Author: Mischief1
Re: Rare Collection
Posted on June 03, 12:00:00 AM
I think we have a winner. Bidding is now closed. GoryHole, I will be watching the news, waiting for word that your payment has been made, and then I’ll ship you the book.
THE WORLD’S SMALLEST MAN
I knew Massimo was going to be trouble the first time I saw him. It wasn’t anything as strong as a premonition, but I definitely had a feeling about him and it wasn’t a good feeling. With his dark hair, black clothes, and handlebar mustache, he looked like the villain in some silent movie, the kind that tied damsels to railroad tracks. But it wasn’t his appearance that gave me that sense of doom; it was his eyes. Hard eyes, eyes devoid of warmth or humor. He was walking down the midway with Tarantino, and as they passed me, Massimo glanced my way. Our eyes met for only a second, but I knew he was going to be trouble.
* * *
I suppose I should introduce myself. My real name is Gilbert Owens, but these days no one ever calls me anything but Peewee. I’m touted as The World’s Smallest Man, but that’s not technically true. I mean, I’m not in the Guinness Book or anything. In fact, I’m not even the smallest man in America. But at just under three feet, I am the smallest man most people have ever seen, and that seems good enough for those who come through the Hall of Freaks.
The carnival has the standard collection of human oddities. Bearded Lady, World’s Fattest Man (also not technically true), Wolf Boy. People pay good money to walk past us, point and laugh, or cringe with fear. You’d think that teenagers would be the most cruel, but that’s not the case. Oh, teens are cruel, don’t get me wrong, but adults are just as bad. Still, there are worse ways to make a living.
I’ve been with the carnival since I was fifteen years old. My mother sold me to Tarantino for fifty bucks. I’m now forty-five, thirty years of my life spent as a professional freak. But the carnival is my home, and its workers my family. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I have a place here. For the most part, I have been happy.
Then Massimo came.
* * *
Tarantino called the whole family together after closing our last night in some nothing of a town in Kansas. We met near the carousel, all the freaks and barkers and dancing ladies and roustabouts. Everyone. It was actually rare for us freaks to be in the same assembly as the rest of the troupe. Even within the family of the carnival, we were our own tribe. A part of the larger group, but apart from it at the same time.
But on this night, Tarantino called us together with everyone else. Jorgan, the Bearded Lady, lifted me and sat me on top of one of the wooden horses. Jorgan always mothered me, even though I was nine years her senior. We were all curious as to why Tarantino had called us here. Such meetings of the entire family were rare, but especially on our last night in a place. There was much work to be done, breaking down all the rides and tents and getting ready to move on to the next stop. If he was postponing our work, he must have an announcement of utmost importance.
I think I may have gasped audibly when I noticed Massimo standing near Tarantino. Huddled in a trench coat that nearly swept the ground, the dark stranger seemed almost like a shadow. One side of his mouth was pulled up in a half-smile, as if he knew some secret that amused him. His hard eyes darted about, alighting on everything and everyone but lingering on nothing for more than a few seconds. He took it all in, and when his eyes fell on me, my skin went cold and I looked away. Just as when I had first glimpsed Massimo on the midway, I had a feeling that something wasn’t right, a feeling that chaos was encroaching on our little family.
Tarantino held up his hands, and silence fell like a curtain. Instantly. All murmurings ceased, and I would have sworn that even the night insects quieted. Tarantino was a fair man and a kind man, but he was also a powerful man who commanded respect and obedience from all those he met. When he gestured for silence, there was silence.
“I know you are all wondering why I have called this meeting,” he said, his deep voice booming into the night. “I know there is much work to be done and you are all anxious to get to it so that we can get on the road, but I felt it was important to share some exciting news with you all. Our family has grown by one, a new sibling taking his place among us.”
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut, knowing what was coming next even as I prayed that I was wrong.
Turning to the dark stranger, Tarantino said, “This is Massimo the Magnificent. A magician of great renown, he wishes to join our troupe and travel with us. After having spoken with Massimo at great length and witnessing firsthand some of the extraordinary feats of which he is capable, I have decided to grant his wish and allow him into our fold.”
When Tarantino paused, people began whispering among themselves, an excited chatter that spread through the crowd like an airborne pathogen. Several cries of “Welcome, Massimo” were raised, and many people went up and clamped the magician on the shoulder and shook his hand.
I sat on the horse, numbed and full of dread. I wanted to raise my voice in protest, but I knew better. The carnival was not a democracy; it was a dictatorship, and Tarantino was the one who made the decisions. Expressing my disapproval would result in nothing but my own rebuke.
Massimo was joining our family, and there was nothing I could do about it.
* * *
Before we departed that night, Massimo favored us with a display of his skill. Creating something from nothing, that was his specialty. With a wave of his hand or a handkerchief, all manner of items would appear before us. Some as small as coins and matchbooks, others as large as basketballs and live chickens. He didn’t pull a rabbit from a hat, but he did make it appear that he pulled a potbellied pig from under the skirt of one of the dancing ladies.
Everyone in the camp seemed dazzled by Massimo’s gifts. There was much cheering and applause. Even Edwin, the mummified old man who ran the ticket booth, seemed impressed, and he was impossible to impress. It seemed that Massimo had managed to circumvent the usual period of skepticism and distrust that a new member of the family typically experienced in the beginning. It usually took a new person at least a month and sometimes longer before being truly accepted into the carnival fold. But by the end of his show, I could tell that Massimo had managed to win over everyone, gaining instant acceptance.
But he had not won me over. During his performance, while others kept careful watch on his hands to see if they could detect the illusion, I watched only his face. There was no joy in his expression, no mirth in his eyes. There seemed to be anger and even something akin to bitterness. He took the approval of the crowd as a miser hordes cash, without a hint of graciousness.
I did not sleep that night. Tucked in my miniature bed in the freak trailer, our caravan making its way down the highway to the next town, I lay awake, staring into the darkness and worrying. No one else seemed to notice, but the devil had just joined our family.
* * *
I first heard about the guillotine from Nate.
Nate was one of the children of the carnival. Six years old, he was the son of Viola, our resident psychic, and Horace, who ran the Tilt-a-Whirl. Nate was a rambunctious boy who had an interest in everything, an interest that manifested itself in a never-ending onslaught of questions and a tendency to end up places where he didn’t belong. To most, including his own parents, he was a brat and a nuisance, but I admired his enthusiasm for life and quest for truth. Because of my tolerance of him, he considered me one of his best friends and often came to tell me of his new discoveries.
“Massimo cut a bird’s head off,” Nate said. It was after our first night in a new city, and I was walking out behind the refreshment stands, breathing in the mingled aroma of hotdogs and sawdust.
“He did what?”
“Cut a bird’s head off. The white kind, the one that means peace.”
“A dove.”
“Yeah, a dove. Whack, cut its head right off.”
I frowned down at the boy.
Nate was many things, but I didn’t know him to be a liar. “Where did you see this?”
“During his show.”
“And he cut a dove’s head off? With what, a knife?”
“No, one of those contraptions like they used to chop off the heads of Kings and Queens back in the olden days. You know, where you put your head in between the boards and the blade comes falling down.”
“A guillotine? Are you sure?”
“Cross my heart,” Nate said, then demonstrated by making an X on his chest with his forefinger. “But it was a tiny one, you know. Just big enough for the bird. Not for a King or nothing.”
The tale I was hearing wasn’t making any sense. Why would a magician kill a bird on stage? Unless it was part of some illusion. I looked up at Nate—yes, at six years old he was already slightly taller than me—and said, “After he chopped the dove’s head off, did it come back to life? Did he wave his hands and make it whole again?”
Nate shook his head. “Uh-uh. But it did keep singing.”
“Singing?”
“Yeah, it was singing. You know, twittering and stuff the way birds do. And even after he chopped its head off, it continued singing.”
“And what did the crowd do?”
“Clapped.”
I had never heard of any magic trick like this, but I was still convinced it had to be part of some illusion. Perhaps an animatronic bird. Whatever bad vibes I got from Massimo, I just couldn’t believe the man would mutilate animals on stage for entertainment.
“Are you sure it was a real dove? Could it have been a fake?”
Nate shrugged. “Looked real, and there was an awful lot of blood.”
Soon after that, Nate wandered off to see what other mischief he could get himself into, leaving me to ponder the things he had told me about Massimo’s show. I decided to investigate.
* * *
Massimo had set up shop in a tent by the refreshment stands, a prime spot of real estate in the carnival. Most new attractions started out in the back by the Port-O-Potties and had to work their way up to a better location. I was surprised Tarantino had given the magician such a place of honor on his very first night with the carnival.
I pushed through the front flap into darkness. The tent was empty, two dozen folding chairs set around in front of a small stage made from wooden pallets. I walked down the center aisle between the chairs and climbed up on the stage. The wood did not creak under my feet; I did not weigh enough. I saw a dark stain in the center of the stage. Kneeling by it, I touched the stain and my fingertips came away smeared brownish-red. I sniffed at the substance and caught a whiff of the distinctive coppery smell of blood. Real blood. Fresh blood.
At the front right corner of the stage was a large metal drum used as a trash barrel. Standing on the ground I would never have been able to see inside it, but elevated on the stage I could look down at the garbage inside. There were discarded soda cans and potato chip bags and paper plates, the debris of customers who had brought refreshments with them to the show. On top of all this, lying on a paper plate as if it were an entree, was the body of a dove, its once white feathers stained by blood. Where its head had once been was now just a ghastly hole. Leaning over as far as I could without toppling into the barrel, I searched for the bird’s head, but I did not see it.
“Can I help you, young man?”
Squealing like a pig in the slaughterhouse, I spun around and found Massimo standing behind the stage. There was another flap in the back of the tent, and the magician had apparently entered behind me while I was scanning the contents of his trash.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Massimo said when he got a good look at me. “I thought you were a child, but it’s just you, the dwarf. What’s your name? Squirt?”
“Peewee.”
“Of course, my mistake.” Massimo stepped up onto the stage and crossed to me. Standing at almost seven feet, he would have towered over most men, but to me he was like a giant. “Do you often root through the garbage? Do you not get fed enough in the freak trailer?”
I found myself trembling before Massimo, my fear out of proportion to the situation, but evil wafted from the man like the scent of corruption. I could think of no appropriate cover story, so I fell back on the truth. “I heard about your trick with the bird, and I just wanted to see if you’d used a real dove.”
Nodding toward the trash barrel, Massimo said, “Well, as you can see, I did. Even in magic, authenticity is vital.”
“Where’s the head?”
“What’s that?”
“I only see the body in the trash. What did you do with the head?”
“I ate it, of course.”
The smile that curled Massimo’s lips at the edges just like his mustache was chilling, and his eyes became like two stones of marble, staring down at me with an intensity that froze me in place. I tried to speak but found my voice had dried up like a puddle on a hot summer day.
“Would you like to hear it sing?” Massimo said, leaning forward at the waist until his face was a mere inch away from my own. “If I get real close and open my mouth, you just may be able to hear the dove still singing in my stomach.”
My paralysis broken, I turned and fled as fast as my little legs could carry me. I jumped from the stage and rushed down the aisle, tearing out of the tent and running toward the relative safety of the freak trailer.
Massimo’s nasty laughter followed behind me.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Massimo’s act became the most popular attraction at the carnival. Tarantino had to move the magician to a larger tent with double the capacity. People packed the place for every show, while attendance at the other attractions suffered. There were nights when only seven or eight people wandered through the Hall of Freaks. I sat up on my stool on the raised platform feeling neglected and empty. I would never have guessed that I could miss being gawked at so much.
I heard from Nate that Massimo had graduated from doves to other game. Ravens, chickens, possums, cats. At first I didn’t believe this last, but Nate again crossed his heart—the most solemn pledge a six-year-old could make—and swore that it was true. Massimo had placed the cat’s head in the guillotine and sliced it off, the cat continuing to meow long after it was decapitated.
I knew I had to see the show for myself.
One night, after waiting on my stool for an hour and a half without a single person coming through, I climbed down and headed for the exit. Jorgan called after me, but I ignored her. I was determined to see Massimo in action.
Even before I got to the tent, I could hear the crowd. Loud and raucous, laughter and gasps and squeals of delight and fear, the voice of the crowd was mighty. I pushed through the flap and was momentarily stunned by the sea of people that had crammed into the tent. There weren’t enough chairs to accommodate them all, and the aisles were lined with people.
I stayed near the back, afraid of being trampled. At my height, people tended not to see me, and it was best to stay out of their way. However, I was unable to see the stage. I looked around for something to climb on, but there was nothing. I could try to fight my way to the front, but it would be a dangerous task.
“Oh honey, you want to see the show, don’t you?” a middle-aged woman said, leaning toward me. “Where are your Mommy and Daddy?”
It took me a moment to realize that in the gloom of the tent she had mistaken me for a child. It wasn’t actually that unusual. Typically I took offense, but this time I played along. I pointed vaguely toward the crowd, not wanting to speak lest my voice give me away.
“Do you want me to pick you up? I can put you on my shoulders so you can see.”
I nodded eagerly, and the woman was suddenly lifting me in her arms, raising me over her head and planting me on her shoulders. It was rather humiliating, but it did give me a decent view of the stage so I endured the humiliation.
Massimo had a woman on stage, a volunteer from the audience. He had her empty out the contents of her p
urse onto a small wooden table. He then took the purse, opened it wide and showed the audience so they could see it was empty. Then, reaching into the empty purse, he pulled out a pair of frilly pink underpants. The woman blushed madly and insisted they weren’t hers. As the audience cheered and laughed, the woman hurriedly placed her belongings back in her purse and returned to her seat.
“Now,” Massimo said, holding up his hands and instantly commanding silence just as Tarantino was prone to do, “it is time for the grand finale.”
The crowd roared its approval. Word of his spectacular finale must have spread, because everyone seemed eager to see. Ruthie, who had once been one of the dancing ladies but had been promoted to Massimo’s assistant, came onto the stage carrying the small guillotine and placed it on the table. Reaching into a cardboard box that was placed beneath the table, she pulled out a wriggling, furry puppy.
I immediately tensed on the perch of the woman’s shoulders. The puppy was small with a dark brown coat, large liquid eyes and ears that flopped at the sides of its head like earmuffs. It was wagging its tail and panting with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, oblivious to the fate that awaited it.
Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1 Page 20