Animal (Chapter 7 - Part 1)

(Part 1 of Chapter 7 Rewrite - New Chapter)

The curtains to The Tall Man’s private car slide open. The guest enters without ceremony and without pardon. He wears a tight-fitting suit to match his slim frame. A golden-chained watch tucks into his front jacket pocket. A black top hat perches atop his skull. The Tall Man shows as little respect to his entrance, refusing to lift his feet from the car seat. The corpse of the murdered guard remains splayed across the bloodied carpet.
“It’s okay, I prefer to stand,” The man in the suit replies.
The Tall Man shrugs. He retrieves a rolled cigarette from his back pocket and strikes a match along the edge of the windowsill.
“Still rolling your own?”
“Until my end.”
The main in the suit taps the stiff but not yet stinking corpse with the side of his polished dress shoe.
“Friend of yours?”
“Closer to him now than I ever was.”
“Cute.”
The man in the suit removes the rounded hat from his head and sets it across his lap, drawing his pocket watch to check the time as well.
“I haven’t got long. Next stop I’m out.”
“And it’s been so long since we last spoke,” The Tall Man says, “I’d hoped we could catch up.”
The man in the suit offers a curt smile that turns into sneer.
“Oh Varlyn, I’m well aware of all the things you’ve been up to. You’ve been the quite the busy little bee lately. Going around on your little vendetta, cleaning up the past, as much as one can. Must be proud; Charlie dead, Hank dead, Paul most likely fading, from what I understand his lineage was not the healthiest bunch. You should be happy, Varlyn, you’ve reached the point where you’ve become a bedtime story: a monster that chases children from their dreams. But don’t forget, you still have obligations that lie elsewhere.”
“I won’t,” The Tall Man replies, his finger stabbing their way through the air, “Don’t forget who cleans up your mistakes either, my friend.”
“How could I?”
The Tall Man lifts his feet back from the opposite seat and brings them inward, sliding up to expand his form.
“A man like you, I’d imagine he forgets his place now and then. Probably why you’re still the messenger after all these years.”
The man in the suit presses on, “Of course, try and anger me. It’s a respectable tactic but one you and I both know is best served for younger men. Let’s not forget there are plenty other, more malleable men who would be interested in the offer we extend so graciously to you.”
The Tall Man’s reply is equally barbed, “And I imagine there’s plenty more men who’d be willing to stand in your place making that offer.”
The man in the suit draws his own vice from within his coat pocket. A cigar, sliced and lit within moments.
“And yet here we are,” he remarks, “Why do you think that is?”
“It’s simple. We’re the best at what we do.”
“Indeed.”
The man reaches into his second pocket and tosses the Rider a picture of a young man, his next target.
“Your next. Payment will be delivered to you and your men upon completion as always.”
He stands and exits with just as much ceremony as he entered with. The Tall Man returns his lanky legs to their resting place. He tips his hat down and closes his eyes.
“Until we meet again.”

* * *

“Folks should start pulling in once the sun’s down. They usually start to flock once the banners and lanterns go up. Like ants to a picnic. Shows tend to last till midnight, so you’re looking at about a five hour run. You’ll be working guard with Harrison.”
Michael leads on with John in tow. He shoots a slick grin back at his guest and begins to roll down the sleeve of his shirt, exposing skin tanned by days of toil in the hot sun.
“I’ll get there as soon as possible if a ruckus picks up but I tend to mix with the performers during our shows owing to this little talent…”
Michael jerks his arm back with a sharp pop, bending it in an impossible angle. John cocks his head but doesn’t offer a reply.
The carnie shrugs, “Eh, the kids love it.”
He stops in the middle of the main road where the booths line and breathes in deeply. The last of the trinkets and prizes and items have been laid out. Plumes of smoke rise up from the hearth inside the metal cart. The children return to their parents as final preparations begin.
“Ain’t she a sight?” Michael asks, “I been working this outfit ever since it was just a quaint circus the State Fair’s wouldn’t even spit at. Granted, we still ain’t much to spit at, but we’ve got that magic so many don’t.”
“Reminds me of the circus I travelled to a couple years with Rose and Samuel,” John says, realizing his clumsy reveal the moment the words pass his lips.
“Rose your girl?”
“Not something I’d like to talk about. Bringing it up was just a bad choice.”
Michael shrugs and cuts a path back the way they came, calling out as he goes, “Shouldn’t keep things bottled up, John, ain’t healthy. I’m heading back to my wagon, got some things to take care of. If you see Boss, do me a favor and tell him I gave you the grand tour.”
“But you didn’t.”
The carnie’s already disappeared into the bustle of the caravan. Only his voice reaches John’s senses.
“Nothing’s stopping you from exploring. That’s what discovery’s all about!”
John scratches the side of his neck and turns back to the wonders that lay before him. A few booths down he can see the gray-haired Cyrus beckoning him forth. He sighs and makes his way to the stand.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our little hop-on,” Cyrus says, extending a hand with a grip that doesn’t match his age. Hazel eyes remain focused on the bottles that sit before him having already profiled the newcomer on previous encounter.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cyrus.”
“Call me Cy. All my friends do.”
“Harrison didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, Harrison and I aren’t what you’d call friends.”
Cyrus draws forth a small flask of unknown liquid and tips a thimbleful into one of the twenty bottles that grace the table. Hundreds more line the shelves that sit within his open wagon.
“Bad blood?”
“Hmm?” Cyrus mutters, tearing his attention away from the bottle he shakes vigorously in hand, “Nah, nothing like that. We just never have much occasion to talk. Between you and me I don’t think he cares much for my profession. Funny considering the way his sister makes a living.”
John lifts up a pair of tonics and reads their labels.
“‘Pain Break: A quake to stop any ache’. ‘Virile Brew: Ignites the passions of even the coldest lover.’ They’re catchy, I’ll give you that.”
Cyrus snatches the bottles from John and returns them to their place on the stand.
“Why thank you.”
“Bit inexpensive for the effects they promise, aren’t they, Cyrus?”
“They’re also temporary, Jonathon.”
“I prefer John.”
“And I prefer Cy,” Cyrus replies, pushing a cork into each bottle, “Now, what I promise is just a temporary relief.”
“Doesn’t your sign say ‘a cure for any ill’?”
“Buy enough tonics and yes, it will become a cure.”
“Wow…”
“Are you going to ask me how I sleep at night?”
“You’ve probably been asked that enough times.”
Cyrus lets out a bark of a laugh and cracks his knuckles one after another. He pushes the last cork in and straightens them into separate five-bottle lines.
“It may shock you to know, but I will gladly make a refund to any and all dissatisfied customer…providing they return it before we ship out next day.”
“Of course,”
“But if they remember me next year during the new cycle, I will gladly issue a refund.”
John tips his hat and turns to leave.
“Still feels a little shady,” he calls back.
“You get used to it.”

* * *

A ball of fire dances through the air, hurled by the fire breather. Sparks crack and dance as he flips his hand upwards and catches flame upon his palm. He weaves back and slams his hands together, extinguishing the blaze.
The children before him scream and clap. John can’t help but nod his approval as he attempts passage. The fire breather holds out an unlit torch to block his path. John notes the remains of a long-scabbed burn that runs down his cheek.
“You got a death wish?”
John pats away a line of ash from his shirt.
“Coming from a man who juggles fire?”
“I’ll take a handful of fire over being trampled.”
John pats the head of a child who pulls at the side of his shirt.
“You know they’re trying to pickpocket you, right?”
“It’s okay,” John replies, “I’ve got no money to steal. You’re Mal, aren’t you?”
“Harrison tell you about me?”
“Just the name.”
“That’s enough for now.”
Mal turns away from John and returns his torches and flint to the barrel that sits beside his stand. He retrieves a long, flat case and lays it across his knee, flipping open the latches that hold it shut. Inside rests a pair of steel daggers and a scabbard. He draws forth the scabbard and spins it through the air in a sudden blur.
“Fire’s not the only thing I play with.”

* * *

Beyond the practice celebration there stands a single large tent. Black-dyed cotton sheets twist in the breeze in ominous form. No lamps hang from the wood posts that encircle the structure. No sign graces the entrance, no hint as to its purpose. John feels himself drawn to the structure.
The flaps of the tent shift along John’s hand as he passes beneath them. Lengths of board run alongside the back wall. Tools scatter along makeshift tables, hammer and saw and piles of nail. A single lamp hangs from the center of the tent, casting a pool of light down upon a wooden box. A coffin.
John reaches up and removes the Stetson from his head.
“Can I help you?”
From the back corner of the establishment a man emerges. A silver wedding band graces his right hand. He wears a suit of pure black that matches the curls that travel down his neck.
“I was just—”
“Curious?” the coffin maker asks.
“Curious.”
“There’s always a few curious ones at each stop.”
The coffin maker retrieves a sander from his tools and sets about putting the final touches on the coffin’s frame. Three finished coffins of various sizes lay side by side, separate colors and craft. Nailed to each lid is a bill of sale.
“I noticed you have no sign or lamps outside,” John remarks.
“I try and keep my business as unimposing upon the rest of the trade as possible. My work takes me to town before we open to celebration. I bring these coffins down tomorrow morning and return afternoon to begin repacking my materials.”
“Sounds like a difficult trip to make alone.”
“I’m used to it.”
The coffin maker finishes sanding the top portion of the coffin upon which he works.
“Alexander,” he says.
“John.”
“You must be the outsider, the one my wife nursed.”
“You must be Selina’s husband. I want to thank you for what you and your wife did.”
Alexander drags the length of his sleeve across the coffin surface lifting up a storm of sawdust. He sneezes once and begins his work on the next face.
“She thought you needed help. I was indifferent.”
The bluntness of the coffin maker’s words robs John of his own.
“You certainly aren’t one for politeness.”
Alexander shrugs. “I prefer honesty to politeness. You wanted to die; I say we should have let you die. I’m guessing by your continued presence here that my decision would have been a mistake.”
“Maybe not entirely.”
Alexander shifts his way around the coffin, smoothing its form.
“When you build the beds in which our dead sleep, you grow to possess a certain attachment and detachment to the dead. I assist in their preparation as well as the way in which they are buried, and yet I do not know these people. Now, no offense intended, you don’t strike me as a man whose passage will be mourned by a great number. Do you think the death of a man I don’t know who won’t even fetch me a profit will ruffle my feathers?”
“I suppose not.”
Alexander grasps hold of the coffin’s edge.
“Help me flip this,” he says.
John sets his hat aside and grabs hold of the box, turning it in time with the coffin maker’s movements. Alexander sets coffin down and returns to his sanding.
Michael passes through the tent flaps before any semblance of conversation can continue, sticking around just long enough to relay a message to John before disappearing back into the crowd.
“John, get out here! Larrity’s emptying and that means our numbers are about to rise.”
John returns the hat to his head and moves to exit with a wave. Alexander calls out to him.
“I’m taking my wares into town tomorrow. I’d appreciate the company. Judging by the weapons you wear, I assume Boss has hired you for guard on this step of our circuit. We load up round noon.”
The new guard simply nods.

* * *

Michael stands dressed in a suit more expensive than the rest of his wardrobe combined. Boss towers up behind him, nodding for him to begin. Together the two block the main road as the crowd that is Larrity draws close. Michael jumps up onto a wooden block and lifts his arms high, still outclassed by the giant behind him, and shouts into the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, prepare yourselves for the wonders that await you within our humble traveling circus. Note that when I say humble, I say it only in the sense of the heart, as we’ve got one hell of a show waiting for you!”
Boss slaps him over the top of the head and nods in the direction of the children that lead the pack. Michael clears his throat and continues his grandstand.
“We’ve got men who swallow fire and steel, strong men like the one behind me able to bend the hardest metal, foreigners to charm the very souls of man and beast! Even got a little puppet show for the youngest of the young.”
The children stamp their feet and cry. Carnies rush past Boss and Michael and begin to intertwine within the crowd selling tickets for admission to the adventure.
“For the women, we’ve got clothes sewn from the finest silk, jewels that’ll make your neighbor’s blush and your husband’s wallets cry. For the men, we’ve got weapons of the finest craft, made right on site in the world’s hottest hearth by the world’s best gunsmith.”
The first row begins to dig through their pocketbooks as the carnies tear cheap printed paper tickets from a roll.
“For the infirm we’ve got tonics that cure death itself. For those seeking a glimpse into your future or past we’ve got a little fortuneteller. For the young lover’s we’ve got our own private kissing booths, just be sure your darling’s daddy ain’t nearby. For the single fellas we’ve got a cavalcade of lonely dancers.”
Young men hoot and holler. Old maids shake their heads. Michael’s eyes lock upon a group of giggling girls dressed in their Sunday best. He shoots them a sly wink.
“And for the single gals, well, there’s always me,” he begins, ducking a second slap from Boss and raising back up with a rousing finish as the last of the entry fees are collected, “Like I said folks, there’s a little something for everyone here. Now enough talk, you’ve all paid your piper.”
With that, he leaps from his box and lights a match he draws from his breast pocket. Fire springs to the fuses of fireworks that set off towards the night sky and burst in a collage of pink and blue.
“It’s time to enjoy the show!”