The next display was something Gonko could truly have done without seeing, which was the point of a freak show, he supposed. Fatso was doing his special act: eating himself. Fatso vaguely resembled a man-sized baby with rolls of soft wrinkled flesh piled in rings, a pig-like snout and large eyes, no neck, a G-string hidden by overhanging fat which quivered as he reached a shoulder to his mouth, squeezed a mound of doughy meat into a ball. His mouth had no teeth but had what seemed to be jagged pink gums, razor sharp. They sucked and sliced off a bite with the sound of slurping soup. Blood pooled in the gap he'd bitten away, dripped down in rivulets to join the streams of red his other bites had spilled. He chewed fast, swallowed, his expression somehow endearing for its innocent enjoyment. "Remember, folks, you are what you eat!" he said cheerfully. "At least, I know I am!" He went back to the same shoulder for more, then for a taste of bicep. The tricks stood disgusted and enthralled, Gonko feeling the same. But as the soul dust poured to the grass he suddenly knew what act he'd be swiping for his own freak show. This guy, at least, seemed to enjoy his work.
Moving on, Gonko came to George's surprise new exhibit. Gonko was surprised all right, to find the still living head of Kurt Pilo in a glass case, being prodded that very moment by a beer-gutted, bearded, trucker-looking trick.
Kurt's lips did not hold their normal serene smile. His eyes glared fiery hate at the trick, whom Gonko quickly tossed across the room, bowling over a handful of other tricks and maybe risking rousing them from the circus sleepwalking spell. Kurt glowered up, recognized him, and some of the fire went out of his glare. "Gonko! This is unexpected. I suppose you've been ordered here to . . .
have a poke?"
"Boss. What gives?"
"Oh, I'm better than I look. My body is obscured by sheets and lighting, but I'm still attached to it. George has . . . decided to keep me confined in a rather well-designed cage, which can withstand all manner of thrashing and flexing. You know, in some ways it's nicer than being below. In other ways . . ." Gonko saw where he was coming from: being mauled and tortured below had a certain rightness about it, if it was the big bosses doing it. Being poked by every shit-kicking carny rat and trick while George laughed? That was something else, even if it was physically less painful. Kurt's voice regained some of its joviality. "Further, it is an opportunity to practice the virtues of patience and tolerance. The fish flakes I am fed have helped my flesh to regrow. It's down to my chest now, isn't that nice? And I'm growing more adept at maintaining my . . . composure." By which, Gonko knew, he meant holding on to his human form despite the sizzling hot rage that must be boiling inside him almost constantly.
"Boss, I'll get you out. I just need some more time. Hang in there."
"Oh, no hurry," said Kurt. "I'll need to regain my strength to . . . handle various managerial tasks, once I am liberated. But I eagerly await the chance to stretch my legs. Among other things."
"I get the picture, boss. Anything I can do in the meantime?"
"Be the best clown you can be, Gonko! Strive for excellence, that's my motto." Kurt looked to the entrance, lowered his voice. "You would need to ensure that Dr. Gloom is not nearby, if you wished to assist me in some way outside of the stricter regulations. He keeps a close eye on all visitors."
Indeed Dr. Gloom had entered, his hunched-forward head slowly swinging about to find the source of the disturbance Gonko caused by bowling over those tricks. Dr. Gloom's head swung their way, and he began to amble over. "I'm out, boss. Back as soon as I can."
"No rush, no rush," said Kurt serenely. "Oh, but Gonko? Hurry."
•
Gonko ran from the freak show and barreled into Rufshod. Both went flying in a tangle of arms and legs. A group of tricks laughed at them dreamily. "Fortuneteller's here," Rufshod said, springing to his feet.
"She what?" Rufshod led him to her hut where, sure enough, Shalice (young and beautiful again) sat before the white glow of her crystal ball, doing her whole hypnotize-the-tricks-and-get-them-to-do-seemingly-pointless-stuff-in-the-real-world-which-has-secret-long-term-ramifications-for-influencing-the-turn-of-wider-events gag. She glanced up, locked eyes with Gonko, and was knocked back in her chair in an apparent mix of anger, surprise, and fear.
Gonko bowed low, not sure where things sat with the fortuneteller. "Need to talk," he mouthed.
She nodded to the trick before her, so Gonko waited out front, eyes peeled for George. This whole go-look-for-someone-who-ain't-actually-up-there gag was fine with him just now, and would buy useful time. The trick came out; Gonko went in. He happened to have in his hand a bag of bribery soul dust, and sure enough the fortuneteller's eyes lingered on it for a good while. He tossed it to her side of the table. "Little present to say welcome back," he said.
"How generous." She made the bag disappear. "I'm very busy today, Gonko. What is it?"
"Just a friendly little chinwag."
"Friendly would make a nice change, considering two of your troupe tried to kill me."
"First I heard of it."
"Is that so?"
"You can spot lies, right? Check it out, I got all kinds of honesty happening here."
"You clowns are not so easily read, sometimes." But he sensed a slight easing in her.
"Sabotage, that's all it was. Someone was messing with everyone, Shal—Fishboy and his crew. Never would have guessed it. Nor would you, eh? What say we let bygones be? Who knows, we could even be useful to each other, should some things need to change around here."
Now he had her attention, though she smiled in a way he found ambiguous. "Useful. Are you offering to watch my back in a more general sense, or do you have something specific in mind?"
Gonko hesitated. He'd been thinking of smuggling Shalice out to his upstairs show, but suddenly it seemed a risky thing to mention—this wasn't some dwarf like Curls he could just stomp to meat paste if squealing looked likely. For all he knew, if things were going to pan out that way, she'd already be wise to it and taking some kind of fancy action to change it before he'd even know what hit him. In fact, he wished he'd not come in here at all. "So George is in charge now," he said.
"Yes," she nodded. Silence stretched out. Gonko waited. "For the moment," she added at last.
Gonko smiled, reached into his pocket for another bag of powder—he had only three left, but tossed one of them her way. "I'd guess we're on a similar page here. One thing I'll ask of you. If George gives you the whole where's Gonko? thing, do me a favor? Where Gonko is, is he's up there looking under every rock and shrub for the fortuneteller, and the other escaped carnies, and he's real shitty about the whole no-clown-show deal. Got it?"
"I remain a loyal servant to the circus," she replied, but he could tell—or hoped so—that she was on board, or at least wouldn't mess with him.
"Me too, lady. And if any of these new chumps gives you the lip, you let me know. Glorious days ahead, when the little storm clouds clear."
She chewed on her lower lip, debating something. "Gonko, there's a spare music box in the shed. More than one, in fact."
Ah, so she knew—knew the whole works, and he'd thought he was being careful as all get out. It so happened he was going to check for a music box before he headed up, and if there wasn't a spare, to steal the one they had. Of course she'd heard of the missing carnies, maybe even of the Funhouse break-in and the stolen head. Good thing he'd come, then—maybe she'd have worked it out regardless, with the idea still in her head that the clowns were out to get her. "That's damned sensible of management," he said, poker facing. "Never know when your music box will break or go missing or something."