The Royal Perfects

by Jeremy Neeley

  Chapter 5: The Growing Gusto

  Later that day, Timmy arrived back at the Rat’s Tail, thoroughly satisfied with his fortuitous hires thus far. John came along with him, carrying several boxes of gowns. When they entered the tavern, they found Bugs sitting on the stage talking to another man, while a full-clothed Lancelot was attempting to stack and balance a barstool upon his chin.

  “Hey Timmy!” Bugs shouted as his friend entered. “This guy says he knows you,” he continued, pointing toward Lancelot.

  This caused Castletowne to turn his head and drop the stool with which he was fumbling. A loud crash brought a mighty cheer from Bugs and his new acquaintance.

  “That’s two you owe us,” Bugs said, smiling.

  Castletowne reached into his pocket and presented the coin while filling Timmy in.

  “They bet me I couldn’t balance a stool on my chin for five counts,” he stated with some embarrassment.

  “Keep your doubloons, Lancelot,” ordered Timmy while moving Castletowne’s hand back toward his pocket. “I guess you’ve already met Lancelot Castletowne the Third,” he stated to Bugs. “This here is John Ladyfist. He’s a top-notch tailor and a fine master of disguise.”

  John shook everyone’s hand.

  Bugs then piped up with an introduction of his own. “And this is Brock Bullsock.”

  The burly fellow sporting wide shoulders and a five o’clock shadow nodded respectfully to the others.

  “I knew I knew him,” John stated while looking the man over. “You’re the former bare-knuckle boxing champion of Knotty Wood.”

  “In the flesh,” Brock verified.

  “I heard about your last fight, if you could even call it that,” John continued.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly my most spectacular moment,” he admitted.

  Timmy hadn’t heard about it, and so he asked for the story. Brock obliged.

  A prolific boxer, Bullsock was fairly well off. His superb pugilistic skills were matched only by his entertaining in-ringsmanship, and he won many a purse and a fan. Perhaps success clouded his judgment, for a persuasive and eager promoter convinced Bullsock to sign a bout with a local prized heifer. The promoter framed it as easy money, a sideshow gag to be held at the county farmers' fair. Brock could not pass it up.

  The night of the fight found Bullsock standing toe-to-toe with a large, doe-eyed bovine. The full house cheered and jeered as Brock tiptoed around the beast, flashing out forceless jabs while dancing about in mocking fashion. The cow was motionless except for its grinding jaws calmly chewing cud.

  Brock positioned himself directly in front of the animal, prepared to end the facade as the crowd goaded him on. Reeling back, Bullsock readied a knockout blow and, with the might of a cannon, unleashed a crushing right hook, striking the creature between the eyes. The cow was unfazed, only muttering a lowly moo, but Bullsock was wailing in agony. He had shattered his hand upon the rock-like cranium of the heifer.

  That night, Brock Bullsock’s boxing career ended. His hand never healed properly and he was made the laughingstock of Knotty Wood. He quickly burned through his meager savings, and with nothing holding him back, packed his bags and headed east.

  He had been walking past The Ballyhoo newspaper office when he ran into Bugs, who was an avid boxing fan and recognized Brock immediately. The two got to talking, and Bugs offered him a job with the Perfects. He thought Brock’s years of performing in front of a live crowd, as well as his stellar skills of showmanship under pressure, would translate with ease to the stage.

  Timmy agreed, and so it was. The pair was now five of a kind with John, Lancelot, Brock, Bugs and Timmy. In order to properly pull off The Nursing Spirit, they would need three more. Hopefully upcoming auditions would root out the pearls amongst the oysters in Upper Southrump.

  Gabriel Goldhand had postponed nightly Perfect productions for a few days in order to allow Timmy and Bugs time to concentrate on finding more actors and to polish up their next work. This proved essential.

  Only a day after The Ballyhoo ad for auditions was placed, dozens and dozens of hopefuls lined up at the Rat’s Tail doors eager for a chance to join the troupe. There were all kinds, young and old, lads and ladies, all different sizes and swaggers. Quite a few proved inept from their very first utterance. Some held one useful skill, but lacked several others. It was a laboring task to weed down the field, and it took Timmy and Bugs days to yield a handful with true promise. All the while, John, Brock and Lancelot were learning their duties and sharpening their talents in preparation for the première of The Nursing Spirit.

  On the last day of auditions, five men stood before the original Perfect pair. All had proven worthy through their initial interviews and displays of talent, but unfortunately, only three were needed.

  Among them was Captain Clinton Pantaloons. He was never a real captain, but he did serve as a seaman upon the less-than-majestic Dirtwater Puffin, a cargo barge tasked with hauling bucketfuls of spoiled clam chowder to the Island of Arse. Despite chowder being the main industry in the town of Tiddlethorpe Shire, the newly appointed, and corrupt, mayor had an extreme distaste for the stuff. He commissioned the Puffin to dispose of the vile liquid. It later came to light that the mayor had hoped that, by ending the clam chowder production, more people would purchase beet cakes, a product with which his family had long ties and whose market success would bring him great fortune.

  Pantaloons was responsible for filling, loading, unloading and emptying the cork-sealed, iron ribbed barrels of rotting chowder. On one unfortunate trip, Pants had a barrel escape his grasp. It twisted and turned, end over end, down a rather steep hillside on Arse. After carefully traversing the terrain, Pantaloons retrieved the barrel and hoisted it upon his shoulders. As he crested the hill once more, he was stunned to see the Dirtwater Puffin many meters out to sea. He had unknowingly been left behind. Pantaloons made preparations for an extended stay on the island, confident that his shipmates would return within the week, as was their schedule.

  Dividing his time between scavenging for food and sleeping in a makeshift bungalow constructed of old, broken barrels, the stranded sailor waited patiently for days. Days became weeks, and those weeks turned to months. It was now the summer season and the stench of tons of decaying clam pieces was at an all-time, putrid high. Pantaloons could stand the smell and isolation no longer. He tore down his bungalow and used the timbers to fashion a rudimentary dinghy.

  On a clear, calm Sunday morning, the self-dubbed "Captain" Pantaloons set sail at the helm of his very own vessel. The return voyage home was wrought with slight annoyances, like sporadic leaks or an occasional seal assault, but nothing of major concern.

  Before long, the Captain found landfall on the shore of Upper Southrump. Just beyond the docks, Pantaloons came across a crumpled copy of The Southrump Ballyhoo skipping like a tumbleweed down the street. The publication bounced in the breeze and hit the Captain square in the face. He peeled it back and came eye-to-eye with the headline, DIRTWATER PUFFIN DECLARED PIRATE CASUALTY. The story told of the ship's hijacking at the hands of pirates many months before and how it had been formally deemed lost at sea. Pantaloons was disheartened, having lost both his friends and his job, but an ad placed just below the tragic print provided a possible replacement for both. It stated, PERFECT OPPORTUNITY FOR PEOPLE OF PERSNICKETY PERSONA. ACT UPON YOUR INNER THESPIAN.

  The ad had brought Pantaloons to this point in time, and he offered the same loyal service and unwavering confidence he had displayed in his travels to his duties as a Royal Perfect.

  Another hopeful was Smirks Puffchest Jr., a man previously known for his magnificent potato soup. He was the owner of Smirk's Ladled Soup and Beans, where customers would wait for hours just for a sniff of his bubbling broth. Not a man nor woman in all of Upper Southrump would argue the excellence of his potato-laden concoction.

  As business increased, Smirks found it hard to keep pace. Until that point, Smirks’ Ladled Soup and
Beans was a one-man operation, but Puffchest knew he needed to hire a second.

  After a weeklong search, he found a young and eager woman named Betsy Anne Bullion up to the task. Ms. Bullion had only a smidgen of experience, but her enthusiasm convinced Smirks she was the one. Puffchest and Bullion worked day and night as teacher taught pupil everything he knew. Within the month, Betsy had mastered the patented, potato soup recipe, and as a result, they had more business than you could shake a wooden spoon at.

  One morning, the wife of the chief Whig of the Upper Southrump Lawyers Guild placed a rush order for several gallons of potato soup. She had planned a delightful afternoon garden party with numerous invitees drawn from the finest of Southrump's high society. Unbeknownst to the lawyer's wife, Smirks was home with a cold the day the order was placed, but Betsy Bullion knew exactly what to do. She prepared the soup and delivered it piping hot later that afternoon, along with a handwritten note stating, PLEASE ENJOY THE SOUP. IT IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE FINEST BATCH I HAVE EVER BREWED. WITH REGARDS, SMIRKS PUFFCHEST JR.

  The next morning, Smirks was back on the job. He opened his store bright and early and immediately headed toward the burners, preparing the stove for a fresh pot of soup. Seconds later, the lawyer's wife came storming in. She was a whirling dervish of nasty words and vile accusations. Smirks was taken aback. The woman yelled of a scandalous affair fueled by the worst tasting potato soup to ever pass her lips. With the purposeful move of her hand, she dumped a cup of the broth onto Smirks' head and stomped out in a huff. Smirks was at a loss, until a bit of potato slid down his brow and into his mouth, which was still held agape.

  One bite revealed the horrible truth. The potato was not potato at all. It was cubed lime soap! Smirks waited all day for Betsy to arrive and shed light on the incident, but she never showed. Not that it mattered, because the damage had been done. Word spread and Smirks was ruined. Ladled Soup and Beans was shuttered and closed within the month. Worse yet, Smirks' tainted reputation hung like a dark cloud overhead. He was even shunned when volunteering to man the lunch line at the Stoops Kitchen for the Unfortunate and Desolate.

  Aimlessly walking down the lane, Smirks came across a newly opened cafe. Upon a sandwich board erected at the entrance was written, THE FINEST POTATOE SOUP IN ALL OF TOWN. Smirks was curious and so he entered. The eatery was packed. Everyone was eager to order up a cup. Smirks took a spot at the line’s end and patiently waited his turn. He had to know how this soup stacked up, even if it cost him his last two shillings, which it did.

  A man behind the counter handed Smirks his serving. It smelled delicious, and familiar. Smirks slid a spoonful down his gullet. It tasted fantastic, and familiar. He then heard a woman's voice call from the kitchen, and that too was familiar.

  "Fresh pot up!" she shouted.

  Smirks looked past the counter man and between two large colanders. Handing a large pot from the back boiler to the main serving area was Betsy Anne Bullion. He had not noticed it prior, but at that moment a large sign overhead stole his attention— BULLION'S BEST BROTH. It swung lazily, almost mockingly, in the light breeze sent from a nearby window.

  Total revelation came in that moment. Betsy had learned all of Smirks’ secrets, stolen his recipe, even taught herself to mimic his handwriting. She had sabotaged his life's work for her own benefit. It was premeditated and purposeful.

  An insane rage overcame Puffchest, and he burst into psychotic laughter. The gathered throng took notice, as did Betsy. She immediately whistled a passing constable, who escorted Smirks from the building. The constable led the now murmuring soup man several blocks away. He had quieted, sporting only a tightly drawn smirk upon his lips, a facial dam holding the inner well of insanity at bay. Believing his frenzied spell had subsided, the constable released Puffchest upon his own recognizance.

  Fortunately two street performers beginning their act only feet away squelched Smirks’ bubbling delirium. The act was hilarious, and Smirks laughed true and earnestly this time. He had been watching an early performance of The Grapel Duke’s Burnt Straw Knickers. It engrossed him so that he forgot all about his past worries.

  When he recently heard The Royal Perfects were holding auditions, he didn’t hesitate to come out. Puffchest wanted to give back to a group that had restored his sanity at such a critical time in his life.

  The third option was Thomas Tinderbox, a young man with a crooked grin and long brown hair pulled tight into a bun, which was fastened by a red ribbon. Tommy was a former cigar wrapper, but with the advent of machine-made, pre-rolled, tobacco tubes, he found his position at the cigar bar to be expendable. After his dismissal from Sherlock’s Smoked Leaf Emporium, he had quickly landed another job and had been making ends meet by rolling pastries at a local bakery. He found his current position to be less than satisfactory and short on dough, in the monetary sense. A long-time hobbyist troubadour, Tinderbox had hoped to lend his skills to the stage.

  Romeo Buffington was the fourth wannabe Perfect. The victim of an oversaturated profession, he found himself a man of the streets in a way he did not prefer. At one time, Romeo was one of the most sought-after male escorts, stating it properly. But as is common in that field, with passing time comes younger, handsomer, more virile men willing to do the work for far less money. By age twenty-three, his best days were behind him, and competition had all but squeezed Romeo out of the market. Still, he had made connections in high society over his years of being a "gentleman of the evening," and he offered his possible new employers a nightly draw of those high-profile contacts. He also brought striking good looks and a bar spoon’s dose of natural charisma.

  The final applicant left for consideration was Portly Slimtwist. Portly was a bulbous man and a former carnival performer. His act involved being shot in the stomach at close range with a cannonball. His experience in front of a crowd was a huge plus, but his former job required little, if any, public speaking. He did little more than hold his ground and not die, a straightforward demand, but impressive in its own right. The traveling show Portly had been a part of was passing through a nearby borough, so he decided to stop by the Rat’s Tail and try out. He was tired of the carnival circuit and was hoping to settle down in one locale, hopefully landing a job with a bit more security and a little less danger.

  “Okay lads,” Timmy began, “we’ve narrowed it down to you five, fine fellows. Unfortunately, we need only three. You’ve all shown a passion for performance, but The Royal Perfects are more than just that. We need men without grand ego. Those who will be just as comfortable manning the pulleys, as they would be in the spotlight’s glow. Above all else, we need actors capable of quick wit and solid improvisation. So, that being said, Bugs and I have written down the names of several inanimate objects on scraps of paper and placed them in this derby.”

  Timmy held up the hat for all to see.

  “It’s one thing to recite memorized lines and convey the essence of someone as human as yourself. It’s quite another to convince an audience you can be anything imaginable. From a role as a bank teller with a wooden leg to the part of the blasted wooden leg itself, you have to make the people believe you are what you pretend to be. Without further delay, we’ll draw a slip out of the derby and read it aloud. You’ll then be expected to act the part to your best ability.” Timmy jostled the crown-topper to mix up the folded scraps. “Bugs, could you please pick the first man to perform?”

  Bugs scanned the row. All five men stood at the ready. Pointing to Clinton Pantaloons, Bugs said, “You’re up, Captain.”

  The Captain stepped forward, not a hint of nervousness in his gate. Wicketts dug his hand deep into the derby and fetched out a single piece of paper. Unfolding it, a smile spread across his face. He shared the written word with Bugs, who snickered with amusement.

  “Alright, Mr. Pantaloons, convince us you are a tree,” Timmy instructed.

  The Captain thought for but a second before striking a strong pose. He planted his legs wide with force
upon the stage, rooting himself in a trunk-like manner. He then lifted his chin skyward and raised his arms aloft, fully extending his branching fingers. Finally, with a rhythmic subtlety, he waved his upper limbs back and forth as if caught in a light spring breeze.

  Timmy and Bugs looked at one another and nodded their shared approval, but the final judgment came when Twitch, eyeing the auditions from a beam high above, spun down from the rafters and landed gently upon one of Pantaloons swaying arms. The snub-beaked finch then let out a jolly twitter and a joyful shake of its feathers. Wicketts and Harrington broke into a congratulatory applause.

  “Nicely done, sir, nicely done,” Bugs commended.

  Timmy praised him as well. “If you can convince a bird you’re a tree, I have no doubt you could convince anyone of anything. Bravo, Captain.”

  Pantaloons took a deep bow, for he was confident he had proven capable. Bugs then pointed toward Portly.

  “Slimtwist, you’re up.”

  Timmy drew another subject from the hat and read it to himself. His face expressed a sense of divine coincidence. Bugs leaned over and read the topic, too.

  “Portly, you’re a rock,” Bugs stated flatly, disappointed that Portly had drawn an object so very much like his actual self.

  Portly Slimtwist slowly lumbered forward, took in a big huff of air, and then plopped like a boulder down to the floor, sitting his wide load firmly on the stage. The boards creaked with pain under his 400-plus-pound frame and a cloud of dust erupted from beneath his bottom. Portly sat motionless and starred off into the distance.

  Suddenly, a second loud creak was heard, accompanied by a gush of fresh air and a tidal wave of exterior sunlight. Bugs and Timmy swung around in their seats, now looking at a group of individuals, shadowy and backlit, standing in the tavern’s entranceway.

  “Good day, boys,” a man called with condescending tone.

  As he stepped into the large dining area, Timmy was able to gather more of his image. It was the man he had seen at their opening night at the Rat’s Tail—the tall, slender fellow with a thin, black mustache, long dark overcoat and high-topped hat. By his side was Elvin’s since-missing friend and one-time stagehand of the Perfects, Leland. He hadn’t been seen since the night his deviousness almost cost Timmy his rump. Another man was there too, a larger fellow with broad shoulders and sideburn chops as thick as a sirloin steak. He sneered toward Bugs and Timmy as he cracked his large, hairy knuckles.

  A final figure floated just behind the group. A waif of a lass, she lingered in the periphery for a moment before moving out of the strong sunlight. As Timmy watched her stride gracefully down the steps following her male companions, her identity was without question. It was Genny Jenkins. Timmy was instantly captivated.

  “You must be John Smith,” Bugs laid out sternly.

  Directing Genny by the wrists, Smith and his cohorts walked toward the bar and took up seats.

  “And you would be correct, Mr. Harrington,” Smith replied coolly. “If I’m not mistaken, your boyfriend there, the chap who looks like he’s two-days removed from knitted diapers, is Mr. Timmy Wicketts.”

  Timmy said nothing. He was held fast by Genny’s presence. She did her best to hide from his sight, but couldn’t help but steal quick, occasional glances of her past classmate. Bugs nudged Timmy, unsure he had heard the insulting comment. Timmy paid no mind.

  Bugs replied, “Yeah, that’s the master thespian Timothy Wicketts. You and your friends here to get an autograph?”

  “Please,” Smith chuckled with contempt. “Why would I want anything from a man who used to eat garbage and grime? You two fools are hobos gone awry, sideshow amusements compared to the formally trained, highly educated actor I, myself, can claim with certainty. No, no, Bugsy, I’ve come for the auditions.”

  “You have to be joking,” Bugs said with surprise. “We’ve heard of your reputation. You couldn’t act sick even in the throes of vomiting. From what we’ve heard, The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles are so-so at best.”

  The comment raised the ire of Smith, who momentarily stood and stepped with anger towards Bugs. Leland and their brick-house buddy held him back. The angered Smith thought better, and quickly regained his composure.

  “I don’t want to audition, you toad, we’ve come for the auditions. You see, the old Sons of Sophocles have been disbanded. I’m now reorganizing the troupe, bringing in fresh talent. I have a standing contract with the owner of the Halfwit Theater in Shillings District, a damn fine contract for a very lengthy duration. The Illegitimate Sons will be performing great Greek works nightly starting next week. All that remains is to fill out the vacancies among the group. I have multiple openings.”

  Smith’s eyes turned toward the men on the stage.

  “Since these Perfect peons have weeded out the dregs, I can assume you five men are up to the task,” he spoke sternly. “And let me offer this, no need for audition, no need for foolish games, whoever leaves with us today will get a guaranteed deal, steady money and prominent roles in all productions.”

  “Guar-an-teed?” Portly slopped like a remedial reader.

  “Yes Sir, guar-an-teed, no strings attached,” the vile Smith affirmed.

  Portly rolled on his side and then off the stage, as hastily as an elephant walks through mud.

  “Where are you going?” Bugs asked the large man, pulling him by the arm.

  Portly shrugged off his grip and replied, “Where the money is.”

  Thomas Tinderbox and Romeo Buffington also leapt from the stage and made their way toward Smith and his band. Tinderbox thrust a firm hand of acceptance toward his new employer as Romeo aimed a sincere look of apology toward Bugs and Timmy before falling into the Ill So-So fold. Smith smirked with devilish delight.

  Bugs was fast turning red with rage. Leaning toward Timmy he whispered, “We can’t let him just come here and do this. Come on, Timmy, say something.”

  Timmy waited a moment, and then craned his head to get a better view of Genny, who was partially blocked by Smith.

  “Hi, Genny,” he said kindly.

  “Hi, Timmy,” she replied with the warmness Wicketts recollected from days gone by.

  Smith pulled Genny again by the wrist while shooting her a glare of disapproval. His darkened eyes drew narrow and mean.

  “Mr. Wicketts, take heed not to address my lady, Genny. She has neither the need nor the desire to associate with The Bastard Babyface of Shuttlecock Lane,” Smith said with hurtful overture.

  Timmy hadn’t heard that name in quite some time. Its utterance dug at deep wounds.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Wicketts, Genny told me all about your days at Vainville and your disgraceful acts. You were nothing but a clown, too weak to defend himself, too stupid to avoid expulsion,” Smith added with venom.

  Genny looked away, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

  The leader of the Ill So-Sos then addressed the two men remaining on stage. “And you two fellows, do you wish to join assured success, or would you rather toil under the backwards tutelage of a couple of drunkards?”

  Smirks and Pantaloons looked at Timmy and Bugs. They moved nowhere.

  “Very well,” an annoyed Smith continued, “we have added three excellent souls. That should do nicely. You two can have your Imperfects.”

  The first son of Sophocles had removed his hat upon sitting down, so he placed it back upon his head while saying, “Time to depart, lads. There is much to be done before opening night. The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles are on the verge of history.”

  Smith tipped his brim to Timmy and Bugs in mocking manner and then made his way to the door, dragging Genny in his wake. His enlarged entourage followed in step, and as quickly as the raid had unfolded, it was over.

  “Damn it, Timmy!” Bugs shouted with annoyance. “Hi Genny? Hi Genny? That’s all you could muster?”

  Timmy was still staring at the closing tavern door. An angelic melody of harps and violins was all he could hear in his distracted m
ind. The Genny-induced state of bliss was still in effect.

  Bugs extended a thankful hand toward Captain Pantaloons and Smirks Puffchest Jr.

  “You fine men are hired. Your loyalty is truly of distinction.”

  When the tavern door finally drew fully closed, Timmy was returned to the land of here and now.

  “Ah, yes, yes. Congratulations you two. We’ve very excited at your additions. Now, I’m not sure of your current housing and whatnot, but Mr. Goldhand has expanded our upstairs domicile. We have plenty of room, and you’re welcome to board up as long as you are a Perfect,” Timmy explained.

  “Thank you, Timmy, I’ll do just that, “ Captain Pantaloons answered.

  “As will I,” Smirks said with gratitude.

  Timmy showed them to the stairs leading to the second floor with a request they get comfortable and make themselves at home. He also mentioned that John Ladyfist, Lancelot and Brock were in the apartment already, reviewing the quarters. They should all introduce themselves before he and Bugs joined them for a more formal address.

  As the Captain and Smirks walked off, Bugs pulled Timmy to the side. He was a bit perplexed by Timmy’s odd behavior and wanted to get back to the matter at hand.

  “Look, Timmy, we’ve got two good men, but we have to find one more. The Nursing Spirit needs eight, and we have no more time for auditions. We could try and call back some of the latter cuts. What about that woman who spoke with the heavy Serbian accent? We could work around that. And then there’s that gentleman with the rhinestone eye patch. He was strange, but possibly useful.”

  Timmy contemplated their options, but the forceful opening of tavern doors broke his focus yet again. He had hoped it was a returning Genny, but instead, Romeo Buffington skipped in, bright-eyed.

  “Hey, blokes,” Romeo said with a sly grin, “thought I was going with the So-Sos, didn’t you? Had you convinced, eh? That’s what you call good acting, no?”

  Bugs and Timmy laughed.

  “Yeah, we’d thought you’d left, baited away by Smith’s guar-an-tee,” Bugs exclaimed.

  “No, no, Smith is a joke. I’ve seen him on stage before. Shakespeare himself couldn’t help that sap.”

  Timmy patted Romeo on the back, “So, you’ll join us?”

  “With absolute certitude,” Romeo responded with excitement.

  So it was set, The Royal Perfects had found their eighth. The trio headed up to the second floor to share the news with the rest of the cast and begin final preparations for the opening of The Nursing Spirit. As the arrogant Smith had alluded, history was indeed in the making.

  After full introductions and cordial small talk, the entire team, now gathered in the Rat’s Tail apartment, sat intently as Timmy read aloud the plot of The Nursing Spirit.

  It centered on a strained relationship. Lily and Vladimir were on the rocks. Their union had degraded to one of both verbal and physical abuse, with the young Lily taking the lion’s share.

  After a particularly nasty tongue-lashing, Lily had reached her limit. She waited for Vladimir to depart for his job at the docks, then gathered up some personal effects and left. She had no idea where she would go or what she would do, but she knew she had to leave Vladimir in her past. Fearing his possessive tendencies and his possible desire to track her down, she used some of his clothes to disguise herself as a man.

  After a week living homeless on the streets, things went from bad to worse for the lass. Lily caught a terrible cold and grew ill. She sought help at a halfway house for men, still hoping to keep her true identity secret. There she met Nurse Rose Marie Wellington. Lily was in dire straits, and over the course of a couple of months, the aged woman cared for the young lass, restoring her to health. In the process, Nurse Wellington discovered the “man” she was helping was experiencing symptoms of another sort—pregnancy!

  One evening, a distraught, and suddenly jobless, Vladimir appeared on the doorstep of the halfway house, looking for a room and a meal. Unable to turn him away, Nurse Wellington embarked on a comical series of events, attempting to hide Lily from Vladimir, and at the same time, keeping Lily’s growing pregnant belly from revealing her true sex.

  After laying out the tale, duties were assigned among the Perfects. John Ladyfist had spent months portraying a middle-aged woman, so the role of the nurse was a natural fit. Brock’s larger, pugilistic frame lent him well to the part of Vladimir. Bugs offered to manage the stage crew this time around with the aid of Smirks. Lancelot, Romeo, and Captain Pantaloons would play the part of homeless men at the shelter. That only left Timmy, whose gentile face and soft complexion would provide needed reality to the youthful, female lead, Lily Salisbury.

  Over the next few days, the members of The Royal Perfects practiced continually. The octahedral clan developed a great chemistry over a small stretch of time. Each man seemed to value the opportunity laid out before him and looked to help in any way possible. It was a joint feat spurred by common goals and vision, and that was crucial. With the larger cast and more elaborate story, The Nursing Spirit required even greater effort and skill to pull off. As opening night approached, the company worked with diligence and purpose.

  Gabriel Goldhand had given his full blessing to the endeavor, and made himself busy with promotion. He had commissioned posters and placed ads, altered the large Royal Perfect marquee to include language teasing at The Nursing Spirit’s imminent unveiling, and begun a word-of-mouth campaign fueled by a fast-growing Perfect fan base. Excitement was brewing among the populace of Upper Southrump.

  The day of the show’s opening, Bugs and Smirks found themselves in the Shillings District. They had needed to gather some last-minute supplies for use in rig setups and lighting. While walking down the lane, they spotted one of Goldhand’s posters plastered on the brick exterior of a coffee house, and then another adhered to a signpost near a busy intersection. It was great fun to see their entity being given such promotional effort. They noticed a third off in the distance. Its common color drew their eyes to the noodle shop door on which it had been pasted. As they walked closer, a swift-moving individual swooped into their line of sight. The man unrolled a large sheet of paper of his own, lathered it in paste, and quickly flattened it directly over the poster advertising The Nursing Spirit.

  Bugs and Smirks broke into a run, hoping to nab the vandal. But, by the time they reached the scene, the person had disappeared into the bustling Shilling’s crowd.

  “What is this?” Bugs proposed with frustration while pointing at the former location of a Nursing Spirit poster.

  In its place had been posted a one-sheet decreeing the evening opening of The Trachiniae as performed by The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles. The ink-drawn image of John Smith was front and center.

  Smirks spotted another such incident across the street. A second Trachiniae ad hid The Nursing Spirit one almost completely. Now locked on the design, Bugs and Smirks could see many more episodes of similar sabotage continuing down the broad main.

  “That underhanded lay-about,” Bugs grumbled.

  “Should we tell Timmy?” Smirks asked.

  Rubbing a hand across his agitated forehead, Bugs realized the futility of further action. The Trachiniae posters did not peel off with ease, and attempting to do so only damaged The Nursing Spirit ones beneath.

  “Yes, we’ll let Timmy know,” Bugs said with inevitable acceptance of the situation, “but there’s not much we can do at this point. The Nursing Spirit opens tonight, and we don’t have the time or resources to come back out here and replace the posters.”

  “Wouldn’t make much difference anyway, I suppose,” Smirks said. “Anyone planning to attend the show tonight has probably already made up their mind as such.”

  With a bitter taste in his mouth, Bugs spat a nice wad at one of the Ill So-So posters, hitting the drawn John Smith directly between the eyes. He and Smirks then continued on their errands, now substantially more annoyed than when they had left the Rat’s Tail.

&
nbsp; A couple blocks further down, they arrived at the candle shop to pick up a few more stage lights. Entering the establishment, they were greeted from behind the register by a lovely old woman, the shop’s owner, Mrs. Ruddy Twinklebulb.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Twinklebulb,” Bugs said to the old woman.

  “And good day to you, Sir. What can I help you lads with today?”

  Smirks examined a small hallway candle. “We need some theater wicks, Madam. The large ones.”

  “And a three-foot reflector, as well as the accompanying focusing barrel,” Bugs added to the request.

  Mrs. Twinklebulb shook her head in disappointment. “I’m sorry, but I’m sold out. A fine gentleman stopped by this morning and bought out my lot. I was quite surprised he purchased so much, but he assured me his acting company would be needing the stockpile.”

  Smirks and Bugs knew exactly who the woman was talking about.

  “It was quite the haul he took, needing a full carriage to cart it all away. I know a stage show can require a lot of lighting, but he bought enough to hold a nighttime polo match at the Roman Coliseum. Can’t fathom he’ll ever really need it all, but he did pay handsomely.”

  Bugs gritted his teeth. He knew John Smith was the man who purchased all the gear, and he knew he did it only to keep The Royal Perfects from acquiring what they needed. While his acting skills could never compare, Smith did have the rapier of wealth on his side, and was apparently eager to use it to further his own position.

  Mrs. Twinklebulb retrieved a few substitute supplies from a back room. She presented Smirks and Bugs with a smaller reflector and focusing barrel, as well as a half-dozen mid-sized dining candles. It was adequate, but by no means would it supply the amount of drama the desired equipment would have provided.

  Bugs paid the kind, old woman for the items and even made an advance installment on future theater wicks once they became available. The two men then left the store with boxes in hand.

  When they arrived back at the tavern, Timmy and the rest of the cast were in the middle of final rehearsal. The scene involved the climactic birth of Lily’s child, and how the miraculous event erased all past ill will between her and Vladimir.

  Screaming with the agony of delivery, Timmy laid prone on a skirted table while both John, the nurse, and Brock, the husband, looked on. Lancelot stood off stage manning a slide whistle. As Timmy screamed, Lancelot played a crescendo note, and then marked the end by a loud pop of his cheek. Then Romeo, carefully concealed beneath the table, launched a baby-sized rag doll several feet into the air, comically landing the burlap infant in Nurse Wellington’s waiting arms.

  “That damn Smith!” Bugs shouted, breaking the concentration of everyone on stage.

  Timmy rolled off the table and asked with concern, “What happened?”

  As he helped Smirks with the candle boxes, Bugs laid out the account.

  “One of Smith’s lackey’s has been going around town covering our Nursing Spirit posters with ones for the Ill So-So play, The Trachiniae. Then, when we get to the candle shop we find out the cretin has bought out the entire stock of stage lights. Mrs. Twinklebulb gave us these,” he said while holding up the dining wicks. “But we had planned on the theater-quality waxes.”

  Timmy grabbed the candles Bugs was holding. “This is a bit of a disappointment. The theater wicks would have been so much more vibrant, but we can make do.”

  Timmy tried to ease Bugs’ obvious animosity over what he had learned.

  “I know, Tim, but that’s not the point. It’s the whole principle of the matter. If we weren’t opening tonight, I’d have the nerve to walk over to the Halfwit, grab Smith by the throat, and jam these dining candles down his gullet.” As Bug’s envisioned the act, he snapped a candle in two.

  Placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, Timmy calmly stated why he was not worried. “Bugs, aren’t we the same two scallywags who used discarded pie tins as reflectors on cloudy days out on the street corner? Aren’t we the ones who could take one woman’s bathrobe and use it as three or four uniquely fashioned articles of costume? Bugs, we can overcome this small disappointment. Nothing will diminish the grandeur of our ideas as long as we execute with the passion we’ve always possessed.”

  Timmy’s words rang true in Bugs’ ears, and he nodded his understanding.

  “You’re right, Wicketts, my friend. The Nursing Spirit could be performed in a mausoleum, and we’d even have the corpses laughing out loud.”

  Bugs’ happier disposition had been restored by Timmy’s insightful words.

  “Now let’s finish up our preparations so we can partake of our customary pre-show dinner of beef and salad,” Bugs gleefully asserted while hoisting a box of candles upon his shoulder.

  This brought a hurrah from the rest of the cast, and everyone refocused, concentrating on the duties at hand.

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