"Shut up, ugly lady," the Pillar says. "I'm the doorknob. Everyone knows that."
The audience laughs and claps hysterically. It buys the Pillar time to tell me, "The Cook!"
"I know," I say. "There is something wrong about him."
"Let's see what he is up to." The Pillar points his cane. "Why is hiding his eyes with his hair?"
"He might be the Cheshire," I shriek.
"That's not the Cheshire," the Duchess says, thinking we're acting. "That's my cook. He has an obsession with pigs and pepper."
"Shut up, hag!" I say. "We're trying to solve a crime here."
Why doesn't anyone laugh at my jokes?
"Peppa!" The cook acts furious, pulling jars of pepper from under the table. "More peppa!" He starts pouring ridiculous amounts into a boiling cauldron.
I realize the boiling water in the cauldron is real. Shouldn't this endanger the actors? The cook is definitely the Cheshire. I look at the Pillar for confirmation, but he is in a haze of confusion.
Maybe we're both just paranoid.
As the cook pours the pepper, a few kid actors run into the scene and ask the Duchess for food. I know for sure this isn't part of the real script of Alice in Wonderland. But nothing has exactly followed the book so far.
"Go away, you obnoxious, filthy children!" The Duchess kicks one of kids away. The boy rolls on his stomach, aching. Those guys act brilliantly. It's so believable.
"Pigs for the children," the cook announces, and holds a baby pig in one hand. It's a real pig. "Do you want me to cook it for you, along with some spicy peppa?"
"Yes!" the children plead. "We're hungry. We haven't eaten in days."
Suddenly, I can't help but notice the children's clothes look exactly like in my vision. But it makes sense. The play portrays Victorian times, so I shouldn't be suspicious about it.
The Pillar still watches the cook closely.
Another unexpected thing happens when a woman, acting as the Queen of Hearts, bursts onto the stage. She is short and chubby and wears a joker's outfit. She holds an axe triple her size.
"Off with all your heads," she shouts. "Horrible children eating the food in my kingdom."
Even the Duchess acts horrified by the Queen.
"Pardon me, my Queen," the cook says. "Could I use the axe to chop off my pig's head? I need to cook it for the children." Then he says, in an unnecessary way, "Peppa! More peppa!"
"What is this?" the Pillar asks me. I have never seen him offended by nonsense like this before. But honestly, this is way crazier than I thought it would be. "What's going on?"
We're hardly part of the act anymore. The crowd loves every bit of this mishmash of characters.
"I can't give you my axe," the Queen of Hearts tells the cook. "But I can chop the pig's head for you." The grin on her face is deeply disturbing to me. Of course, none of the audience can see it this far.
Is the Cheshire also the Queen of Hearts?
The cook holds the pig heartlessly from its feet. The poor animal struggles with its head upside down. It sneezes painfully because of the pepper.
"Put the pig down!" I shout. This not acting anymore. What the heck is this? "This play is over. Put the poor pig down!"
Instead of backing me up, the crowd boos at me.
"Show it to me," the Queen of Hearts orders the cook. He nears the kicking pig down to here so Her Majesty's short existence can reach it.
And then...
Then...
The unbelievable happens, the sort of thing that breaks all barriers between real and unreal.
The Queen of Hearts swings her axe and chops off the pig's head.
My head processes the scene in slow motion. It's too horrifying for my mind to digest it in normal speed.
The axe chops off the pig's head, which blobs down into the hungry boiling water in the cauldron.
I have never witnessed a crowd love such a performance.
Mouth agape, I feel something hot splash at my face. I felt it once the Queen chopped off the head, but I only register it when it trickles down my chin. I rub my face with my hands and raise them in front of my eyes.
It's the pig's blood.
This stage show is happening for real.
Chapter 4 1
I am stiffened, cemented, and chained by the cruelty of what looks like normal people, be it actors or the crowd.
The Queen of Hearts grins and starts to chop off the kids' heads. The kids start to stab the Duchess. The cook doesn't hesitate to boil whatever ends up in his cauldron—pig, heads, and even the Duchess' leg, chopped off by a kid.
Still stiffened, Jack holds me tight. Whatever he says is scattered into a million pieces. I think I lost my hearing.
I am pulled away by the Pillar and Jack. They are getting me off the stage. When I try to peek back over their shoulders, the Pillar grips my head tightly between his hands. He doesn't want me to see what's going on there. The shock value might be too high for me to tolerate.
We hurry down the steps and run away. The crowd doesn't understand yet. The crowd praises and hails. They are all standing in ovation now. I wonder how they will feel when one real spatter of blood reaches them. They still think it is all acting.
As I look at them, my hearing comes back. Their sound is deafening.
"Come on," the Pillar says. "We have to go!"
Near the exit door, I try to make any sense of what just happened. Why would the Cheshire do this? Just to drive me mad? It's not holding up. Something huge is missing.
The answer comes to me faster than I thought.
The crowd suddenly stops clapping, and some of them shriek.
When I stop the Pillar from exiting and turn around, I see them all staring with trembling bodies at the stage. It's the cook they are looking at. He is standing tall on the stage. All alone now. His double-breasted jacket is almost completely red from the blood of all those he killed.
It seems like he killed everyone, bearing two glinting knives his hands. I haven't noticed before that his trousers are a black and white pattern, like a chessboard. His eyes are still covered with his wavy hair.
The cook isn't talking, but his presence is strong. I am not sure if the crowd realized what's going on yet.
Silently, the cook pulls out a few jars of pepper. Those are different from the one he used before. He sets them in order at the cauldron's edge, like a scientist meticulously preparing for an experiment.
An epidemic of sorts comes to my mind. My heart pounds to the realization that the stage massacre, with all its gore, isn't the epic finale to his work of madness yet.
The crowd's breathing is almost absent; they have finally registered the reality of what is going on.
"Pepper," the cook says. This isn't his theatrical voice from the act. It's a hoarse voice, coming from someone who doesn't speak much. Someone who has kept to himself for years, locked in an asylum, awaiting his chance to break loose. "This pepper in my hand will make you sneeze."
A few forced chuckles scatter across the crowd, stopped immediately by the rise of his hand and the pursing of his lips.
This man isn't the Cheshire. This man is pure darkness. Why is he doing this?
"This time you will sneeze differently," the cook lectures. The hollowness of his voice fills the auditorium. It's like talking to a god. There's nothing you can argue with. "Please approach, madam."
A woman in the front row is pushed by the rest of the crowd toward the cook. One sheep sacrificed for the safety of many.