The Royal Perfects

by Jeremy Neeley

  Chapter 12: Confined Creativity

  The rest of the second day was more of the same for Timmy. He’d spend hours in his cell being entertained by the oddity that was George, get a break to eat and talk with Francis, Snoots, and Mr. Jenkins, spend more time listening to the Georgian gibberish, eat again, and then slowly fall into a light sleep. It was a new, if not monotonous, routine.

  On the third day, Timmy found himself spooning back more gruel in the mess hall. He and Mr. Jenkins, along with Francis and Sir Snoots, had been discussing John Smith and Mayor Snodgrass.

  Short of assassination, no one could figure out an effective means of justice. Finding Smith’s ledger of illegal deals would be a step in the right direction, but with Percival in power, little would come of it. What’s more, no one knew exactly where the ledger resided. Reason dictated that Smith kept it at his current residence, a flat not far from the Halfwit Theater, but there was no certainty. The quartet just seemed to talk in circles, always arriving back at the same hopeless conclusion.

  A baton tap on Timmy’s shoulder ended the gab session.

  “Warden wants to see you, Wicketts,” a dark-haired constable stated. “Come with me.”

  Timmy’s friends looked on with concern as the officer snatched him by the arm, raised him to his feet, and then escorted the soft-featured gent out of the mess hall. The path to the warden’s office wound through a series of halls and spiraling staircases. When they finally reached the solid oak door labeled WARDEN, Timmy couldn’t even recall the exact way they had traveled. The constable struck his club against the wood.

  “Come in,” was the reply heard from inside.

  The bobby pushed open the door and moved Timmy into the suite. It was a lavishly decorated room. Long, red velvet curtains framed huge cathedral-style windows. Tapestries and fine art hung on every inch of the wall, and sitting behind an enormous mahogany desk was a short, sharp man with thin cheeks and a freshly waxed brown mustache that curled up on either end. Wire-rimmed spectacles hung just above his yellow nose.

  “Timothy Wicketts?” the warden asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Timmy verified.

  “I heard you were brought in. I hope you’ve found your new accommodations pleasing.” The warden’s words were soaked in sarcasm with a smirk added at the end for good measure.

  “Let me cut to the chase. I oversee hundreds of the most detestable, deplorable, wastes of space ever to walk God’s green earth. They are worthless human beings bred from the worst stock, and if I had my way, every single one of these felons would enter my jail through the front door and promptly exit out the back in a pine box.”

  The warden was obviously not one to mince words.

  “But,” he continued, “there are certain regulations on the books I am bound to abide by. One such provision is the sporadic necessity to provide events of diversion. It is believed such things keep the inmates in a more content frame of mind. Think of a dog that is given a bone every so often. The dog will tend to stay obedient in hopes he is rewarded, and the fact that he never knows when that will be keeps him always on guard and ever vigilant of the need for constant, proper behavior. The mongrels here are much the same way, and it is once again time to throw them a bone.

  “You, Mr. Dinkyworth, and Mr. McGee will be such a morsel. Our next scheduled diversion will take the form of a play put on by you and your mates. We’ll hold it in the mess hall three days from now. I expect a certain level of quality, Mr. Wicketts, and I warn you not to disappoint.”

  Timmy scratched his head in confusion. “Sir, you do know we were locked away for the very thing you’re asking us to repeat.”

  “I know damn well why you are here, boy! But you’re in the Grinder now. Mayor Snodgrass may hold sway over the brunt of Southrump, but here, bound between these ancient stone walls, I am king. It is my world and my word. You shall put on a play, an original work. You shall do it with the unwavering expertise to which your reputation attests, and you shall put a smile on my face. Now, I grant you one extra hour, every day, after noon meal to sit and discuss with your Perfects just what captivating production you shall present. Then, on the fourth, you shall perform. Any questions?”

  Timmy couldn’t think of anything off hand. He was still a bit stunned the warden would request such a thing. Nevertheless, it provided him something to occupy his hard time. So he accepted, not that he had a choice.

  The warden excused him and ordered the constable to direct Wicketts back to the mess hall. Timmy was told to begin preparations that very afternoon and given a final warning that any shenanigans would only double his sentence.

  Seated back with his mates, Timmy conveyed what they had just been tasked to do.

  “He wants us to do what?” Snoots asked in astonishment.

  Francis shook his head with an equal measure of disbelief.

  “Yeah, he wants us to perform a play,” Timmy affirmed. “Being the warden and all, we better make him happy. If we don’t, I fear our sentences may be extended. We don’t have much time to craft this, and the fact that he wants it to be an original work makes it all the more challenging.”

  “Original? That does put the pressure on doesn’t it?” asked a worried Dinkyworth.

  “Lucky for us, prison has given me ample time and inspiration. Here’s what I’m thinking. The story will focus on a man who wakes and finds himself on a beach. He has no idea how he got there, but hopes to find some answers in a nearby port village. Once there, he discovers the inhabitants don’t speak his language. They communicate in some crazy dialect he has never heard before. The plot unfolds as the man tries numerous other methods to get his ideas and questions across. He draws pictures in the sand, attempts charades, and finally, in failure, is left to just sit and listen to the gurgling and boo-baying of the villagers.

  “Only when he stops trying to figure out how he could talk to them, does he hear what they were saying. The people were speaking English, just backwards. By the end of it all, the grand revelation is that it wasn’t the villagers who couldn’t speak, it was the man couldn’t hear correctly. He had been out to sea on a fishing boat, caught in a storm. He was hit in the head with an oar and thrown overboard. The injury messed up his melon to the extent that he became audibly inverted. We’ll call it the The WordsBack Fisherman.”

  “That’s a great concept,” Francis said excitedly. Snoots agreed.

  “We can thank my blabbering cellmate. His gibberish sparked the idea in my head.”

  The three friends continued to plan as the rest of the inmates were shuffled out of the mess hall. The extra time together was crucial, both for the success of the play and for the mental well-being of the three Perfects. By the end of their session, they had a clear vision, and quite an entertaining tale worked out.

  Later that evening, Timmy found himself once again being lulled to sleep by the mumbling, crazy-talk of George. Lying there, listening, Timmy thought of his new play. Maybe there was something in George’s misshapen words that he was missing. Maybe what George was saying was perfectly clear, it was only that he could not properly hear it. The thought swayed back and forth in Timmy’s mind, quickly ushering him to a sound sleep.

  That night, Timmy Wicketts was visited by a nasty dream. He saw Genny, literally caged and crying upon a stage. A single light shown upon her cowering form as John Smith circled the cell with a cane in hand, laughing and poking at her between the bars.

  Timmy was in the audience, stuck in his seat and unable to get up. A few rows in front of him were other theatergoers. They giggled and chuckled at the spectacle, growing all the more delighted as Smith became all the more abusive. He spat on her, dug the cane into her side, and shouted vile words at the screaming woman. Each action was met by applause from the demonic crowd.

  Timmy struggled to rise from his seat, held fast by an invisible hand. He shouted in anger and compassion, but his words simply faded into the abyss. It was an agony to watch, and as Smith laid down his cane and pulled
out a cutlass, Timmy knew things were about to get far worse. That’s when he woke.

  Cold beads of sweat hung on his forehead. It was a horrible vision, but thankfully, only a vision. Timmy scanned his surroundings, trying to re-establish his bearings. The dim light of the hallway candle cascaded into the cell. It moved through the crevices of the stone interior and shaped the form of a sleeping George. He rested heavily on his side with his back facing Timmy. Just below his dark silhouette, the light caught an odd sight. What looked like a slip of paper jutted out from beneath George’s mattress. It appeared as though words were written on the sheet.

  Curiosity got the best of Timmy. He crept down from his bed and crouched low to the cold floor. Like an insect carefully traversing a branch, he inched his way toward the page. Delicately, he reached for the corner of the sheet and pinched lightly. With a swift tug, Timmy obtained the document. He leaned back and into a more direct ray of candlelight.

  “My dearest Amelia,” the letter began, “I think of you at every waking moment. I look upon your blue eyes and soft smile in my dreams. The years here have worn on my soul. While my ruse has kept me sheltered and without harm, it has further isolated me from others. The task has been arduous, the facade difficult at times to maintain, but survival does not always come easily. I refuse to give in, to give up, like Sam did. My time here is almost at an end, and I shall remain strong and diligent. That is the means by which I will transcend, and by which I will find your gentle embrace once more. With love, George.”

  Timmy wasn’t sure exactly what he had read. It seemed like a correspondence written by his cellmate, but the man was as screwy as a hardware store. He couldn’t even utter a rational word let alone pen such thoughtful prose. Something was not adding up.

  Timmy leaned back into the shadows and carefully slid his hand under George’s mattress. He then inched the letter back into position, careful not to cause a disturbance. He didn’t want to wake George, and it was paramount that his cellmate not notice anything out of place. After nudging the paper a little bit left and a little bit right, he was pleased with the re-creation of placement and turned slowly back toward his own bed. That’s when he felt a vice-like grip snatch him by the shoulder. Dread flooded his heart. Timmy slowly swung around and was met by the cold glare of a wide-awake George. His deep red eyes, caught momentarily in the candle flame, flickered with fury.

  “What have you seen?!” George questioned in clear, angry English.

  Timmy was shocked to hear his unbroken speech.

  “What have you seen?!” George demanded again.

  “Your letter,” revealed a worried Wicketts.

  “Listen, unless you want to sleep in a coffin, you’ll forget what you read and forget what you’re hearing right now. Got it.”

  Timmy couldn’t help but press further. His inquisitive nature drowned out his fear. “But why?”

  “Sometimes, you have to step out of yourself, become something different to survive.”

  Timmy could relate. “By something different, do you mean a crazy Neanderthal of a man?”

  “The Grinder is no place for the weak, especially when you’re doing years of hard time. Sooner or later, someone’s going to get bored and test your mettle. But, if you can prove you’re just crazy enough, just downright insane and forever on the brink, no one would dare go through the hassle of picking a fight. It just wouldn’t be worth it, and that’s how I’ve gotten by.”

  “You built a reputation by acting six marbles shy of a sack, and then killing your old cell mate?”

  “I didn’t kill Sam. He did it himself, poor guy. He and I were actually friends. We shared a cell for so long that he eventually figured me out, realized I was only acting. We started to talk and tell our stories to one another late at night, when it wouldn’t blow my cover. Sam had been imprisoned for theft, but after stealing a painting from one man’s private gallery, the fellow turned up dead. Investigators deemed Sam the culprit, but he didn’t do it. All the pleading in the world didn’t matter though because they found the painting in his possession and stuck him with both crimes. Sam wasn’t built for a life sentence in this hellhole. He was able to snatch a few opium pills from the prison infirmary. He kept doing it every now and then until he had a nice pocketful. Then, one night, he gulped down the lot, went to sleep, and never woke up again.”

  It was a sad story, one that obviously still held a place of grief in George’s memory.

  “What put you here, George?” Timmy prodded.

  With the cat now out of the bag, George revealed his past. His full name was George Humboldt Thistlebeard, and he was a rogue and a drifter. He had been incarcerated after stealing apples from Thornberry Orchard, a crime that, in and of itself, was a minor offense. But stealing the apples was only the first mistake. What got George into major trouble was that, upon fleeing from an irate and armed farmer, he chucked an exceptionally ripe fruit toward the fast-approaching man. It struck the apple farmer square in the unmentionables, dropping him in a heap. The farmer's flintlock dropped as well, firing blindly into a nearby pasture and striking his ass, killing it instantly.

  While apple stealing held a punishment of two-weeks indentured servitude, mule murder was a mandatory six-year prison sentence. George was found guilty of the latter. He had served five-and-a-half years time at this point, using the guise of a babbling, wailing berserker in order to keep those who may challenge him at bay. He let his appearance and hygiene go as well. This helped keep the ruse intact. Sam’s unfortunate suicide only strengthened the reputation. Rumors that George had killed him spread among the prison, but hard evidence was lacking, sparring Thistlebeard the conviction.

  The entire revelation was astounding to Timmy. He couldn’t believe someone would commit so soundly, for such duration, to an act such as the one George performed daily. The adage proved true. Some are indeed refined, like gold, in the furnace of affliction.

  “Now listen, Wicketts, I have a few months left and I’ll be damned if you’re going to spill the beans.”

  Timmy knew he would never reveal George’s secret. “I shall lock it away, tighter than this cell. You have my word.”

  George extended his hand, and the two shook on the promise.

  “George, I have to ask though, who’s Amelia?”

  Thistlebeard’s mind wandered off, eventually finding a place of pleasure in his cranium. “I met her in a town not far from the orchard. She had a job at a wheat mill where I was looking for work. She was kind and beautiful, not one to pass quick judgment. We spent an afternoon together and I knew she was very special. We had a connection. That’s why I went to the orchard. I didn’t have much money, but I wanted to take her out on a picnic. We had planned on meeting that afternoon by the lake. I never made it there.

  “I think about her all the time. She gets me through. I count down the days until my release, when I can see her again. In the meantime, I write her occasionally and secretly drop the letters in the prison mail. I know I’ll never be given a response since the warden and his men confiscate everything, but I imagine her sitting there on the bales, reading my letters and thinking of me. It helps.”

  Timmy made his way back to his bed and laid quietly, listening to George’s story. He realized the man’s ruse had kept him away from others, and now that Timmy was in on the charade, it probably felt good for him to get everything off his chest. The two continued to converse among whispers, George telling Timmy all about his life as a wanderer, and Timmy telling George about The Royal Perfects and the play they had been ordered to perform. Eventually, the words went silent and the two men fell asleep again.

  The next couple of days pretty much followed form. Timmy would wake and be taken to the yard for recreation. There, he met with Francis and Sir Snoots. The trio worked out more aspects of their upcoming production while Mr. Jenkins listened on in amusement. The constables watched the men closely, monitoring their progress at the warden’s request, and making sure everything discuss
ed was kept on the up-and-up. The supervision had the added bonus of keeping Hammer and the Bald Bricklayer Gang at bay. Hammer was still eager to introduce Timmy to his brawny fists.

  Another dose of confinement with the pretend lunatic George was followed by a meal, then more meeting time with the other Perfects. Eventually, the day drew to a close, and George and Timmy could talk some more under the cloak of night.

  Before long, it was the day of the play. Timmy, Francis and Snoots gathered nervously behind a bed sheet curtain erected overtop a dining table platform in the mess hall. A good portion of the inmates had been given permission to watch the play. The warden, supported by several squads of officers, was present and prepared. Everyone waited in anticipation for the start of the action.

  Backstage, the Perfects put on their makeshift costumes. They had been granted a selection of old bed coverings, discarded garments, and numerous other knickknacks for use in fashioning wardrobes. They were also allotted some odds and ends for prop and scenery construction. It wasn’t the most elegant collection of theater items, but they beat some of the junk Timmy had been forced to use in his early days as a street performer.

  After a deep breath and a shared wish of luck, the men took to the stage. Laughs and mocking gestures melded with a smattering of insincere clapping. It wasn’t the ovation to which they had grown accustomed, but at least they weren’t being booed. Francis played the part of a narrator setting up scenes when necessary, then doubling as a villager. Timmy acted as the star, the mentally maligned sailor, Toot Brineworthy, and Sir Snoots played the mayor of the port village, Stanley Frontwards.

  At first, every bit of dialogue and comedy was met by a nasty comment shouted from one of the faceless felons constituting the crowd. But, as the story unfolded, less and less vulgarity filled the air. It was slowly replaced by genuine laughter and joy. When the tale reached its ending, the convict crowd erupted in applause and true appreciation. The warden was pleased and even offered a salutation himself. Timmy was relieved when he took his final bow and exited behind the curtain once more.

  The inmates were still cheering and the warden quickly moved to control the rising emotion. Constables blew whistles and brandished batons, rounding the men up and escorting them back to their cells. Amongst the chaos, Hammer and a couple of his bricklayer buddies ducked behind the stage where they were able to corner Timmy, Francis and Snoots.

  “Look hear, fellas,” Hammer said with a grin, “it’s Wicketts, the warden’s fairy storyteller. You looked pretty, done up in your little costume, boy.”

  “We have no issue with you,” Sir Snoots declared. “Kindly return to your cell lest the constables take a club to your knees.”

  “You threatening me, you stuck-up piece of trash!”

  Sir Snoots widened his stance.

  “You’re just as bad as your boyfriend, old man,” Hammer shouted. He reached over and grabbed a broom handle that had been used as a prop oar. “You walk around like you got a stick up your rump. Well, how’s about we make that a certitude.”

  Hammer lunged for Snoots, but before he could land a blow, a catapulting George came careening through the stage curtain.

  “Brattle bran! Bran!” he shouted, tackling Hammer. The surprise assault had taken everyone off guard, and the rest of the men pulled back as the two wrestled on the ground. Hammer was much bigger, but George had unparalleled tenacity. He was able to get the jump and place Hammer in a stifling headlock. As the big bricklayer struggled, George cinched the lock on tighter. A desperate swing landed a stiff right to George’s head, but the crazy man would not relinquish the hold. He clenched with greater force.

  Moments later, constables rushed the scene. It took quite a few strikes to loosen George’s grip, but after a well-placed blow to his ribs, the hairy warrior winced in pain and let go.

  “Take those two men to solitary!” the warden shouted with authority. “The rest of you, back to your cells!”

  As a bloodied George and battered Hammer were dragged off, Timmy was overcome with gratitude. His cellmate’s actions had saved him and his two friends a terrible beating once again. It was an act of self-sacrifice, and one not to be forgotten.

  The day was drawing to a close, and Timmy sat by himself in his cell. Without George to talk to, Timmy kept busy writing. He jotted down notes and things to remember if they were ever going to perform The WordsBack Fisherman again. His concentration was broken when he heard the wrap of wood against the cell bars.

  “Warden present,” issued a constable.

  Timmy looked up to see the warden at his cell door.

  “Mr. Wicketts, that was a fine play. I commend you,” he congratulated.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that, as of tomorrow morning, your debt to society will have been paid. You and your friends will be free to go. While I hope you have learned from your mistakes and do not repeat them, I will tell you flatly that should you be brought in again, you better believe I’ll be expecting another wonderful work of stage.”

  “Warden, what will Mayor Snodgrass think when he hears you had us perform?”

  “Mr. Wicketts, as I told you before, within these walls, it is my world. I decide what happens here. Snodgrass has little concern. As long as those deemed guilty are off his pretty Southrump streets, he’ll stay out of my business. I have no love of Snodgrass. He’s the reason I’m warden here. I used to be chief constable, but when he came into power, he cleaned house. Those he disagreed with, he imprisoned one way or another. My sentence was as horrible as any convict’s. While he couldn’t bind me in shackles, he could put me behind a desk, isolated at the grand source of isolation. So, Mr. Wicketts, I do not fear Snodgrass’ retribution. He’s already exiled me.”

  The warden’s words came with great acrimony. Obviously, he and the mayor had a tension-filled past, and his feelings were not soon to dissipate. With a final nod of recognition, the warden turned to walk away, but then halted for a moment.

  “And one more thing. I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Hammer and George were given an extended sentence for their brawl, six more months added to each term. I realize both men had threatened you physical harm, so rest assured, they will be locked away for much longer.”

  The warden continued down the hall. Timmy was sad to hear about George. It would now be almost another full year until he would be released, and it was partly Timmy’s own fault. George was just coming to his aid. That night, Timmy slept poorly with guilt providing an uncomfortable blanket.

  The constables did not wake Timmy the next day. He was already up. He was looking forward to his release, and when an officer came and unlocked the cell door, he was quick to scurry out. Despite the restless night, the promise of freedom energized Wicketts. He walked closely behind his escort as they wound through the Grinder labyrinth, eventually passing the same processing clerk that had documented his arrival. The cock-eyed man gave him another looking-over, handed him a clean set of clothes and a couple coins, and then sent him on his way.

  Timmy’s escort led him out the front door, past the guard posts, and through the main gate. Francis and Sir Snoots were already outside. The day was gray, but the sky never looked better. As the enormous wooden doors were closed and locked behind them, the three Perfects inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of freedom.

  The paddy wagon ride to the jail was fairly lengthy. It traveled out of town, through the farm-filled countryside and eventually arrived at the remote mountain locale. Without transportation back, the men knew the journey could take some time, but walking home was infinitely better than being locked away. They laid their boots to the dirt road and trudged off.

  Summer was slowly turning to fall in Upper Southrump, and the morning air had begun to gain a definite chill. The surrounding forest was still green, for the most part, but an eager tree here and there was changing its hue. The men wandered by an old dilapidated shack, sitting like a slouched, aged man among a field of grain. The
y passed by a stretch of wooden fence, quartering off a flock of fluffy sheep. The beasts bayed a greeting upon seeing them. As Timmy and friends continued on, they talked to pass the time.

  The trio discussed all manner of things. Of particular topic was what to do once they got back. Timmy was still motivated to right the wrongs done them by Percival and John Smith, but was now more wary of risking another trip to the Grinder. None were fond of heading back there anytime soon, and they hoped to spare their kinsmen the same experience. Sabotage was brought up. Maybe they could work to foil the performances of the Ill So-Sos. Maybe they could spoil their shows through underhanded means. While the concept did provide a certain level of satisfaction, all three concurred it wouldn’t really change anything.

  Soon, the Perfects found themselves in a small village. Written on a signpost at the edge of the shire was, TRISTBURGH BOROUGH – POPULATION 56. The tiny farming community consisted of a few homes, a market, a blacksmith and a tavern called The Rosy Plume. Hunger was beginning to set in, so the fellows decided to see what they could get in the pub.

  Inside, they found a sparsely patronized establishment. A few men were seated about the place, eating, drinking and talking. Timmy, Francis and Snoots stepped up to the bar and ordered some grub. With their meager money, they could afford only a few beet cakes and a bottle of brew apiece. It was fine enough, and a welcome change to their previous diet of jailhouse gruel.

  Gnawing away at the crisp pastries, the trio noticed a bit of a commotion just outside the tavern window. A carriage had pulled up, and two constables stepped out of the cabin accompanied by a third man, cloaked in a hood and long coat. The three men quickly entered the bar and promptly split up. The hooded man immediately ascended a staircase to the second floor while the officers ordered a few pints and took a seat at a table across the room. The rest of the customers paid no attention at all.

  “Barkeep,” Timmy said, signaling toward the man behind the counter.

  The purveyor wiped up a wet spot and handed a frosted mug to Wicketts.

  In a hushed tone, Timmy asked, “Who was that?”

  The barkeep smiled. “Southrump’s mayor, Percival Snodgrass.”

  At the mention of his name, Timmy, Snoots, and Francis pulled their collars up higher and averted their gaze from the constables sitting nearby.

  “Snodgrass?” Timmy continued. “What’s he doing here?”

  The barkeep just widened his smile and looked down at the coins beneath Timmy’s hand. His desire was clear, and Wicketts loosened his tongue with a shilling.

  “He comes here on business, every so often.”

  “But why the undercover coach? That isn’t the formal ride of the mayor. And why so incognito?”

  Another gold token bought more information.

  “The mayor likes to keep his indiscretions discrete.”

  “Indiscretions?”

  “Yeah, if you boys are interested, you can get in on the action, too. We run a pretty successful brothel upstairs. I see you don’t have much in your purse, but there’s probably a girl or two that will cut you a deal.”

  Timmy couldn’t believe his luck. The information was as good as gold. He passed the barkeep one more coin and a word of thanks. He guzzled down his beverage and motioned to Snoots and Francis that it was probably best to leave. Francis jammed a whole beet cake in his mouth while Snoots looked on in disgust. McGee laid out a napkin, placed his uneaten cakes in the middle, and folded up the nice little package before sliding it into his pocket. The men then quickly ducked out of the tavern.

  “Timmy, I wouldn’t have minded seeing what a few pennies could have gotten me,” Francis stated.

  “Sorry, friend, but I didn’t want to risk a run-in with Snodgrass or his men. If he had seen us all there together, there’s no doubt he’d jump at the opportunity to prosecute and send us back to prison. Plus, I just got a marvelous idea I’m excited to share with everyone else. We need to hurry back to the Stoops. I think I may have figured out a way to rightfully repay the Mayor once and for all.”

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