Searchterm Entry #3: Sideshow Fables

The third entry to our Search Term Challenge, a veritable carnival of freaks.

For details of the challenge, and to see other entries, click here.

This entry was written by MeiLin Miranda.

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Sideshow Fables

“You keep a dirty house, y’know, Mindee,” Wolfram said as he pushed past me through the door.

“It’s not so much a house as a caravan,” I retorted. “Besides, a guy who eats live chickens on stage shouldn’t throw stones. Christ, you smell like wet dog.”

“It’s raining.” He cleared a chair of magazines and dirty plates with one shaggy paw and sat down, his yellow eyes unfocused and nearly amber in the lamp light.

I waited. And waited. I tapped my long red nails on the stack of paperbacks in front of me, but his eyelids drooped and his chin hit his chest. “Well?” I snapped.

“Well what?” he said, coming to with a whuffle out his long nose.

“What do you want?”

“Want?”

“Why are you here, you furry pest?”

“Oh!” Wolfram scratched behind one pointed ear. His claws needed clipped again; I took a mental note to remind Captain Karlsbad. “Well, it’s the Fabrinis, o’course. You can’t hear those guys?”

“The slack rope act? No.”

“Listen.”

I turned down KFI, blaring from the old transister balanced on the rickety shelf above the table–some nights KFI comes in pretty clear on the atmospheric bounce, and it’s kinda fun to hear a station a few thousand miles away. In the distance, I heard them, increasing in volume until they would have drowned out George Noory, if I’d left him turned up:

“I say she’s-a mine!”

“She’s-a yours? Well, he’s-a mine!” The shouting devolved into Italian, probably well-peppered with insulting names I would have agreed with, if I could’ve just understood them. I made a mental note to pick up an Italian/English slang dictionary.

“Oh gods, not again,” I moaned. “I don’t want either one of them anywhere near me!”

“Then you shouldn’a been born with an extra sex. Most people only get one, y’know.”

“I got greedy, what can I say.” I lit a cigarette and waved the smoldering match under his sensitive nose.

“I know you can’t help it,” he coughed. “It freaks me out, but knowing you got two sets of junk just seems to do something to some people. Like the Fabrinis.”

I stubbed out my cigarette; I’d lit the filter, and I would’ve been pissed at myself if the smell hadn’t made Wolfram turn a little greener under all his face fur. “So you’re here to tell me those bellowing bastard brothers are at it again. Over me,” I said through the smoke.

“No, I’m here to see if you’ll let me sleep on your floor. Or chair,” he amended, looking down at the newspapers, apple cores and beercans filled with cigarette butts. What can I say, I drink beer. And smoke in bed. And drink beer.

“Or somewhere,” continued Wolfram. “Those assholes are gonna keep me up all night otherwise. I’m pulled up right next to their spot, Mindee! You gotta help a guy out.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “If it bothers you that much, just go move your doghouse.”

“I don’t like you calling it a doghouse.”

“All right, your Canine-American house. Go move it,” I said, jerking open the door.

“I can’t!” he whined. “Karlsbad’s got the keys to all the trucks, and he won’t give one to me.”

I’d forgotten. The last time Wolfram moved his trailer himself, it hadn’t gone so well; he could fetch a stick, but he couldn’t drive one. “Fine,” I snarled. “Fine. If it’ll get you out of my trailer, I’ll do it. Let’s go find Karlsbad.”

We tromped through the drizzle, past the signs advertising the Amazing Albert Hung by His Piercings for Your Edification and the Terrifying Evidence Aliens Have Visited Our World, if that’s what you want to call a stillborn piglet with two heads and five legs.

We found Karlsbad under an awning, head under the hood of one of the trucks. “Hey, Cap!” I yelled.

He came up with a jerk, but didn’t bang his head as I’d hoped. “Enough with the yelling! I’ve heard enough tonight from those two Italian slack-wits!”

“Slack rope. Not slack wit,” said Wolfram.

“Shaddup.” Karlsbad stopped and squinted. “Let me see those paws, kid. Yep, your claws need trimmed. C’mere.”

“Aw, Karl, I hate the clippers!” Wolfram whimpered.

“You’re gonna hate getting thrown in the clink for accidentally scratching someone to death more.”

“Not right now, Cap,” I interrupted. “We gotta move Wolfram’s trailer. The Fabrinis are driving him nuts.”

“The Fabrinis drive everyone nuts.” He squinted at me this time. “You need a shave, Mindee.”

“It’s after hours. I’ll shave in the morning.”

“I’ve told you, keep the stubble, dammit! It plays better to the crowd! Listen,” he continued, “you gotta settle things with the Fabrinis. It’s not good for the show.”

“What do you want me to do?” I shouted. “I’m not interested! I’ve told them to their faces–I’ve written letters!”

“They’re Italian! They can’t read longhand! She writes longhand,” said Wolfram.

“That’s not the point,” I said. “They don’t pay attention to a thing I say. So can we have one of the trucks or not?”

“Not,” said Karlsbad, turning back to the engine.

“Great, then he can him sleep in your trailer,” I said, jerking a thumb at Wolfram, “and we’ll see how you like the smell of wet dog in a hundred square feet.”

“Earplugs for Wolfie, potpourri for you,” came Cap’s muffled voice.

“Earplugs? I can’t even find headphones that fit, let alone earplugs!” Wolfram said, twitching his long ears.

“Christ! I have a sideshow full of whiners! Figure it out!”

“I am NOT sleeping with those two!” I yelled. “Either, or, both, whatever, I’m not doing ‘em!”

“Fine!” Karlsbad yelled back. “Fine! I’ll just go deal with it, as usual! I should’ve stayed in fast food.” He threw down the grease-covered red shop rag in his hand and stalked off toward the Italian ruckus.

It got real quiet all of a sudden. Wolfram and I looked at one another. “You suppose he fired ‘em?” he said.

“No, would’ve gotten louder if he’d done that,” I answered.

The crickets started up again. I could even hear George Noory’s voice percolating through the walls of my trailer, saying something about Area 51′s connection to Stonehenge and the Great Pyramid. Man, there was a good atmospheric bounce.

Captain Karlsbad came stumping back into the light of the temporary garage. I did not like the smirk on his face. “That’s done,” he said. “They won’t bug you any more.”

“What did you tell them?” I said. He didn’t answer; he just picked up the red rag and stooped under the hood of the truck. “Cap, what did you tell them!”

“I told them you got yourself pregnant,” he said to the engine block.

“What? WHAT?”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” said Wolfram.

“It’s not! What the hell, Karl!”

“You wanted me to get them off your back, I got them off your back.” I stared at Karl’s buttcrack, wondering if I could go for the atomic wedgie. “I’m thinking we can add it to the act, even,” he added.

“I have to get pregnant now?”

“We can pad you. Or you can just gain some weight.”

“No, Patty’s already the fat lady,” said Wolfram.

“Stop trying to help,” I said.

“I gave you at least four months grace, kid, and by then we’ll be back home in Florida for the winter. Now piss off, you two.”

Wolfram trailed after me as I stomped toward George Noory’s voice. He was saying something about aliens impregnating human women. Screw you, George. “At least it’s quiet,” said Wolfram.

“Shut up, dog breath.”

Wolfram shrugged. “Just tryin’ to find the bright side.”

“Do it somewhere else. Go stink up your own trailer.” He obediently veered off, a good dog for once.

I passed Captain Karlsbad’s trailer, his red Vespa racked on its back. I made a mental note to put sugar in the gas tank. As soon as I found the sugar. Damn, I really needed to clean that dirty house of mine.

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MeiLin is the author of the ongoing web serial, “Scryer’s Gulch: Magic in the Wild, Wild, West,” and the fantasy novel series, “An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom.”