The Matter Manipulator rubs his hands together, nonplussed. "This procedure, reanimation, is difficult, is time consuming," he stammers.
When Gonko replies, the Matter Manipulator cringes back like a hand has been raised to strike him. "How long's it gonna take you? Shows start soon. And we got other work to do."
"Varies. The time since death, the age of the—the organism. Too long and it is impossible! The time the, shall we say, essence has had to wander wherever essences go, once they escape the flesh." His hands flutter like birds and he laughs, nervous.
"Bring 'em back," Gonko repeats wearily.
"The, um, ah, payment?"
Now Gonko does rise to strike him and the Matter Manipulator leans eagerly forward, excited. "Orders," Gonko barks. "From George himself. And from higher than George. Geddit?"
"Ah!" Even more excited. "Any news of below?"
"Kurt says ‘Hi.' And says, do what you're told. He won't be down there forever."
"Do as I'm told! Then, we shall see. Keep it hush! I shan't be pestered by all who have lost a friend or enemy, or I shall never cease reanimating. Other works, hobbies with the living, far more interesting . . ."
Gonko begins shoveling the clown remains inside, for passing carnies have paused out there to stare at the mess. They ought not see his crew in such a state, it's a bad look. The Matter Manipulator vanishes to a back room and returns pushing something resembling an electric chair. Wires in thick bundles trail across the floor behind it, spitting sparks. "How long?" says Gonko.
"Check with me in three days." The Matter Manipulator's a little petulant now, for Gonko has clearly distracted him from any number of projects.
"I'll check back in an hour. Then an hour after that. And you're gonna mind your p's and q's and be real super hospitable and you're gonna work around the clock, or Gonko's gonna get a little antsy, and he's gonna hurt someone real, real bad."
A touch stunned, the Matter Manipulator recovers quickly, smiles. "Something wrong, Mr. Gonko?"
Gonko startles them both with the discovery of a tear in his eye, an exaggerated clown tear which is big as his fist and bounces when it hits the floor. "These are my . . ." he chokes off the words.
"Your underlings?" the Matter Manipulator ventures.
"Goddammit, they're mush now. Glue. Look at this filth." He kneels in said filth, clutching Doopy's discolored head by the hair bristles. "I'll bring you back, Doops. You'll see. Chuckle times ahead, Doops, you and your brother. We'll ride the cackle train to giggle town. We'll knock 'em dead, all of 'em, just like old times."
"Impassioned. Moving." The Matter Manipulator hustles about now, clearly seething at orders and threats, likely filing them away for when Gonko is sent here for punishment, which will surely happen sooner or later with George running things. He brings out a spatula, razor, a portable freezer holding lumps of human flesh, a sack heavy with rolled up skin, scissors, some pink gloop Gonko's never seen before. Composing himself, Gonko says, "They'll be the same, right?"
"Oh, more or less."
"They better be."
"Some enhancements, mayhap. Some minor defects." The Matter Manipulator pulls on stained gloves, assembles vials and jars of various colorful liquids. He measures out a large swath of skin, plugs in a machine with antennas and flickering dials next to the big wired-up chair. Its little screen shows a flat pulse line.
Gonko paces around the disgusting furniture. From various bits and pieces eyes follow him, silently pleading. "What's this?" he says, picking up what looks like lipstick.
"Lipstick," says the rather annoyed Matter Manipulator.
"For?"
"A variant of clown face paint. George is considering a kissing booth, lust being a . . . harvest mechanism, yes, the show has not used in some while. We'd need a female specimen of sufficient beauty, I suppose. The lipstick will enhance her further."
"It works?"
"Never tested." The Matter Manipulator straps on goggles and fires up a small flame welder. "Take it and try it, if it pleases you."
The lipstick is already in Gonko's pocket, along with what looks like mascara and eye shadow. He watches the horrid little man at work for a while sawing lengths of bone into carefully measured pieces but can stand only so much. "Hurry back," he whispers to his ruined crew.
Through the showgrounds Gonko wanders until he finds the old clown tent, now rebuilt, refurbished, and apparently used as a storing room for everyone's miscellaneous shit. Somehow the sight of old fridges, caravan doors, half-made tables, and brass backed mirrors pokes him in an unwelcome place, and the rage bursts forth. "George," he whispers, not knowing what he says, seeing only red with lightning forks of white lashed through. "George. george. georrrge!"
The crash, shatter, thud, split, and boom carry across the showgrounds while broken things fly out through the tent doorway. Some come to watch Cyclone Gonko in awe. Most, more wisely, flee the scene.
Later, on his way back to the Funhouse, Gonko strolls almost lost through the new circus layout, where George's orders have all but robbed the place of its character. The tents are all the same size, the same distance apart, perfectly swept, and it's all sparkling clean, from the swept floors to polished poles. Signs are up all over, with George's face on them, only a more noble handsome version of George, peering down from high places with the words george is watching and traitors beware. Gonko is baffled that not a single sign has been defaced.
He stops by the acrobat tent, where to his astonishment another sign out front reads: george's pet favorites (for now!) In smaller letters: suck up and rat out your friends for your chance! Three sublime bodies laze about inside, dripping with sweat from rehearsal. The new acrobats laugh and sip iced tea. Gonko sifts through fuzzy memories of that night; it takes him a while to recall the old acrobats are gone, and that Curls said something about kidnapped Olympic gymnasts replacing them. But by the time he's remembered these things, Gonko has already picked up a clump of hard dirt, yelled "Hey, fuck face," and hurled it as hard as he could at the first one to turn around. The throw strikes its target in the throat. Eyes go wide, cough cough splutter and all that caper as the others rush to the aid of their fallen friend.
"You beast!" one hollers at him. All three are weeping. The casualty rolls around with (admittedly) beautiful catlike grace.
Gonko remembers at that point there's no actual feud (til now maybe). But the way the place has changed, some old familiar touches are plenty welcome. "What the hell?" he says. "Sven would have fly-kicked me by now. Don't you know how to acrobat?"
"We abhor violence!"
"So this is gonna be one easy feud, is what you're telling me?"
They run off crying, leaving Gonko to pace restlessly around the grounds. It's a long spell of time for him—he feels like an expecting father outside the delivery room. Word reaches him that the acrobats have tattled to George and that George is on the lookout for him, but George has plenty of others to scream at and lash, and Gonko (rightly) suspects George has got a whiff of the menace oozing from his pores and is in no real rush to find him. Nonetheless he plays safe, hiding out whenever the unsteady stomp-stomp of George's goon comes near.
Things have changed all right. Rumor has it that among the punishment options, George takes particular delight in seating squabbling performers for demeaning "reconciliation" sessions with some therapist he grabbed from the world above, the same way he grabbed that accountant from back a little while. Quarreling parties are made to discuss their feelings and resolve conflicts, sometimes before an audience of carnies. It sounds truly diabolical—Gonko has to hand it to him, he knows how to spoil the fun, old George.