Kurt raises a claw like a thin twisted spike of metal. He'd be finger wagging, Gonko knew, if he had fingers. "Tut tut! The positive, Gonko. Never focus on the may nots and could nots. Scrape the remains of your clowns together and visit the Funhouse curator. He'll know what to do. In the meantime the show shall be run by my . . . dear . . . brother . . ." Kurt's voice descends to the growl of something so hungry it can never be sated, "my dearest brother, George."
Gonko nods. Quickly, he debates in his mind, then risks it, whispers: "And say, Kurt. If it turns out George can't run quite as mean a ship as the previous boss did? Just supposing George's show don't turn out so great? What then?"
Kurt's head swings slowly, slowly toward him, and the big white eyes meet his for a long time. Gonko shrinks back, certain he's just blabbed his way out of any escape from these caverns. Kurt, whatever else he may be, is loyal to his bosses, and Gonko has just hinted at sabotage. On and on the gaze bores in.
At last Kurt speaks. "If that happened, why, I imagine the previous proprietor would be re-instated, Gonko. And I imagine he would have certain favored performers about the place, whom he would be extra nice to, every chance he got."
"I think we understand each other." Gonko feels no small relief when Kurt finally limps away, broken parts of himself trailing behind. The boss is peculiar enough that he may have quite innocently taken the question as purely hypothetical and detected no agenda there . . .
But no one likes George Pilo, especially Kurt. And Gonko figures even fewer will like him after a stint in charge of this place. He crawls free of his hiding place, finds his shirt and shoes, gropes for the entrance, and puts on again his magic pants for the climb. From the pockets two climbing picks spill out. Here is where monstrous hands usually stop him and wrench him back down, but nothing inhibits his escape, this time. Weakened, thin, in pain, slipping on the rock, the climb is over with minimal fuss—all he has to do is imagine George Pilo's gloating grin just a foot or two ahead of him. "Bet you can't," imaginary George sneers at him, "bet you can't get up there, shit head." George's face is the wooden floor above, soon smashed to splinters as Gonko crawls back into the showgrounds, then collapses.
•
Gonko blinks at the artificial evening light of the carnival's fake sky, throwing over everything a purplish twilight. Blood and splinters sprout from his knuckles. His clown shirt is a tattered mess of candy cane stripes. Although evening was knock-off time in Kurt's day, there is still the frantic sound of assembling, cleaning, and tinkering from near and far. The odd toneless whistle and drunken dwarf shanty carries through the noise of the circus being brought back to life. A smell of buttered popcorn and cotton candy weaves through the air's chill.
Gonko dreads the moment he will come face-to-face with George, feels as if rage will explode from his skin like a burst of thistly vines he cannot control, which will strangle George and let him off far too easy. But Gonko remembers circus life now, and it is slow and winding time. Revenge this time must be nuclear and total. This is no mere acrobat-style feud. Gonko thinks of the shaking trailer again. Before all this is through, he will see George down that tunnel, will smile and wave cheerio from the top as the tiny body tumbles, legs flailing, to wrathful masters.
So, somehow, with these promises made, he keeps the red from his vision as George's hollering voice screams, "Polish those guns! Get that line of ducks straight! They move too fast! You stupid ugly shits must be hungry, have a taste of this!" And the lash cracks. Gonko's teeth grind, his body shudders with purest hate as he staggers toward the sound.
•
Carnies are cunning folk. The circus is understaffed, rather badly in fact, but enough dwarfs, gypsies, and other assorted breeds collected over the ages survived Kurt's massacre to recruit more of their kind, stealing up now and then to the surface, stealing back with tied up bundles mmphing through gags or masking tape. The new ones are given a taste of powder, taught the old ways, conditioned through certain rituals to their new life, and then they belong to George.
George expects no one to love his style of management, or he himself—in fact he'd not have it otherwise. He means to be a tyrant, a terror, loathed by all. Yet the very mention of Kurt still puts the fear in every single one of these wretches, even the new ones who have only heard the tale, and they know well that George doesn't have it in him to throw that kind of tantrum. However fondly they may look back on the more relaxed regimen of Kurt's time at the helm, they'll tell themselves they're better off now. George has a plan, in fact, to keep the memory of that massacre and their fears nice and fresh. But that's for later.
George has not been idle in the year since that day. The show will be different now, with more emphasis on rides and games than on performers—at least, that had been his plan, since after Kurt most of the original performers pretty much resemble mince. He's been anxious to get things underway immediately, a minimalist show with small trick crowds to farm a little soul dust and keep his hand-picked security detail, the lumberjacks, pampered and loyal. But then he moved into Kurt's trailer, and discovered the phone.
All this time, he'd never known exactly how Kurt got his occasional directives from Below. There in the second desk drawer, still half buried under a litter of rattling molars, premolars, canines, and incisors, a bright green telephone quietly rang the very moment he found it. He'd answered ("what?") and a voice breathed winter in his ear: "Not yet," it said, and said no more. There was nothing for it but to hang up the phone, cancel next week's show, and find someone to lash to ease his frustration.
The phone rings every day at roughly the same time, the chilly voice every time: "Not yet." Once or twice he has tried to find out when the shows should start, or at least get the delay explained. He's even groveled, picked up the phone before it rings to plead, "Look, sir, the dust! We're running low and they're grumbling, I have to pay this sorry bunch of maggots or we'll have riots—"
"not . . . yet," came the answer on what he'd actually hoped was a dead line.
"Look, why not yet? I got rides up and running, got new acrobats trained and conditioned. We kidnapped some Olympic gymnasts and trained 'em. Clever, eh? My idea! I got a lion tamer and a magician. Look, I got everything but the fortuneteller and some clowns. Why not yet?"
"not . . . yet."
Every day. He got the damned point already—okay okay, enough! And yet, ring ring ring . . .
Three days ago George whined as the cursed phone rang yet again. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His own stash of powder saved over many years was long gone, and Kurt's was almost gone. He could stand no more. "Listen!" he screamed into the mouthpiece. "Do you want me to run this circus or—"
The voice interrupted. It sounded oddly cheerful. "Get ready. Shows begin soon."
George trembled. "How soon?" But the line clicked dead. And George hopped around his trailer gleefully, until the click-clack of a typewriter in another desk drawer got his attention. There had been no typewriter there yesterday, he was sure. Invisible fingers knocked down the keys until a sheet of paper emerged with the words: for gonko followed by a list of names. For Gonko? George mouthed to the mirror opposite his desk (it was a funhouse mirror, warping his reflection so he appeared three feet taller.) "Why ‘For Gonko?' Gonko's dead. All the clowns are dead! My show doesn't need clowns. We got rides."
The typewriter had no paper left, but George followed the keys' depressing to spell out the reply: "You will need clowns, George. And clowns you will have."
It is not then with much surprise that George spies Gonko staggering through the twilight toward him. An odd mix of triumph, amusement, malice, and something George would not recognize in himself as fear bubble through him like fizzy soda pop. George is riding on the back of his favorite new asset, a goon he has fashioned with the aid of the Matter Manipulator from an especially large lumberjack. A saddle is lodged in the unfortunate's back, with long nails drilled into his bones. A small machine is wedged as a control panel in the thing's head, ensuring total obedience and giving it the free will of a potato. In a more perfect world, George thinks, everyone would be as controllable through knobs, joysticks, and levers.