by R.M. Haig
September 10th, 2016. 1:30PM
Burlwood, Indiana
"You've got two choices," Clyde explained as a teapot whined on the flaming gas burner of his stove. "Will it be Earl Grey, or Darjeeling?"
Jake wasn't much of a tea drinker, so he had no idea what either of the options were. Had Rambo asked him to choose between Jack and Jim Beam, or Bacardi and Captain Morgan, he could've offered a response immediately. The look of uncertainty on his face illustrated how much of a conundrum this was to his host, so Rambo tried to better define the options.
"Do you want a womanly tea or a manly one?" he offered.
"Manly," Jake replied confidently, figuring it to be the most reasonable answer.
"Then it's Earl Grey," Rambo said, pulling a tall square tin from a cabinet.
The process Clyde undertook from there was fascinating to Jake, because he always thought that tea was simply prepared by putting a bag containing leaves into a cup of hot water and then dipping it in and out. He had never known anyone to do it in what Rambo said was the traditional manner, the only way to do it, in his opinion.
When the man opened his tin, the air was filled with smells that were as foreign to Jake as this new technique. It was rich and heavy with notes of citrus, perhaps licorice as well. It smelled quite good, actually, which led Jake to wonder if this tea business was something worth looking into. It was a fleeting curiosity, an idea that was quashed by the ever present imperious cry of double indemnity before it had even the slightest opportunity to germinate and bloom.
Clyde dipped a spoon into the container and came out with a scoop of black swirls and things that looked like twigs. Unceremoniously and without a hint of grace, he flung the first of several heaping spoonfuls into the pot, then replaced the lid to let it steep once he felt it was metered out to taste..
While the roots infused the boiling water with their flavors, he retrieved two teacups, complete with saucers, and placed them on the dining room table at which Jake was seated. Using an oven mitt to protect his garden-savvy fingers, he brought the teapot over and set it at the center, where steam billowed from around its lid as it sat. Reaching into a drawer and digging through what sounded like an incredible stash of silverware, he produced two wire-mesh baskets with handles. He placed one over the top of each cup before finally taking a seat across from his guest.
Jake had placed the manila envelope full of reports on the table when he'd sat, waiting for the former sheriff to be settled in before he broached what could be a tender subject. He knew that he would be asking a lot when he exposed the papers and begged for answers, knew that he would be putting Rambo in a tough spot by requesting information to which he was not entitled. Part of him was nervous about the endeavor, afraid that he was asking too much of an old man who wanted nothing more than to mind his own business and enjoy the serenity of his gardens.
It was crucial, though, that he at least try to get the answers he was after... that he make every effort to learn as many details as were possible. The reports gave him nothing to go on, no logical arc to follow in pursuing an investigation. The redactions were standing between him and a thorough understanding of the cases of old with impudence, refusing to reveal the similarities between the murder of Billy Marsh and the children of the past, like a villain twirling his Sharpie-black mustache with a mischievous grin. A malefactor flying under the tattered flag of The State, the seditionist held valuable clues as hostages... clues that would exonerate Chucky once Jake liberated them and paraded them around in the open light of day.
"So, Clyde," he began shyly.
Rambo threw up his index finger, demanding one last moment of peace before the orb of sanctuary that was his retirement would be torn asunder and obliterated . Reaching for the teapot, he twirled it in the air slightly to ensure a thorough distribution of the flavors inside before he began to dole it out.
Jake marveled at the hot liquid pouring from its spout in a bit of awe -- seeing a much darker looking concoction than he expected emerge from it, bearing bits of debris and smelling like heaven in libationary effluence. The black swirls and twig-like miscellany collected in the strainer over his cup, allowing only the glorious juice to trickle through and prepare to please his palate. Once his cup was filled, Clyde pulled the pot to his side of the table and drizzled the brew into his own mesh basket. Watching for guidance in how he was expected to proceed, Jake studied Clyde's lifting of the strainer from his cup. He saw the sage and learned master whirl the colander around a bit, presumably coaxing the most delectable drops of tea from the leavings in the basket. With a final set of taps of the handle against the cup's rim, Rambo lifted the strainer over the table and placed it on an empty saucer at the center. Trying to duplicate each of his motions exactly, Jake whirled his own strainer and tapped it as well, placed it down on the empty saucer just the same.
The Sheriff was the first to take a sip, wincing at the temperature as the liquid met his lips. Eager to share in the pleasures of this ritual, Jake mirrored his old friend and cautiously slurped just the slightest bit into his mouth. When the tea hit his tastebuds, he cringed as well -- but not because it was too hot... it could've used another minute or two to cool down, of that there was no doubt. That was not the problem, though, not even just a little bit. The real problem, the true cause of the grimace he must certainly now be wearing, was the fact that this particular nectar of the gods -- delicious as it smelled -- tasted to his mouth like so much sewage, filtered through twice used potting soil and left to brew in kettles filled with moth balls.
Clyde laughed heartily at this, at the face Jake was making, and grabbed hold of his large belly as it jiggled.
"I told you it was a manly tea, Jacob!" he chuckled.
Jake set the cup back on the saucer and pushed it away as politely as he could. Apparently, he should've chosen the womanly concoction -- Earl Grey sucked ass. Rambo took another sip, as though to show off just how much more manly he was than the little boy who sat across from him.
Probably has a chest covered with thick and curly hair, that one, Jake thought... could probably bench-press the Colossus of Rhodes and take his showers in the plunge pool of Niagara, that supreme lord of masculinity. To enjoy a taste like Earl Grey, he must have balls of polished brass and a cock that drags under foot as he walks, that champion gladiator of Valhalla.
"Here's what's going on," Jake started again, tempted to spit the tainted saliva from his mouth to aid in cleansing his palate.
As he began uncoiling the red string that kept the envelope sealed, the table suddenly shook. A loud whomp sounded out in unison with the tremor as Clyde slammed his hand down on the packet, stopping Jake's attempt to open it and startling the hell out of him all at once.. That awful tea swirled in the cup he'd pushed away, spinning in a cyclone that made a good amount of it spill over the rim and collect in the saucer underneath it.
Jake's hands instinctively pulled back and froze out in front of him, palms down and fingers spread wide. Shocked and surprised at the seemingly angry outburst, he raised his eyes with his head still bowed and saw Rambo glaring at him ferociously. His eyes were flared and fiery, the intensity of them sending a hot flash through Jake's body.
"Do you know Holmes, Jake?" Clyde asked curtly and mysteriously.
Jake sat still for a moment, confused and mortified. "What?" he asked. "You mean, like, Sherlock Holmes?"
Rambo nodded, then recited from memory. "It's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."
Jake wasn't sure what he meant by that, wasn't sure how it pertained to his trying to open the packet. His hands still held out in consternation, he tried to reason out what the former sheriff was getting at. The man still held the envelope pressed to the table, still scowled at him as though he was incensed.
Insistently, Rambo elaborated. "I don't want to hear anything from you about
what you think is going on! What you think, feel or believe is irrelevant! All that matters is what's in black in white, what's on the record!"
"Sooooo --" Jake said, cautiously. "You don't want any of the back story?"
"Did you witness the backstory?" Clyde asked.
Jake shook his head, he hadn't... had only heard it from Donnell, who heard it in turn from Louie. Perhaps Clyde figured it would work out like those games of telephone played in elementary school, where a sentence ends up twisted and disjointed as it's whispered around the circle. He didn't have an opportunity to ask, though, Rambo didn't give him the chance.
"Then it's hearsay!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't mean shit. If you tell me what you want me to see in these papers, I'll mold my opinion either around it or against it subconsciously. I can only give you a true opinion if I'm taking everything at face value. Unobjectified, uninterpreted, unprofaned!"
Jake nodded slowly, finally lowering his hands from their bewildered hovering and resting them on his lap. Whatever Clyde was insinuating, it was obvious that he didn't want Jake to touch the envelope -- didn't want him to pull the papers out or explain what they were.
Rambo slid the packet across the surface of the table, dragging it closer to him before reaching for his tea with his opposite hand. He took a long sip, then wiped his lips. After rubbing the moisture from his fingers onto his overalls, he finished uncoiling the red string that kept the envelope sealed. Opening it wide, he pulled all of the papers from it at once and set them down in front of him.
Reaching into the front pocket of his overalls, he retrieved a pair of glasses and fixed them over his eyes. When he looked down to examine the first page, his brow furled -- as though he were perturbed at what he saw. He lifted it from the others and set it to his left, then scanned over the second page through his spectacles. The sight of this one apparently even more shocking to him than the first, his mouth dropped open in what could only be described as astonishment. His brow still rippled, he ripped the glasses from his face briskly and recklessly. The arms hyperextended with the violence of the action, the frames only being spared destruction by spring hinges, purpose-built and specifically installed to protect themselves in the event of just such an occurrence. Holding the bifocals between his thumb and index finger, he looked up to Jake with contempt.
"Where the hell did you get these reports?" he asked bluntly.
Jake didn't respond immediately, his mind racing in a tizzy of conflicting thoughts. Donnell had spelled out the risk Louie was taking in producing them pretty explicitly, he didn't want to get his old friend in any trouble -- even if the trouble was only with his father. Thinking back on Launchpad's description of the proper way to get them, he fibbed a bit to keep things on the legal side.
"Donnell filed a Freedom Of Information request, that's what we got back."
"Bullshit!" Clyde declared in a combination of a chuckle and a firm assertion. "These records are sealed, son!"
"Well, yeah!" Jake stammered. "That's why they're all redacted!"
"Redacted and sealed are quite different, Jake!" Rambo barked. "Sealed means you get nothing! These reports are only available to law enforcement personnel, even the redacted versions! You didn't get these through any FOIA request, there's no way in Hell!"
The man's glare was angry, and Jake was immediately unnerved. He felt backed into a corner, trapped with no clear path of egress.
"Did Louie give these to you?" Clyde deduced, fuming.
Jake remained silent, which was answer enough. The old sheriff snorted, threw up his hands in exasperation. Shaking his head, he drew a deep breath to steady and calm himself.
"You know this is a crime, right?" he asked, bordering on belligerence. "These papers, even in this form are essentially classified! Shit, if Boudreaux knew you had these..."
"But he doesn't know!" Jake answered provisionally. "And I'm certainly not gonna tell him!"
Rambo ruffled through the rest of the packet, trying to determine exactly how deep they were in the shit by ascertaining how many restricted documents they were looking at. When he'd scanned them all, he posed the twenty-five thousand dollar question.
"What exactly are you thinking I'm gonna do, Jake?" he asked. "How many laws do you expect I'm going to break here?"
"As many as are required in order for you to tell me what's been redacted from those papers!" Jake suggested. "You're a smart man, Clyde, you've probably figured out that Billy Marsh is dead! I need to tie his murder to The Butcher. If I can figure out who that was along the way, all the better."
This made Clyde laugh heartily again, made him grab hold of his jiggling belly to steady it just as before. It wasn't clear to Jake which part of his statement was so funny to the man, which part he found so ridiculous. He realized there were several portions that were subject to dissection, and the old man was sure to vivisect each of them.
"You think it's just that easy, huh son?" he snickered. "That is why you came back to Burlwood? To make a name for yourself? You think you're just gonna roll into town twenty two years after the fact and crack a case that professionals couldn't break? A case that some of the most superb detectives in the country spent years trying to solve? What, you think you're gonna track down The Butcher and shoot him a couple of times with that big old gun of yours, like you're the Lone Ranger of 2016? That's the goal?"
Jake didn't find this funny in the least, and he made it obvious in his facial expression. Seeing the affront in his countenance made Rambo giggle more, and he wasn't inclined to make an effort to stifle his laughter. He folded his glasses dismissively as he chuckled and stuffed them back into his pocket, then offered his thoughts as a final declaration.
"I can't help you, son, I don't think it would be wise to encourage you in this endeavor. I'm really sorry to hear about Billy Marsh, I met the kid once at Our Mother -- he seemed like a wonderful boy. Frankly, though, I find it very hard to believe that his death was in any way related to those of the other kids -- The Butcher is retired, quite possibly dead to boot."
"How can you say that?" Jake asked incredulously. "If you didn't know who the man was, how can you assume that he's retired or dead?"
Rambo settled into his chair a bit and tilted his head back, as though he was relaxing in consideration of how he would respond. Taking another long breath, he ran his hands through his scraggly beard contemplatively. Reaching a conclusion of some sort, he eventually answered the charge. "Knowing who committed a crime doesn't necessarily equate to proving who committed a crime, Jake. I'm going far beyond my purview in confessing that I have very strong suspicions about who the legendary Butcher Of Burlwood was -- but I can say quite certainly that the men who were the prime suspects are either dead or very old at this point. I doubt highly that they've decided to reignite the fire twenty two years after they retreated with their tail between their legs, under the pressure we applied to them. And on that note, trust me when I say that we applied a lot of pressure."
"So, what then?" Jake asked cantankerously. "You won't even look at the report on Billy Marsh to see if it fits the pattern? You won't even consider the idea that this is somehow related? You're just gonna let Ron Boudreaux crucify Chucky?"
Clyde recoiled and balked just as he was preparing to rebut Jake's argument. His eyes bolted open, wider even than they had when he first caught sight of and recognized the visitor in his garden earlier in the day. There was no conflict in his oculi any longer, no sign of any apprehension. He gawked stupidly at Jacob, now, his mouth falling agape once again.
"They think Chucky did it?" he asked, dumbfounded.
Jake was as flabbergasted as Clyde, now, but his bewilderment was simply at the fact that Rambo hadn't pieced that much together. He prefaced this entire meeting with Chucky needs your help, it doesn't get much more plain or obvious than that. He had invoked the name of Sherlock Holmes just moments ago, a man who would certainly have deduced this basic p
remise upon consideration of their dialogue. Shit, Watson probably would've picked up on it.
Giving the man -- the very old man -- the benefit of the doubt, he simply expounded upon the fact more explicitly. "He's facing kidnapping, first degree murder and mutilation of a corpse, Clyde! Boudreaux wants to see him get the death penalty! That's why I'm here, Clyde, to clear Chucky! That's why I need to tie Billy into the old murders, why I need to figure out who The Butcher was, so I can pin this on his ass!"
Rambo seemed to ponder this for a moment, seemed to be calculating and computing the odds. He didn't figure there was much chance that The Butcher would've crawled out of the shadows he'd hidden in for two decades, but he suddenly wanted to believe it was somehow possible. Twisting facts to suit theories, he put his glasses back on and started sifting through the reports again.
Jake watched as he cursorily scanned each of the papers, setting one pair to his left and then riffling through the others until he found another in particular that he was looking for. Once he found it, he placed it just to the right of the first. After more riffling, he pulled several sets of papers from the pile and placed them to the right of the second set. Having only a few pages left, he set one pair to the right of the third -- making four distinct piles -- and then gathered what was left into a small packet that he held in his hands.
Clyde studied that set carefully, his eyes scanning the words and images slowly as wheels turned in his mind. He gave no outward indication of what he saw, allowed no muscle to move on his face that might give away what he was discerning. After a few tense and silent moments, he pulled one paper from the group and turned it in Jake's direction.
"Did you read this report?" he asked categorically.
Jake looked at the page, realized it was the coroner's report for Billy Marsh. This gave him pause, made him think. He had looked at it... but did he read it?
Clyde saw his hesitation, jumped all over it.
"Look here," he said, pointing to a typed sentence. "Read that, will you? Read it out loud."
Jake focused his eyes where Rambo was pointing and did as instructed. "The penis is normally developed and unremarkable," he recited.
Rambo stared at his face, waited for him to make the connection. It took a few seconds, but he eventually figured it out. It came as a memory, swirling, swirling... it came in Chucky's voice, saying why do you think Pennywise rips their cocks off, Darkwing?
"See?" Clyde put on the exclamation point with the question. "Now look at this part..."
Jake followed his finger, read aloud again.
"The left hand is normally developed and unremarkable."
Swirling, swirling... oh God, it's missing its thumb and I can see the bone in there!
"If you read the rest, you'll find other things, too," Rambo explained. "Shit, I see a ton of things... things you won't see, because you don't know... things that are redacted in the other reports you've got... things that we managed to keep out of the press. We tried to keep a lot out of the press, in order to protect our investigation. Some of it leaked... some of it always leaks. Look closely, though, and you'll see that Billy Marsh was not sodomized, either."
Trying to pry himself away from the swirling, Jake considered what this meant -- what it could possibly mean. "You're saying this isn't related to the others?" he asked. "You're saying this is entirely different?"
Rambo sighed, rubbed his forehead. "It's not entirely different," he conceded. "There are some things in this report that raise my hackles, I can't deny that."
"What kinds of things?"
"Things that worry me," he replied vaguely. "Let me start by saying that my first impression, upon looking at this report, would be that this was the work of a copycat killer. Our troubles here were well publicized, you know that. The public at large knows the basics -- the ages of the kids, the circumstances of their murders and the manner in which they were disposed. The thing with the missing thumbs we managed to keep quiet... you knew, because you saw the Banks boy's arm. The press never got a hold of that, so it would make sense that a copycat killer would just not know that he was supposed to take the left thumb. It was, however, publicly known that they boys had been molested, and that they had been castrated. I'm not too sure how that got out, but it did. Some asshole CSI tech probably took the chance to have his fifteen minutes of fame, I don't know, but it doesn't matter anyway -- it was out there. Most copycat criminals try to duplicate the crimes exactly as they had been done -- try to recreate history, as it were. Therefore, I have a nagging doubt that this was just an homage to a serial killer of old."
"Then don't you think it's possible that it was The Butcher. That he just changed things up a bit? Just threw in a curve, to confuse things?"
Rambo considered this, but dismissed it quickly. "There are too many differences." he explained, volunteering no additional examples. "I mean, I guess maybe he got lazy... sloppy in his old age... hell, maybe his dick doesn't work anymore, that could explain the lack of sodomy. It doesn't explain the other things, though, the other differences."
This confused Jake. If things were so remarkably different, what had raised Rambo's hackles? What troubled him, worried him, as he said? It must've been that there was some other similarity -- something that a run of the mill copycat wouldn't have known, wouldn't have done.
"What are you holding back from me, Clyde?" Jake probed, trying to be as gentle about it as he could. "What do you see on that paper that worries you?"
Rambo spun the report so that he could read it himself again, scanned it once more just as thoroughly as he'd scanned it the first time. He seemed hesitant to speak, hesitant to reveal anything crucial -- as though he were still trying to protect some investigation that was covered with twenty two years worth of dust. A case that was as cold as ice, its file still guarded with all the secrecy of 1994.
"Come on, Clyde!" Jake begged. "Help me, here!"
Running his hand over his brow, pulling it down through his scraggly beard again, Rambo took arms against all of the training he had ever received. He struggled to suppress his better judgement, struggled to force himself to confide secrets that he had guarded for so long that they seemed locked away even from him... locked away tightly, filed in a musty volume and forbidden to his lips. Wrestling with it, wrestling with himself, he cracked the book carefully.
"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I could get into if I tell you what's under the black on those reports of yours?" he asked. "When I say that shit is sealed, I mean it is sealed! To get a peek under those redactions, you need the expressed permission of the FBI -- of Alberto Gomez himself!"
"I don't have time for that," Jake said. "Chucky doesn't have time for that! You've got to do this, Clyde, you've got to help me, here!"
Rambo thought more, thought harder... tried to think of any alternative. None came to mind, none that solved the riddle -- none that would be of any use to Chucky.
They sat in silence, but this wasn't that vociferous silence that spoke so freely in Jake's previous experiences with it. He couldn't infer anything from it, had no idea what Clyde was thinking. He cogitated as thoroughly as he could, turned it over and over in his mind -- for what it was worth, in his withdrawal -- and could only hope the old sheriff would show his hand.
Making his decision, locking in his answer, Rambo postulated a scenario. "Let's pretend for a moment, Jake," he began, illustrating with bizarre hand gestures. "Let's make believe that you were some kind of maniac psycho... that you were out for a cheap thrill, that you wanted to get off on an act of depravity."
Jake absorbed his words, not having to stretch his imagination far to meet with Clyde's machinations. Given his behavior of late, he might be diagnosed with ill-repute if subjected to the examination of a psychiatrist.
"Now," Rambo continued, framing things with more gestures. "Let's imagine you decide that you want to recreate a murder of the past, that you want to
follow in the footsteps of The Butcher Of Burlwood and duplicate one of his crimes."
"Okay," Jake acknowledged.
"You pick a kid, you take him... and then what? Based on what you know about the murders -- based on what the public knows about the murders... what do you do?"
Jake wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to describe, which aspect of the affair he was expected to outline. He held his hands out as if to ask what do you mean, needing further instruction before he responded.
Clyde picked up on the signal and articulated in response. "How do you actually kill the victim? Specifically, what do you do?"
This furled Jake's brow, his eyebrows raising in realization. As familiar as he thought he was with the atrocities committed by The Butcher, he discovered that he couldn't answer this seemingly fundamental question. He knew the children were sodomized, he knew they were dismembered, he knew they were castrated -- but he wasn't sure exactly how they were murdered... exactly what had brought about their deaths.
The silence that followed this inquiry did speak to Rambo... it answered his query just the way he expected it to.
"There were only five people on the face of this planet that knew everything that is redacted from those reports! That includes the details of exactly how they were killed, and how they were dismembered. Only five people who knew precisely how those things were done. You're talking to one of them now. The others were Agent Gomez, Ron Boudreaux, Doctor Felton and The Butcher Of Burlwood. Doctor Felton passed away three years ago... so there should be only four, now."
The way he spoke those words led Jake to believe Rambo wasn't sure that was the case... that something on the coroner's report had him questioning that theory. The old man steepled his fingers and bowed his head to them, closing his eyes and retreating from the suspicion he was still struggling to utter aloud.
Seeing his struggle, Jake let him think about it for a moment. When he felt the time was right, when it seemed the soup was ready, he opened his mouth in anticipation of the spoon. "Are there only four?" he asked.
Clyde looked up and gazed deeply into his eyes. Jake could see a certainty in the old man's expression that was immutable and intense. Not relying on the osmotic connection between them to communicate the answer, Rambo destroyed the chains that had kept his musty volume of secrets sealed with a savage blow of mighty revelation.
"Not unless one of us killed Billy Marsh!"
TWENTY-ONE
Timothy Lane, Part 2
September 24th, 1994. Time Unknown
Location Unknown
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
Clank, click, twirl...
Clack, click, sway...
Around and around, side to side, forwards and backwards... over, and over, and over...
Timmy was so tired. His eyelids were heavy, as though they had weights lashed to them somehow... holding them closed as he tried to pry them open. Even when he managed to force them, his eyeballs rolled back into his head and tried to return him to a deep, dark sleep... a sleep deeper than he'd ever experienced, darker than he knew to be possible.
Why was he so tired?
Where was he?
He didn't remember going to bed... didn't remember going home... didn't remember leaving the carnival.
His thoughts were sluggish and confused, his memories hazy and seeming to trail behind him as he struggled to recall them. He remembered leaving Our Mother with Chucky and the rest of the boys... remembered buying an armband with the money his father had given him, remembered the person in the ticket booth strapping it around his wrist...
He remembered riding the Ferris Wheel, wishing Darkwing and Launchpad wouldn't spin their gondola so fast when they got to the top. It was scary when they were at the top, and the spinning was making him dizzy. He remembered them laughing, remembered Chucky screaming like a girl.
He remembered strapping himself into a bumper car, remembered crashing into the wall and not being able to figure out how to get his vehicle turned around... remembered the car with Darkwing and Chucky coming at him way too fast, crashing into the side of him and spinning his car free.
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
He still couldn't keep his eyes open, still couldn't figure out where he was... he wasn't in his bed, he could tell he wasn't in his bed...
Was he on another ride?
It sounded like he was... felt like he was. He was disoriented and dizzy, and more than that, he was just so tired.
Trying to piece things together, he struggled to free his thoughts from the confusion they were in. The fog was clearing, but only slightly -- only very slightly, and very slowly.
Thinking hard, trying to think hard, he remembered the boys wanting to go on The Ring of Fire. He was afraid of that ride, it was too big and too loud... looked too scary for him. It was a giant circle, rising high into the darkened sky of the evening. Colorful lights flickered and strobed on the sides of the track, red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange, blue... the colors of fire, the colors of flame... they were mesmerizing to him... hypnotizing to him... the name of the ride flashed in fiery red and orange bulbs, Ring of Fire -- Ring of Fire -- Ring of Fire -- until he was in a trance... until he felt like he was feeling now, dazed, distant and confused.
He remembered watching a train of caged cars starting at the bottom of the ring, watching it being pulled by a big cable halfway up the circle and then rolling back... going halfway up the other side, in the opposite direction. The noises got louder, the rumbling and roaring more intense -- like metallic thunder -- until it was almost deafening. The train raced back to the bottom of the circle, went farther up the other side than it had the first time... the people in the car screamed, the noises growing louder still, more intense still. The train raced back down to the bottom of the ring and rocketed up the other side until it was all the way upside down, where it stopped and hung... just froze there, upside down... like he was now... hanging, like he was now... the people screaming... screaming like he wanted to. Then, the enclosed cars shuddered and roared down around the other side, clicking, clacking, clinking and clanking so loudly as it plunged down and back up... back around the entire circumference of The Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... flashing, flashing, flashing, flashing...
Clank, click, twirl...
Clack, click, sway...
Was he on the Ring of Fire? Did he get on The Ring of Fire and faint, because he was so terrified?
No... no, he didn't...
He remembered saying no... saying he wasn't going on that ride... remembered the boys teasing him, calling him a pussy... all except Chucky, because he was scared too. And Darkwing, because Darkwing was nice... he remembered going to another ride, a different ride... what was it?
The Matterhorn... that's what it was. He remembered climbing into a car on The Matterhorn, remembered the car swinging as Louie climbed in with him... remembered Launchpad whining that he had to ride alone because Chucky insisted on riding with Darkwing... remembered Louie telling him there was room in their gondola, remembered Launchpad climbing in and remembered feeling squished like a sardine in a can.
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
He remembered The Matterhorn starting, remembered rolling forward slowly... spinning slowly around a circle, going up and down over humps, picking up speed and the car rocking back and forth... centrifugal force, that's why the car started to sway up into the air... he remembered thinking about science class, remembered learning about physics and centrifugal force, remembered thinking that's why the gondola was fully parallel with the wooden slats of the ride's platform as they spun, and spun, and spun...
Clank, clink, twirl...
Clack, click, sway...
There had been loud music, he remembered the music... he could hear the music in his head, still, over the strange
ringing in his ears, he could hear it... he could hear the words, but he couldn't understand what they were... it sounded like he was in a tunnel, sounded like the music was muffled and echoing around him in a tunnel... the words were being sung fast, but they were slow to him, now -- like time was slowed down... still, the words ran together... still, they didn't make any sense... why did he hear them, still? Was he still on The Matterhorn? Was he losing consciousness because he was being squeezed too tightly in the car with Launchpad and Louie?
Prettylittlethingletmelightyourcandlecausemamaimsohardtohandlenowyesiam...
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
No... he wasn't on The Matterhorn anymore... he remembered getting off, remembered being dizzy and feeling like he wanted to throw up... he needed to eat, he remembered needing to eat... wanting to eat to settle his stomach...
Funnel cakes... that's what they got, with the rest of the money his father had given him, he got a funnel cake... Launchpad didn't have any more money, so Timmy told him he would share... he did share... shared his funnel cake and his Coke... shared them with Launchpad...
Clank, clink, twirl...
Clack, click, sway...
Then what happened?
The Gravitron... that's what happened next. He remembered getting on The Gravitron... remembered leaning against a smelly pad on the wall, remembered starting to spin... faster and faster, round and round, clockwise with a bullet, he remembered more centrifugal force... too much centrifugal force... overwhelming centrifugal force... he remembered his chest feeling heavy as he was pressed into the smelly red pad... remembered a click and clack, remembered a clink and clank as mechanisms were released and the wall he was being held against rose up from the floor and he was floating... floating, like he was now...
Was he still on The Gravitron?
No... he remembered the rest of the ride...
He remembered feeling sick, remembered his funnel cake wanting to come back up... remembered tasting it again, the fried dough and the powdered sugar together with stomach acid and burning as puke sprayed out of his mouth and the centrifugal force made it spread all around his face... remembered the operator stopping the ride, remembered the chunky remnants of the funnel cake coming down off of the red pad and settling on his shoulders, running down the chest of his shirt and getting everywhere... remembered not wanting to wear the shirt anymore, remembered taking it off and throwing it away in a big fifty-five gallon drum... remembered the boys laughing at him -- all except Darkwing, who was really nice to him about it... remembered Darkwing telling the other boys to shut up... remembered the shirt...
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
He remembered going to the area with the porta-potties, remembered going inside of one... remembered how bad it smelled... remembered crying just a little, but not about the smell... crying because he was embarrassed, because he was humiliated. He remembered taking a leak... remembered going back outside, remembered the whoosh and the sound of the plastic door slamming shut... remembered looking for the boys, remembered... ouch!
My neck! Something happened to my neck! It hurt! It feels like a bee stung me on the neck... where did the bee come from? There are no bees here... and it burns... why does it burn so bad?
That's where it all trailed off... that's where the haze began, where the path ended... now, he was here... here and so tired...
Clank, clink, twirl...
Clack, click, sway...
A voice... he could hear a voice... it wasn't a memory, wasn't the screaming of joy and terror of people at the carnival, wasn't the voice of any of his friends... it was strange, deep and slow... a man's voice, but it was distant, it was disjointed... it was angry... it was arguing... what was it saying?
Wrong... same... fucked... blue... black... close... fault... late... anyway... finish...
What did that mean?
What was going on?
Where was he?
Why was he upside down?
Why was it so cold?
Why did it feel like he wasn't wearing any clothes?
Why did his behind hurt?
Clink, clank, twirl...
Click, clack, sway...
A dark figure moving towards him... a shadow... a silhouette... something in its hand... a familiar figure... a familiar outline... a familiar face... but a shadow...
Clunk...
No more swaying, no more twirling... hands on his torso... cold hands... something pressing against his neck... pressure... swift motion... wetness... lightheadedness... black...
Nothing...
TWENTY-TWO
