Chapter 8: Addition Through Subtraction
Both a botanical garden and a public park, the Greens was a beautiful stretch of landscape in the Central District of Upper Southrump. Vast beds of brightly colored flowers lined long lanes of meticulously tended grass. There were fountains and streams, cedar benches and immaculate white gazebos. The entire area encompassed acres, and it could easily have been mistaken for the Garden of Eden.
It was also a wonderful place to die. So was the opinion of Bugs Harrington, for in mere moments, one man would breathe his last among the aromatic breezes of the Greens. Dawn was fast approaching. The sun had already splintered the sky, illuminating clouds and painting the heavens with a myriad of pastel hues.
Bugs stood firmly upon the crushed, gravel-paved path at the center of the gardens. Brock was beside him, accepting the designation as Bugs’ assistant. It was his duty to inspect the arms, assess the proper execution of customs, and formally verify the outcome of the duel. Leland held similar responsibility on John Smith’s side of things, and it was the brown derby-wearing lad that Bugs first saw approach from across the way.
Smith’s protégé broke through the veil of rising mist. He was carrying an ornately decorated brass case. John Smith appeared behind him, wearing his long, black coat overtop a handsomely tailored suit. When close enough, Bugs could see Smith had a fresh haircut and waxed mustache. The thought had never occurred to Bugs. If he should die that very day, his likeness would, at that moment, freeze for all eternity. His death certificate would bear a picture of his recently unkempt beard, and more than likely, he would be buried in the modest fashions he currently wore.
“Good day, Mr. Harrington,” Smith politely greeted. There was not an air of worry in his words.
“And to you, Smith,” was Bugs’ cold reply.
Leland unlatched the lid of the brass case. Inside its red velvet interior were two pistols. They were classic Wogdon and Barton, flintlock style, single-shot arms. Each had matching, etched ivory handles and gilded gold firing pins, with guards covered in intricate floral patterns. It struck Bugs as odd that something so gorgeously crafted was designed for such a hardened task.
“Upon your examination,” Leland said, offering the arms to Bugs and Brock.
The pair pulled forth both weapons and examined them completely in order to find any defects or evidence of tampering. Many a careless duelist had met his end because he had not thoroughly inspected the chosen weapon beforehand. It was not unheard of that the supplier would try to tamper with the guns in order to gain an advantage. After seeing no fault in the pistols, Bugs kept hold of one and handed Smith the other. He accepted with an unblinking stare.
The same process was conferred upon the bullets and powder, which passed all tests. Bugs and Smith loaded their guns in proper manner. They handed them to their seconds to give the setups one more look. Not a single facet was found amiss.
“Gentlemen, back-to-back at the center of the lane,” Brock instructed. “Upon the mark, ten even paces aside, counted loud from both parties. Upon the tenth, turn and fire.”
It was an easy enough process to grasp, even in a heightened state of anxiety. As the sun bore bright on the new day, the time had come. Brock and Leland escorted their men to the starting position. They aligned them properly and stepped out of range.
Bugs could feel Smith’s shoulders against the back of his neck. There was no shake, no quiver at all. Smith was a bit taller than Bugs, and the Perfect hoped the minor difference might actually cause Smith to shoot high, missing his target. Birds were starting to sing their daybreak melodies.
“Begin!” Brock shouted clearly and with serious intent.
“One!” the duelists simultaneously echoed.
“Two!” The crushing sound of stone met their step.
“Three!” Hammers were drawn back with a foreboding click.
“Four!”
“Five!”
“Six!”
“Seven!” Bugs could hear Smith’s call growing fainter.
“Eight!”
“Nine!”
And with a final, grave-bound step, “Ten!”
Both men turned and fired. A loud bang was sent careening into the clouds as birds, whom had seconds ago been singing with joy, took to fearful flight, squawking their distress.
A moment later, there was a heavy thud upon the ground stone of the path. Bugs dropped to his knees and keeled over to his side, lifeless and stiff. Brock rushed to his side. Smith and Leland looked on with pleasure as Mr. Bullsock checked the vitals of his fallen friend. The victim was now laying flat upon his back, his chest did not move. Brock slowly passed his fingers over Bugs’ eyes, closing them gently. He then placed his own head in his hands and began to weep. Bugs Harrington was dead.
“I will say this,” a gleeful Smith offered, “he died a perfect death.”
Leland and the vile John Smith shared a effusive laugh as they walked away with a complete sense of satisfaction, twirling their hats and whistling a gay tune.
Brock did not even pay the comment a moment’s mind. He was just devastated. He unrolled a purple blanket and placed it lovingly over his deceased kinsman’s body. With Timmy near death, and Bugs now embraced by it, the dream was finished. The Royal Perfects would pass into history with but a final, failing whimper.
The next day’s Ballyhoo said it all, BUGS HARRINGTON DEAD: ROYAL PERFECTS TO END. It was simple and accurate. The two founding members were no longer capable of fanning the flames of Perfect passion. In their time, they had grown a large and loving fan base, and now that fan base was at a loss. They no longer had their icons of idolization. It was a sad day for many in Upper Southrump.
The Ballyhoo article also laid out arrangements for a public farewell viewing at Bugs’ funeral. In three days’ time, the remaining members of the troupe would march alongside an extinct Harrington, lying upon a wagon bed, as he was transported from the Rat’s Tail Tavern to his final resting place at Seppler Cemetery and Moratorium. Admirers of his work were welcome to line the procession route and gather at the burial plot to pay their respects.
John Smith wasted no time leveraging Bugs Harrington’s death for his personal gain. Right below the heartfelt article was an ad placed by The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles. It stated that, with great sadness, they now offered their entertainment services as a more-than-suitable replacement for Royal Perfect productions, and that their shows would mend even the most grief-stricken of hearts. Furthermore, they truly believed that anyone who sought out their plays would find them to be of even greater acclaim than those of the mourned.
The days leading up to the funeral were ones of despair amongst the Perfects. It was hard to focus on anything besides the gravity of their plight. Gabriel Goldhand reluctantly informed the men that he was canceling all upcoming shows until a suitable strategy presented itself. He was just as much at a loss as everyone else.
Gifts and flowers piled up outside the Rat’s Tail doors. There were keepsakes and letters of lamenting written by dozens of fans. By the third day, the number of tokens had reached hundreds. Bugs had touched a lot of lives in his brief moment in the spotlight.
It was the day of the procession. All of the Perfects were cloaked in dark robes, heads hanging low as the wagon containing their dead thespian ally rolled slowly up Shuttlecock Lane. The public turnout was staggering. Crowds, three men deep, lined the road all the way to the cemetery. They were full of weeping fans and crying neighbors, almost all waving portraits of Bugs in either photographic or hand-drawn form. It was a united moment of shared sorrow. As the wagon passed, people tossed flowers upon the hearse. Petals soon littered the way. It was as if Caesar himself had died.
Following a few yards behind the caravan were the So-Sos’ Leland and Leopold. Smith had ordered them to lie back, and after the Perfects had moved by, to hand out fliers to everyone gathered in the streets. It was an excellent opportunity to get their company’s name in front of a larger, ca
ptivated audience.
The fliers promoted the Sons’ The Trachiniae performance at the Halfwit, with a promise of a show like no other. It was a distasteful tactic. Smith knew no other.
By the time the Perfects arrived at the Seppler Cemetery and Moratorium, the crowd was enormous. People had come from all over, and many crammed into the iron-gated parcel of earth. Some even sat perched upon tombstones in order to get a better view. A stanchion had been erected near Bugs’ six-foot deep plot. His final resting place had been prepared. Brock and Pantaloons lifted his corpse from the wagon and carried it on a stretcher up a few stairs and then placed it gently at the front of the platform for all to see.
Behind the body stood a podium, and on either side were large oil paintings of Bugs in all his smiling glory. The Perfects stood in a line at the back of the wooden terrace as Gabriel Goldhand approached the lectern.
“Friends,” he said, his voice quivering just a bit, “we are gathered here today to pay homage to a man who has brought joy into many of our lives. Bugs Harrington was a master actor and wonderful comedian. His skills as a playwright were of highest regard. If his dear friend Timmy Wicketts could be here today, he could attest to the fact that there was no man more loyal—and loving—than Bugs Harrington.”
Goldhand pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed away the large tears that had begun to spring forth from his watering eyes. He then stepped back from the podium and took his place alongside the line of Perfects.
John Ladyfist removed his cloak hood and moved forward to address the people. “Bugs was a dear friend and kind soul. He brought laughter and guidance to his fellow actors and was never short on compliments. He made each one of us better performers and better men, and for that, we are all eternally grateful.” John then bowed his head and retreated back to his spot in line.
The third man to speak was Brock Bullsock. Brock and Bugs had become close over the past few weeks. It was hard for him to talk about his friend’s passing, having witnessed the end in person, but his heart compelled him to say a few words.
“Bugs Harrington was everything a man should be. He was honest and brave, humorous and bold. He was always willing to lend an ear or a hand, and he never thought himself better than another. Bugs was the type of person so many of us strive to be. Above all else, he was a gifted actor of unparalleled potential. Shakespeare once said that the melodic verse of a fine actor, recanting the words of a master playwright, could stir even the heart of the dead. I wish, with all the hope in my heart, that William’s words be true, for I can see no more fitting an end than a passage stated in Bugs’ and Timmy’s play The Grapel Duke's Burnt Straw Knickers, ‘I have met a man of extraordinary mind, and in his antics I find inspiration and a true zeal for life.’”
With those poignant words, the dead Bugs Harrington sprung to life, leaping to his feet with a grandiose cheer. The people let out a collective gasp as the rest of the Perfects tore off their black robe coverings and celebrated their friend’s miraculous rejuvenation.
They cheered and hugged. Goldhand didn’t know what to think. He clutched his lapel in complete shock. The crowd was dead silent for a moment. This was the first and only time any of them had seen a man actually rise from the grave. Watching the Perfects frolic about like fools, many in the audience began to clap. The clapping turned to laughing, and the laughing spread like a contagious sickness. A moment ago, the assembly could not have been more dire. Now, it had the air of a massive street festival.
Bugs took to the podium.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” he gushed. “You have all just borne free witness to another Royal Perfect production, The Death of Bugs Harrington!”
The crowd cheered, now fully realizing this was but another wonderfully crafted and expertly performed work of theater.
“You see, John Smith couldn’t even muster the skill necessary to kill me when given more than ample opportunity. Why would anyone trust the same incompetent troll to provide them a show that had even the least bit of redeeming value? You can’t, and you shouldn’t! Everyone knows where the true showmanship lies, it’s perfectly obvious!”
Bugs danced a jig as people began tearing their Ill So-So fliers to ribbons, tossing them aside in disgust.
“If you’re looking for unmatched, unrelenting, unpredictable entertainment, look no further than…The Royal Perfects!” Bugs shouted as the troupe lined up and bowed in a coordinated effort.
The entire spectacle was without question one of the most elaborate and effective forms of entertainment and promotion ever devised, and by the looks of the clamoring crowd, Bugs knew he had done his job. And done it well.
As most of the Perfects celebrated the execution of another great show at the Rat’s Tail, drinking and joking as happily as ever, the star of the The Death of Bugs Harrington was at the hospital sharing in an equally well-kept and surprising secret.
Timmy Wicketts was doing exceedingly better. He was still bandaged heavily and mending many injuries, but he was fully coherent and capable of eating and moving, to some degree.
Bugs had laid low for the past several days, for obvious reasons. He wasn’t able to visit Timmy or reveal his elaborate plan. Wicketts was kept pretty much in the dark, with the Perfects wanting their friend to concern himself only with getting better. So when Bugs entered the recovery room that day and saw his comrade sitting in bed and writing upon a pad of paper, his heart was overjoyed.
“Timmy!” Bugs shouted, walking over with a grin as wide as the Nile.
Timmy’s eyes lit up with happiness. “Bugs, you wonderful bum,” the Perfect patient replied in good spirits. “Where the heck have you been? I’ve seen Brock, Smirks, even Lancelot’s been by a few times. I inquired about you, and they all said you were very busy, holding down The Royal Perfect fort.”
Bugs couldn’t help but crack a devilish smile. He handed Timmy a copy of a three-day old Ballyhoo. The newspaper headline read, BUGS HARRINGTON DEAD: ROYAL PERFECTS TO END. Timmy took one look at the bold-faced line and another at Bugs. He was confused and quickly began to read, hoping to be enlightened. Finishing the last paragraph, he calmly folded the paper and set it upon a nightstand next to his bed.
“Okay, either I’m staring at the healthiest looking cadaver to ever creep out of the grave, or my last dose of morphine was a double and I’m currently hallucinating.”
Laughing, Bugs pulled up a chair and took a seat. He told Timmy the whole, wondrous series of events. He explained that the first night he came to see Timmy in the hospital, he got to thinking about his foolish challenge to John Smith. What would come of it? Either he would kill Smith, and the bumbling actor would gain more recognition in death than he had ever garnered on the stage, or he himself would die, due largely to his own blind rage. Neither was a pleasing outcome. Still, he wanted Smith to suffer for what he had done, but he reasoned that there was no greater agony for the man than to be outperformed and outwitted. That’s when he devised the plan to fake his own death.
With the help of Brock and the rest of their cast mates, he would take a bullet and then lie low. A large iron plate would be sewn under his shirt prior to the duel, and praying Smith’s aim to be true, the ball would strike the hidden shield.
Bugs then pulled the plate in question from his satchel. Buried in the metal was a musket, half piercing a path to Bugs’ heart. It was a close call, but the device worked, as did the ploy.
The wily Harrington then told Timmy how the fake funeral played out earlier in the day. He told of the hordes of people who turned out and how, upon the great reveal, they were overcome with surprise and astonishment. Bugs had feared the idea may backfire, and the fans would harbor ill will over the deception. But, based on the crowd’s ovation, that was not the case. The people loved it.
Timmy couldn’t believe the story. It was pure genius and quite the amazing feat. He congratulated Bugs on an expert enactment, laughing as hard as he could without bursting his stitches.
“But,” Bugs continued, “that’s not all. After the show, Mr. Goldhand sat me down. He was still straining to gain his breath after the scare we had all put him through, but he could not argue the result. After seeing how successful The Nursing Spirit was and then this crazy Death of Bugs Harrington skit, he proposed that The Royal Perfects take things to yet another level. The money we were bringing in has allowed him to expand his enterprise into other taverns around town, and he had purchased a few more. He wants The Royal Perfects to travel to different venues, put on different shows. He wants us to expose our cherished creativity to a wider, more diverse audience. We could perform whatever we wanted, and he would get us whatever we needed. Mr. Goldhand even suggested that we hire another man, a business manager. He promised that if we could come up with plays that were even half as good as the ones we already had, we’d make money hand-over-fist. Having someone to manage it would be a wise investment.”
The thought of it all gave life to many new ideas in Timmy’s mind. He was so excited and eager to get to work that he could barely contain himself.
“Look Bugs. I had this idea for another play, and I’ve worked out more details concerning that one about the hairdresser. It’s pretty much done,” Timmy said with childish spirit while handing Bugs the paper on which he has been writing.
“So, you think it’s a good idea?” Bugs asked, already knowing the answer.
“Without question, let’s do it,” Timmy replied while carefully clapping his weary hands. “You can use my notes to start getting things going.”
Bugs grabbed his belongings and stood. “Good then, I’ll go tell Goldhand. I’ll also ask the boys if they know of anyone who could make a good coin and papers man. You sit tight and rest. You’ll need all your energy.”
“Hey, what about Mr. Goldhand? Doesn’t he want to be manager?” Timmy asked.
“He said he’d be too busy running the other tavern business.”
“Crushed crackers. Okay, but remember our rule. Any Perfect must have the ability and willingness to take on many different duties. You never know when our business manager may be needed to fill a part on stage.”
“Don’t worry, Timmy, I’ll take care of it,” Bugs assured. “And oh yeah, if we’re going to do this, you have to promise me one thing. We’ll need your undivided attention and focus, so forget about that girl, Genny. She’s the reason you’re lying in that bed right now.”
Timmy knew that wasn’t the case. He knew in his heart that Genny had nothing to do with it. He also knew he could never tell Bugs the entire story, that is, until he could figure out what to do about it.
Genny was a caged bird, a prisoner on constant public display. It was a ruthless existence, and Timmy desperately wanted to help her. He just didn’t know how to do it without Smith’s evil retribution being called into action. Had Bugs killed Smith, Genny would have been freed, but her father would still be rotting away in jail. It was a half-pleasing method worth considering, but only for a moment. Timmy could never murder anyone. It just wasn’t in his blood. There must be another way, one he had not yet contemplated. But for the time being, he would pacify his closest chum.
“Okay Bugs, I’ll forget her,” Wicketts said with a straight face. Truth was, he was incapable of such a thing.
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The Royal Perfects Page 8
