by Unknown
My eyes tried to take everything in, but it seemed as if I could not focus on anything in particular. However, I was certain that I saw the clown face of the funhouse wink at me.
I quickly invoked an illusion dissolution spell. That was one of the first spells that I had learned when my master taught me all those ages ago. He insisted that most magic was harmless and simply a construct of the imagination. It took great power to actually cause something to manifest, which was why he had hammered me with relentless ferocity with all matter of horrors until I learned how to dismiss them using a spell that I could now almost do in my sleep. The only problem was that nothing around me changed.
Girding myself with the knowledge that my success here would almost assure me the consideration of Levi to become the new leader of The Black Fang, I threw my shoulders back and strolled down the midway to Kuan Si. For some reason, my eyes would drift to that giant clown’s face that marked the funhouse entrance, but I could not keep my gaze on it for more than a fraction of a heartbeat. Yet, each time I managed a look, I could swear the face had changed in some small way. What had only moments before been the sad clown face was now sporting a huge smile.
“Greetings, Kuan Si,” I said over the rumble of the dragon and the purr of a lion-headed monstrosity with what appeared to be an eagle’s body. “I think you know why I am here, and thus, we can dispense with the formalities.”
“I extend my pity to you, Arthur Billington. You should have paid heed to the warnings.”
Looking into the man’s eyes, I thought I actually detected honest to goodness disappointment. As he stepped forward to the edge of the platform, he revealed a wheel about the size of a dinner plate. It was entirely red with the exception of a single sliver of black.
The face of the clown wiggled its eyebrows.
“If you wish to take the coin, you must spin the wheel of your own free will and choose where it will stop,” Kuan Si said with a tip of his hat. His arms opened in a flourish and a spotlight hit him with a pale blue beam that changed the emerald colors to a rich sapphire hue.
The smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and animal dung all swirled together and tickled my olfactory senses. I heard laughter and squeals of excitement from far away.
This was verging on the absurd. How could this be considered a test? This was nothing more than chance. Unfortunately for Mister Si, I had prepared a charm that granted me extraordinary luck. After all, my clue was a wheel of fortune.
“So why all the ominous warnings?” I asked as I approached the platform where Kuan Si stood staring down at me.
I did my best to ignore how he seemed to grow almost twice his size as I approached. All of this was an illusion. I would grant that it was a stellar one; and perhaps I would try to recruit the man into The Black Fang once I became its leader, but it was illusion none the less. The face on the funhouse entrance flashed in my vision and I was certain that it was leering in with such malignant glee that the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end.
My focus snapped back to Kuan Si as he gave the wheel a gentle caress. That tiny sliver of black was almost as thin as a pencil. However, I swore that the blackness swirled as I looked at it.
“Where shall you place your wager?” Kuan asked through impossibly white teeth that were set in a Cheshire grin.
I stared at the wheel and then back at Kuan. There were only two choices. I scowled and invoked my fortune charm. I did not see that I would need it, but since I had gone through all the trouble to twist it, I figured it could not hurt.
“All I have to do is choose where the wheel will stop and the coin is mine?” It had to be more difficult than that.
Kuan gave the wheel a gentle pull and it began to spin with languid slowness. My eyes watched that single sliver of black as it made a complete circuit and returned to the top directly under the gold pointer needle.
Had he stopped it with his hand? I took another step closer and looked from Kuan, to the wheel, and then back to Kuan. The man continued to smile, the mirth showing clearly in his eyes. He gave another tug on the wheel and set it in motion.
“You must choose, Arthur Billington. Choose correctly and the florin is yours.”
This had to be a trick. I glared at Kuan Si, but he simply continued to smile broadly and caress that cursed wheel. My mind did what it always did when I was faced with a puzzle; it went into hyper-examination mode. The obvious choice was to select red. The odds of the pointer coming to rest between the silver prongs that marked the tiny slash of black were so miniscule that there was no reason to even give it consideration.
And that was exactly why black had to be given serious credence as the correct choice. While I would not expect Kuan Si to rig the game, I had to acknowledge that this was a trial. To make it even more perilous, this was a warlock battle. While not as flashy as what one might expect from a Hollywood film, this cerebral match could end with dire results for one or both of us. There was always something nasty that resulted when two warlocks faced one another.
I heard the distant squeals of happy terror in accompaniment to the clack and clatter of what sounded like a roller coaster. The clown was feigning disinterest now and gazed skyward.
Kuan Si produced a riding crop and gave the wheel a gentle slap. “Come now, Arthur, you must choose.”
I tried to look away from Kuan and focus on the wheel again. There was more here than the eye could see. Surely this could not be all there was to the trial. Trusting on my charm, I cleared my mind and waited for the answer.
Red…black…red…black…
My mind was a jumble as both choices screamed in my head. This had to be more of Kuan’s trickery. If he were powerful enough to create such a vivid and complex illusion that I could not see past, then certainly this decision could not be so simple as to choose between red or black. This was made even more puzzling by just how obvious the choice should be.
Yet…that was exactly why the less obvious choice was even more probable.
Was that a bead of sweat on the brow of the giant clown face?
“Black!” I said as I crossed my arms triumphantly across my chest.
Kuan Si gave the wheel a mighty spin. It whirled so fast that the black totally disappeared. The clown laughed as the wheel spun and spun. As it slowed and the black sliver became visible, my mind tried to gauge where the wheel would stop. I could already tell that it would be very close. That only gave me more confidence. Surely it was improbable that I would be…
“You are forfeit,” came the whisper on the breeze that I was almost certain originated from deep within the mouth of the giant funhouse clown entrance.
The wheel had stopped. It was a hair’s breadth from the black sliver.
“Impossible!” I cried. But there was no sound. Only pain.
For some reason, I seem to be staring down onto the midway. I see a man on his knees sobbing at the feet of Kuan Si. He looks up at me and his weeping turns to laughter.
“I am free!” the man shrieks as he turns and runs. I see him dash up the alley of the midway and vanish in a shimmer of distorted waves that make me think of a desert mirage.
“I am sorry, Arthur Billington,” Kuan says as he steps down off the platform.
He is no longer dressed like a carnival ringmaster. He wears simple linen trousers and a loose shirt of slate gray. He turns and walks away. The carnival seems to come to a tangible life as he vanishes, and I am forced to stare…unblinking. I do not need to see. I know now that I am the clown-faced entrance to a funhouse. I watch helpless as a line of people enter the queue.
Oh my God! I can feel each step…each tumble like a blow to the gut. The laughs and shrieks pierce my brain. The horror…
The Story of Jeremy Totters by David Moody
Jeremy Totters looks younger than he is. He says he's twenty-eight, but the reality is he's much older. He surrounds himself with people who spend their time pretending to be something they're not. That's a good thing, he thinks, beca
use it helps him. That's exactly what he's doing. He's hiding in plain sight, just biding his time.
To the outside looking in, Jeremy is just another jobbing actor: a desperate bit-player, one amongst thousands, another hopeful who'll do whatever he has to to get in front of the camera and keep living the dream and paying the bills. From exploitation movies to porn to summer studio blockbusters to experimental indies and everything in-between . . . whatever they want him to do, he'll be there. Unlike the rest of the extras around here, though, he's not actually looking for his big break. Thing is, he's already had it. Jeremy's a warlock, with hundreds of years of knowledge crammed into a smart, camera-friendly head that looks too young and pretty for its shoulders. The others are all playing make-believe, desperately trying to convince you they're something they're not. Jeremy Totters, on the other hand, is the reverse: he is the big man – the main man – happy to let them all think he's just like them.
It's all smoke and mirrors with Jeremy. He hangs around with the right people, says all the right things, but if you listen close enough you'll find he's full of excuses and get-out clauses. You might think he's a loner, because when he's done on set and the makeup and costume have been removed, he goes back to his sparse apartment and waits and readies himself.
Like I said, he's biding his time.
Jeremy's in the perfect place. People worship at the feet of movie stars . . . they have the kind of influence and reach politicians and world leaders can only dream of. Jeremy has worked himself into a position where he'll have a ready made audience watching with adulation when he makes his move and assumes leadership of the coven. He's going to be bigger than Elvis and The Beatles, worthy of more Oscars and Golden Globes than the last decade's winners combined.
The world won't know what hit it.
The old man can't last much longer. Jeremy knows it'll soon be time for him to make his move and assume leadership of the coven. And when he does, all his LA connections will open up and channel his powers. The entire world will be watching when he decides to make his play. The biggest audience ever assembled. And he can't wait.
***
Some days it's hard to keep my tongue bit and keep the frustration swallowed down. This has been one of them. I've been on set all damn day, the token black face in a crowd full of latex monsters, muscle-bound warriors and half-dressed princesses, surrounded by so many frigging prima-donnas it's untrue. They think being here makes them something special, like the fact they're on screen means they're better than everyone else. That makes it doubly hard for me, because I know I'm better.
The peach of today has been the guy who's center-stage right now: the overpaid, underworked prick who can't get his lines right unless he's stoned. You'd know him if you saw his face. He's been in a thousand films you've watched before now. Six-foot something, gray bushy beard, about two forty pounds, the deepest voice you've ever heard . . . He plays it straight when the cameras are rolling, but I've seen them sending young boys to his trailer between takes. And you know, I can forgive all that, but what gets me is the fact this dick is supposed to be playing a warlock. I swear, he's so off the mark it's hard keeping a straight face. He's spent the day standing in front of me shouting fucked-up incantations, waving his arms about and pulling faces like you wouldn't believe. I've got more power in my little finger than he has in his entire body. If only he knew who I am . . . what I am. He's make believe, I'm real.
But none of them know, and none of them can know. Not yet. They'll find out when the time's right, when I can finally drop the act. Then they'll all know my name. I'll be bigger than all the stars in Hollywood combined.
The pieces are finally falling into place.
I got Levi's letter this morning. Funny how something so important just dropped through the mailbox with all the other junk, wedged between a phone bill and a charge card mailout. The mailman didn't have a clue what he'd just delivered. There's a beautiful irony there. People like me, we operate in a whole other world from the general population, separated by a hair's breadth that might as well be a million miles. We're hiding in plain sight, and even though we're standing right amongst them, shoulder to shoulder, they look straight through us.
The letter made things pretty clear. Levi's done his time. The old man's stepping aside, and it's down to one of us to take his place. And what I have to do is pretty clear too. I'll get hold of my piece of the florin, and I'll be the one who ascends.
He's told me who has it. Some guy by the name of John Wesley in Indianapolis. Two thousand miles or so from here. My flight's booked and my time in this bullshit town is done. I'm on my way.
***
I spend the flight working out my plan of attack, except maybe that's not the right turn of phrase. There will be an attack at some point, of that there's no doubt, but with a little care, planning and foresight, I can minimize the danger and risk. See, I'm going to act my way into John Wesley's world, and he won't know I'm coming for him 'til I'm standing over his body, watching him take his last breath.
So Levi's sent along a couple of pieces of information to work with. Not much, but enough. I have a picture of the main man himself, and a tarot card: the Devil. Wesley looks like a smooth bastard. Well-groomed. On top. In the photo he's holding a glass of red wine like he's toasting me. He won't look so good by the time I'm done with him.
The plane starts its descent into Indianapolis. I'll pick up a hire car, then head to the address I've found for Wesley. There's still a ways to go yet, but that's good. The drive will give me all the time I need to get into character.
The future's good. The future's bright. The future's mine.
***
But this can't be right, can it?
I pull up outside the address I have, but it's not the kind of place I was expecting. I was thinking something pretty grand, something deserving of the status of a guy like Wesley, not . . . this. This is just a house like any other: a brick-built ranch-house on Busy Bee Lane, nothing special. Then again, I have to remind myself what my apartment in LA was like. Maybe this is all part of the plan, trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Whatever Wesley's thinking, it ain't gonna work.
Okay. Into character. I check myself in the mirror, check the sharpness of my suit, then check my head. From hereon in, you are Ray Parlour. You're here trying to trace the folks who lived in this house before John Wesley . . . working for a relative who's trying to track them down . . . I have to stop myself from laughing. Seriously, how do I come up with this bullshit? Truth is, its part a true story, but I lifted most of it from the plot of a particularly shitty movie I had a bit-part in last summer. I was Thug #3 on a street corner – not even Thug #1. You might have seen me, unless you blinked and missed the scene.
I ring the buzzer and wait. And wait. Damn, it takes forever. What the hell's Wesley doing in there? Is he even here? I start to feel nervous, but I rise above it like I always do. I keep telling myself I'm one step ahead of the game. I do breathing exercises while I'm waiting on the doorstep. Timed breaths. Make the exhale a few counts longer than the inhale, like my tutor used to say in acting class.
The woman who eventually opens the door doesn't even reach my shoulders. She's short and barrel-round, close-cropped gray hair and red-faced, dressed in a shoulder to toe outfit that's like a frigging circus tent, hiding all her bulges and making her body look like a cylinder. "Can I help you?" she asks, panting with the effort of getting up and opening the door.
"You sure can, ma'am. I sure hope so, anyway. I'm looking for Mrs. Wesley. Are you the owner of this property?"
"I'm Mrs. Wesley. What can I do for you?"
"Do you think I could ask you about the former owners?"
She looks unsure. She can't hide her emotions like me. "I don't want any trouble . . . we keep ourselves to ourselves here . . ."
"Oh, no ma'am, no trouble . . . I'm trying to track down the former occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Lawler."
"I can't remember them . . . It's been a while
."
"Of course it has, I understand." I hand her the business card I had printed at a machine in the airport. I've got another two hundred and forty-nine of the damn things back in the car. Hope she buys my cover story. It should work. It's part-anchored in reality. By all accounts Mr. and Mrs. Lawler just upped sticks and vanished a while back and no one's heard from them since. "My name's Ray Parlour. I represent Chandler, Knox and Meyer."
"You're a lawyer? Oh, my . . ."
"I am, ma'am. A junior partner in the firm."
"And are the Lawlers in trouble?"
"No, no . . . quite the opposite in fact. I represent relatives of the Lawlers who are understandably concerned, but I'm not having a whole heap of luck tracking them down."
"I don't really think I'll be able to help you none . . ."
"Honest to goodness, Mrs. Wesley . . . you're just about my last chance. I'm all out of alternatives. Can you just spare me five minutes of your time? I only have a couple questions and I've travelled a heck of a distance to get here."
She looks at me for a second, her eyes fixed on mine. I hold her gaze and stare back in character, almost starting to believe my Ray Parlour cover story myself. An age passes before she speaks again. "Well I guess you'd better come on inside."
"Thank you, ma'am, this is very much appreciated."
I follow her into a large square kitchen and she gestures for me to sit at the end of a long table covered in food and papers and all kinds. Damn, it's hot in here. I loosen my tie. "You care for a drink, Mr. Parlour?" she asks, and my throat's so dry I don't hesitate.