It’s funny how that happens sometimes. We associate smells with memories, and when that memory is triggered, we are momentarily pulled away, no matter the current circumstances. That’s exactly what happened here, as I stepped into the most fucked-up circus in the history of the universe. I was surrounded by bedlam, by unorganized chaos and clutter, by one what-the-fuck after another, and that smell just came out of nowhere, smacking me like a goddamned baseball bat, and making me think of my fourth birthday party, when I’d been with my mom and visited the circus, and I’d laughed and clapped and dropped my hotdog onto the dirty bleacher before picking it up and eating it even though it tasted like dirt. My mom had cried, had been crying, and up until that very moment when the smell hit me for the second time in my life, I’d always thought she’d been crying about the damn hotdog.
And it made me mad, so fucking mad. I had so little of my mom, so little memory I could call my own. It was one of the few things this fucking place couldn’t possibly take from me, yet that was exactly what had just happened, and it was so unexpected, so violent, so final that I no longer cared about the stupid plan, or of trying to save my life.
I just wanted to tear it all down.
But you don’t want to hear about any of this shit, do you? It’s not important. Not when we were weeks past the earth’s expiration date. Not when I was standing there like an idiot as I watched a unicycling, woman clown roll past me while greedily devouring what looked like a goblin leg. The colorful yet demonic acrobats who, moments before, had been firing magical mortars at monsters the size of buildings, were now sailing back and forth above me. The lemurs juggled. The clowns sang.
I thought of Donut, passed out and exposed, only protected by Mongo. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. You will not break me. You will not break me.
It was as if the battle outside hadn’t occurred. These were still the fucked-up, transformed versions of the circus workers, but each and every one of them was feverishly performing a parody of their original acts, all of them shoved tight against one another. As I watched, two of the acrobats collided in mid-air and fell, crunching to the ground. Nobody took any heed.
A weathered, wooden sign stood in my path: a cutout of a figure with a speech bubble. It was of a dwarf wearing the red and black coattails and top hat of a ringmaster. On the wooden sign it read, “I am Ringmaster Grimaldi! Welcome to my Circus! Within this tent, all your worries and fears are left behind. All we ask is for you to sit down, relax, and enjoy. Let us take those burdens from you, even if for just a short amount of time.”
I returned my gaze to the performers. What the hell was going on? Did they forget? Was there a spell? Did they just assume they were safe? Furthermore, none of them—despite having red dots on the map—were even glancing at me. It was as if I were invisible.
I shook my head. This fucking game. I still clutched onto my ticket, and I didn’t dare let it go. They were leaving me alone now, but I feared if I dropped this thing, I’d be toast.
And then I saw it. The vine. The thing was so huge, my mind hadn’t properly registered its presence. I’d thought it was part of the tent or the show, a stage prop. Even after my extensive conversation with Mordecai regarding this thing, I’d been expecting, well, a vine. Like a dude with a bunch of brambles coming out of himself, reaching every which way and that, maybe curling up the center pole.
This was more of a giant-ass bush or shrub than a vine. It took the entirety of the center ring, and it reached the ceiling of the tent, swallowing the pole. It was a pale green color, less haphazard looking than I’d expected. Along the ground, multiple, python-like roots spread. Unable to find purchase in the floor of the Over City, the roots spread above ground, reaching all corners of the tent.
As I gawked, a new achievement popped up, one of the special ones I couldn’t minimize. The moment I read it, I felt all of the blood rush out of my face.
New Achievement! You Can’t Fight City Hall!
But you can sure die trying.
You have discovered a city boss!
That’s right. Let me say that again for the assholes in the back!
A.
CITY.
FUCKING.
BOSS.
Welp. If you gonna go, you might as well do it with style.
Just an FYI. As of this moment in the current season of Dungeon Crawler World, not a single Crawler has faced a city boss and survived. And for good reason. Only a complete moron would voluntarily put themselves in a situation where they had to fight one of the most powerful monsters on the level.
Reward: A lot of people are probably going to watch you die. That’s a better prize than most of us get.
A few additional achievements appeared, but I waved them away. A city boss. Holy fuck. Like with the bear, I didn’t appear to be locked into the tent. I took a step back and looked over my shoulder. The Clammy Clown remained at his post, arms crossed, blocking my exit. But I could get out. I could easily get out right now.
No. You can do this. You have a plan. I swallowed and examined the massive plant thing in the center of the arena.
Ringmaster Grimaldi – Pestiferous Vine
This is an Elite.
Level 85 City Boss!
Before the cataclysm, if you asked any child of the sprawling Over City what their favorite activity was, a good number of them would happily tell you of the great and wonderful Grimaldi’s Traveling Circus. Children dreamed of walking outside and seeing the long line of circus carts rumbling through the streets, of the tents being erected in their local park. Circus night was a holiday. A time of joy.
To Redstone Grimaldi, nothing was more important than his family. He loved each and every one of them. When the cataclysm came, and the poison cloud swept over the circus, he was center stage. He remains there to this day.
Transformed from a simple dwarf to a hulking Pestiferous Vine, Grimaldi uses his special powers to keep his family safe and alive. No matter how many times they die, no matter how many crawlers the clowns devour, he brings them back, memories intact. Well, mostly intact. Somewhere in there Grimaldi may be aware that this may not be the most moral of choices. But that’s what we do when it comes to family. We protect them at all costs.
And besides, you know what they say.
The show must go on.
After the description ended, nothing changed. Nobody moved to attack. The vine didn’t move at all. My eyes caught the largest of the roots. It snaked up into the empty bleachers. I walked toward it, slipping past clowns and lemurs and other oddities. I passed the strongman ogre with the appendage coming out of his neck. I realized with a start that the single-headed ogre’s countenance bore a striking resemblance to the center head of the three-headed ogre tattoo monster. He held the same jagged scar across the side of his head.
This creature was also an elite. His name was Apollon the Mighty. He stood behind a small stand with a faded sign that read, “Iced Cream. A frozen treat from another world! No chewing necessary! Glides right in like a winter dream!”
“Cone?” the ogre asked as I approached. He held up what appeared to be a petrified ice cream cone. He dipped it into a bucket attached to the stand, and when he pulled it up, the cone was filled with writhing, bone-white worms, similar to the ones who’d infested Heather the Bear.