he was certain he had set it the night before. His tiny apartment was bitterly cold. Despite the landlord’s insistence that there was nothing wrong with the furnace, his thermostat registered 61 degrees.  Flipping the switch and cranking the dial did nothing to coax warm air from the vents.  Furious, Mitch stalked to the bathroom and turned on the space heater. After gathering his toiletries, he turned on the faucet in the shower full-blast.  Huddled over the ceramic box he rubbed his hands and waited for the room to fill with steamy warmth before disrobing.  The heater crackled and hissed then, after a loud pop, promptly died.  Mitch muttered a curse and slammed his fist down on the top of the heater.  He stepped back for a moment, as if expecting it to miraculously start working again but it did not.  Yanking the plug from the outlet, he tossed the unit into the hall and slammed the door.  Parting the shower curtain, he tentatively stuck his hand under the spray and abruptly pulled it back again.  The frosty water was not inviting.  Since time was not on his side, Mitch quickly brushed his teeth, combed his hair, swiped some deodorant under his arms, and pulled on clean clothes.  He spritzed on a little extra cologne and hoped it would suffice as he sprinted to the elevator. 

            “Just my luck,” Mitch sneered as he rounded the corner and realized the elevator was blocked by a moving neighbor’s mattress and box spring. 

With no time to waste, he crashed through the doorway to the stairwell and leapt down, clearing two or three at a time.  Panting and out of breath, he reached the bus stop only to be left behind in a grey cloud of fumes.  With no other option he flagged down a cab and rattled off his work address, better known as the nether-regions of Hell.  One traffic jam after another sent his blood pressure to its boiling point.  Finally, at 10:45 the cab pulled up to the curb.  Mitch dug through his pockets only to realize that, in his rush, he had forgotten his wallet. 

            “Oh my God!” He exclaimed angrily.  “Could this day get any worse?” 

The cabbie was not sympathetic and demanded payment immediately. With no other choice, Mitch scurried inside to beg his friends to loan him cab fare.  His pals were all short on funds so he was forced to accept help from Anne, a dour, unpleasant woman whose sole motivation was to humiliate Mitch at every turn.  After a few choice words, the cabbie left and Mitch clocked in two hours late.  His backside had barely touched the seat in his cramped cubicle before his manager summoned him to the office.  Anne scurried from the manager’s office with a smug smile plastered to her pursed lips.

            “Hateful witch,” he sneered though no words dared to escape his mouth.

Instead his mind reeled with the fantasy of one day telling everyone in that God-forsaken dump how he truly felt.  His daydream ended the moment Mitch slumped into the chair across from his manager.  The name plate resting on the manager’s desk read Devin Milton yet Mitch always believed it was a typo.  It should read Devil’s Minion, he decided.   

            “Mitch,” Minion began, “I think we need to talk about your time card.”

Every syllable after that was ignored as Mitch struggled to keep the look of sheer disdain from his face.  The daydream was back, only this time he was pummeling Minion “Fight Club” style while his coworkers cheered. 

            “Did you hear what I said?” His manager shouted, snapping Mitch back to reality.

There was no need to lie: his blank stare had answered for him.

            “No, I didn’t think so.  You show up two hours late and no phone call.  Then you have the nerve to harangue money from your colleagues.  We’ve talked about your tardiness before, Mitch and now you’re being downright disrespectful.  You've left me no choice…pack up your things.  You’re fired.”

A torrent of hate-filled profanities spewed from Mitch’s lips, unleashing the pent up frustrations from his eight years in Purgatory.  In response, his manager picked up the phone and called security.  Escorted by two burly men, Mitch gathered his meager belongings and placed them in a cardboard box.  A moment later he was standing outside on the curb, shivering.  A damp snow had begun to fall making the sidewalks slick and treacherous.  Tromping through the slush to the bus stop, he realized his bus pass was still at home in his wallet.  He sighed; a dejected, bitter sigh then turned to walk home.  In mid-turn, his foot landed on an icy patch and slid.  His awkward and painful fall was “The Three Stooges” worthy.  Cold, wet, and aching, Mitch hauled himself to his feet only to slip again, landing directly on top of his box.  The few trinkets that hadn’t shattered in the first fall were destroyed in the second.  Using the remnants of a broken picture frame, he scraped away the ice exposing the splotchy brownish-grey pavement. With safe footing, he rose and stalked off, leaving his box of broken junk on the sidewalk. 

     An hour later, Mitch arrived at his apartment building only to find that the Board of Health had condemned the building.  The front door was chained and locked tight.  The notice taped on the door proclaimed the landlord had failed to appear at a condemnation hearing and the building was declared a health hazard. 

            “Get away from there!” A woman’s voice shouted.  “That building has been condemned!  It’s not safe.” 

Mitch scanned the surroundings and noticed a sharply-dressed woman leaning out of her car window, shouting to him.  Slipping and sliding, he rushed to the vehicle. 

            “You can’t condemn the building!  I live there,” Mitch whined.  “All my stuff is in there!” 

In a cold, professional, tone the woman apologized for his predicament but insisted that it was unfit for human residence.  She proceeded to tell him that his landlord should have given him notice. 

            “Well, he didn’t!  Now let me in so I can get my things!” He snapped.

            “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to let you in.  You’ll have to obtain written approval from the Board of Health before you can enter.  Sorry.”

She waved her hand dismissively, rolled up her window and pulled away.  Dazed, Mitch stood there watching her vehicle fade into the distance.  His snort of derision quickly evolved into a loud, hysterical, almost maniacal laugh.  Tears streamed down his cheeks yet the terrifying laughter continued.  Unable to stop, he doubled over as the sounds emanating from his body echoed down the alley.  When the noises faded and his eyes finally dried, Mitch had lost track of time.  Whether he had been sitting there for minutes or hours, he could not say but in his post-breakdown state, he hatched a new plan.  He would break in and collect whatever belongings he could liberate but until then, he needed to find someplace warm.  He wandered to the nearest grocery store.  As the first wave of toasty air enveloped his body, he breathed a sigh of relief.  A snarky patron muttered, “Cold enough for ya?” but Mitch ignored the comment, still savoring the delightful heat.  As he meandered up and down the aisles, he was offered samples of the tasty morsels that were on sale: port wine and cheddar cheese dip on crackers, mini-quiches, non-alcoholic eggnog, cocktail meatballs, cranberry scones and sparkling cider.  The longer he chatted with the ladies offering samples, the more they fed him.  He strolled to the hot beverages aisle in hopes of some coffee or perhaps hot cocoa.  The intoxicating aroma of freshly ground beans drew him closer and he ducked around a display to reach his destination. 

            “Whoa!  Watch out!”

A large jar of pickles slipped from the stock boy’s hand and crashed to the floor, barely missing Mitch.  Startled, he jumped back. 

            “Oh no!” An elderly woman gasped.  “You walked under his ladder; and on Friday the Thirteenth too.  That’s terrible luck”

The woman made a sign of the cross over her chest and scurried away nervously, unwilling to absorb a double-dose of bad luck.  Mitch rolled his eyes at her and stepped out from underneath the ladder only to have another jar crash down on his head, followed abruptly by the stock boy and his ladder.  The store manager found both Mitch and his employee sprawled on the floor surrounded by shattered glass and cucumber spears, stinking of pickle juice.  The rotund man barked into his handheld radio for the cleanup crew and safety team leader. Armed with a first aid kit, a middle-aged woman tried to wipe away the blood from Mitch’s cuts, instead she only managed to rub salty liquid into his wounds.  Once he convinced the manager that he was fine and would not be suing the store, Mitch left the store and walked back to his apartment building.  The sky had turned a deep, inky, blue and the temperature plummeted below freezing but still he trudged on.  Hidden under the cover of darkness, Mitch crept around to the back of the building and snatched a landscaping brick from the border.  He peered cautiously around for witnesses before hurling the brick at a window.  A spider web crack crept across the glass and for the first time all day, he smiled.  Bolder now, he grabbed another brick and with all of his might smashed it against the fractured glass. He removed his coat, folded it over and used it as protection from the shards as he crawled through the opening.  Finally inside, Mitch knew the building like the back of his hand.  Even in the dark, he expertly navigated the stairwell and finally reached his floor.  Never before had his front door looked so welcoming.  Relieved, he inserted his key in the lock and opened the door.

            “What do you think you’re doing,” a raspy voice hissed. 

Mitch froze.  He had assumed he was all alone in the building but his inner voice reminded him what “assume” stood for. 

            “The loot is supposed to be all ours,” a second voice chimed in angrily. 

Thieves.  His inner voice stated the obvious.  Run.  This time his inner voice was the voice of reason and his legs gladly obeyed.  The hallway echoed with the sound of pounding feet, angry shouts and bullets ricocheting off the walls but the only sound Mitch could hear was the hammering of his own heart.  He crashed through the door to the stairwell and was met with two more scoundrels charging up the steps.  With no way down, he dodged the men and raced up to the next floor.  His pursuers were hot on his heels so he climbed higher and higher until his only option was the roof.  He slammed the door behind him and tried to wedge it closed but the thugs were able to force their way through.  Mitch tried to plead for his life but the bullet tore through his chest with such force that he toppled over the roof’s edge.  The feeling was so familiar, just like his dream.  The building had twelve floors but the rooftop made thirteen.  Falling from the thirteenth floor on Friday the Thirteenth, his inner voice announced before it all went black.  

A Holiday Treat For Your Favorite Zombie

     T'is the season for gift-giving and spreading holiday cheer!  While shoppers run the gamut of retail establishments, many feel that finding that "perfect gift" is as elusive as the Holy Grail.  And some may say a homemade gift is the best way to show how much you care.  Either way, it can be a daunting task.  You may be wondering what to give the zombie in your life. Here's twist on a classic holiday recipe that is sure to please zombies of all ages and in this case, homemade really is best.  Enjoy!

Zombilicious Mincemeat Pie

2 Granny Smith Apples, peeled, cored and sliced   1 small human brain, sliced

6 oz raisins 

6 oz Dark Brown Sugar 

8 oz Dried Currants

2 oz Dates

3/4 lb Lean Ground  Beef  human 

2 oz Beef  Human Suet (the hardened fat around the kidneys & while you're at it, throw in a coarsely chopped kidney or 2) 

1/2 cup Brandy or Rum  (plus more for the person preparing this dish!) 

Zest and Juice of one Orange & one Lemon

Grated Nutmeg

Ground Allspice 

Pinch of Saffron  skip saffron as it is rather expensive & feel free to skip the other spices since zombies don't really care for spices

*If preferred, dried fruit can be replaced with additional chunks of ground meat, and sections of intestines or chopped internal organs. (hearts, lungs, spleens and gall bladders work well here) 

Combine all ingredients thoroughly, pour into pre-baked pie shell and serve.  (You can also omit pie shell since Zombies do not eat pastry)  

~~~With the hustle & bustle of the Holidays upon us, I will put off a new, month-long, story until the New Year.  I will be sharing some random, holiday-related fun and other tidbits between now and then, but a little more sporadically than normal.  I wish you all Happy Holidays!