Warmed and Bound: A Velvet Anthology (3 page)

Death Juggler

by
Axel Taiari

It’s all laughter and nervous giggles until the bombs explode for real. Then the audience’s mood short-circuits fast as a brain stroke: a boom louder than staccato lightning strikes eardrums, a body skyrockets into the air, screams zigzag through the big top, people trample over each other for the swiftest way to the exit. The announcer begs into his microphone for everyone to calm down. A panicked clown runs around, hands flailing high above his head. A bloody stray limb lands into a crying kid’s lap. Whatever’s left of the blown-apart corpse splashes back to the blood-drenched sand. Dense black smoke chokes the air, saturating the massive tent in seconds. A few regulars stand up and applaud as the chaos flourishes around them. Floodlights die. Slaves carrying stretchers sneak through the bedlam. The death artist leaves the blacked-out stage as an unsolved puzzle of meat and guts.

———

Death as an art form took off when boredom set in. There are only so many tricks the audience can enjoy. Pull a rabbit out of an empty hat? Paint them fatigued. Disappear in a cloud of colored fog and reappear at the other end of the stage? Watch them yawn. Make an elephant dance, hacksaw a girl in half then piece her back together? Snore. Card tricks, mind reading, hypnosis, straightjacket escapes, sword cabinets. They’d rather stare at a blank wall.

As the violence became a daily part of life in the city, Asher Marok realized magic was a professional job of upping the ante. On the way to work, humming citizens stroll past muggings in the streets. Zeppelins wandering between skyscrapers dump propaganda letters by the thousands, a paper rain of paranoid bulletins warning of more murders, more gang wars, let us pray the mayor shall forever keep us safe. Desperate basement-dwellers spike glasses of absinthe with tasteless date-rape juice. Door-to-door choirboys herald another apocalypse with seraphic voices. Conked-out link-heads fornicate with steamers in underground sex clubs. Junkies with jaundiced skins lick toads outside of schools and watch reality sunder beneath their skulls. The world is decaying at light-speed, and mouth-breathing wannabe tricksters expect the populace to care about a little sleight of hand? Please. 

Asher understood it all, even before puberty sucker punched him with a fat boost of acne and strange stirrings. He watched his father step on stage night after night, doing your run-of-the-mill tricks. People came, sure. But they came once, never to show their faces again. 

He managed to do what his father never could. He built a devoted fan base. Yellowed fliers on the crumbling walls in the ghetto advertised: Tonight in Sector 7, come see The Amazing Asher kill himself for your entertainment. Only tonight folks—we deal in death, not resurrection.

———

Asher wakes up to unblinking bug eyes staring at him over stiletto teeth.

The prodigal son returns, says Callahan, lighting up a cigarette fatter than a pinky finger. 

Almost gave me a heart attack, you bastard, croaks Asher. He sits up, shuddering off the cobwebs of a coma. 

Fucking welding goggles.

Callahan sucks on the cigarette, exhales a cloud of jet-black smoke. Heart attack. Funny, coming from a man hell-bent on killing himself. I’m here to patch you up, Ash, not turn you on. 

Asher stumbles out of the dentist chair, nearly knocking over a tray full of tools in the process. Welder, screwdriver, bloody bucket, scissors, endless jars of multicolored liquids, oversized syringes, scalpel. An ugly process. 

The artist cracks his fingers, neck, toes, pinches himself in various places, still not used to the patchwork of scars crisscrossing his ruined skin. He smiles and says, what’s the damage, doc?

Callahan laughs, washing his hands under a rusted tap, drooling pale brown water. The damage, he repeats. Took the drones and me about eight hours to reattach all four of your limbs. Three hours more than usual. Your heart stopped beating for eight minutes. We made sure your brain still got oxygen, though.

Fuck, says Asher.

Callahan slides the goggles off, revealing eyes flooded with blood. Asher. You can’t keep going. It’s getting harder.

Asher nods and says, what else can I do?

The doctor sighs. Someone slid a present under your door, by the by. Catch.

Asher’s nerves fail on him and the envelope slaps against his chest. It takes him a dozen seconds to pick it up and open it. He unfolds the letter.

FRIEND,

SEEMS YOU HAVE TROUBLE KILLING YOURSELF. WE CAN FIX THAT PROBLEM. PERMANENTLY. TODAY’S THE LAST DAY TO PAY BACK WHAT YOU OWE ME. COME THIS AFTERNOON WITH THE MONEY. OTHERWISE, WE SHALL SEE YOU TONIGHT.

DISRESPECTFULLY, 

YOU KNOW WHO
 

Callahan studies Asher, then says, what’s tonight’s trick? Gotta get the instruments ready.

I think I have a rough idea, replies the magician. 

———

It’s not resurrection in the strictest sense, of course. That right there is a form of reality bending that’s only been achieved in old tales and fables for kids—pure hogwash. Instead Asher settled for clever brutality, fixable injuries. The oversized pack of dynamite he unwrapped in front of the audience was a prop, mostly plastic, stuffed with heat-triggered smoke tablets. Before the show, he had strapped tiny blasting gelatin charges to his limbs, bombs no bigger than summer flies. Strong enough to shed various body parts, too weak to turn him into burnt stew. He wore thick metal plating under his loose sweatshirt. He coated his face with anti-burning ointments and a colorless protective residue he bought from a dubious shaman at the market, supposedly stolen from the city’s firemen. He injected himself with morphine, swallowed enough pills to put a whale into a coma. When he pressed the trigger, his arms and legs were destroyed—good thing Callahan kept an army of cloned limbs at his workshop. After that, it was just a job of performing surgery and reality bending quick enough for him not to die. 

The night before, an antidote already working its way through his bloodstream counteracted the poisonous gas he inhaled like a lung-scorching joint hit. He received the pain, the skin bubbling with tennis ball sized sores, teeth melting, hair falling out, all the usual radioactive horror, but no death. 

Two nights ago, it was a self-inflicted shotgun shot right through the bare chest. He was on so much morphine he couldn’t see straight, the trigger had to be remotely pulled by Callahan. Hurt like a bitch, took the doc four hours to remove the bullet fragments. Asher got a three minutes’ standing ovation for that one. 

The night before, a swarm of killer bees assaulted his face drenched with pheromones and anesthetics. 

The night before that, he drowned in a giant aquarium.

Asher’s cortex shifts gears as he walks over the bridge linking the rest of the city to Anachronos’ Isle. The prison island now turned mutant ghetto always made him feel at home despite his skin color. The grey-skinned mutants with their deformities were seen as freaks, things innocent human children and pretty girls with rich dads should be kept away from. He focuses on tonight’s act, reorganizing thoughts in the hopes of figuring it all out. He wanders the streets, passing shattered towers clawing for the sky, their sides lined with barred windows. Mutant kids run through the alleys—horns, wings, spikes and claws growing out of their flesh. 

Another turn and he stops in front of the mansion. A mutant with a pair of hairy noses guards the door, cradling a riot shotgun. 

Asher steps up to him and says, I’m here to see Carpat.

The guard shrugs, sniffs and spits. Don’t know who you mean, partner.

Asher brings a hand to his forehead and rubs it, sighing. Look. I need to speak to him. Tell him it’s extremely urgent. And he will be interested.

You look familiar, says the guard.

I just have one of those faces.

Hey, no, you’re that freak from the circus, down in Sector 7. Saw your picture on the posters.

Freak, repeats Asher. He stares at the guard’s noses and says, man, it must suck for you to get a cold. Snot city.

Get lost, human. Carpat won’t see the likes of you.

Asher says, let me show you a magic trick.

The guard steps back and raises his shotgun, aiming for Asher’s chest.

The trick, explains Asher, is you letting me in. Here’s how it works: you step inside that mansion, you go get Carpat, and you tell him I pissed off some squid bastards quite badly, and they want to do me in. The name is Count Voto. Funny part is, Carpat doesn’t like him. Old grudges. And I have some information about him he could use. Valuable information.

What if I shoot you instead, circus boy?

Asher grins. Then Carpat receives a letter from one of my friends in a few days, informing him the pug-faced inbred lapdog guarding the door this afternoon shot someone who held precious facts your boss could have used to bring down one of his rivals. What happens next is between you and your easily angered employer. You know, the one renowned for violence and torture? 

The guard frowns, and lowers the shotgun. Asher whistles. 

Stay here. I’ll be back.

Oh, I’ll be waiting.

After a few minutes of shuffling cards and staring at the sky, the door opens. The guard steps out.

Well?

The guard nods, moves aside and mumbles, Carpat will see you now.

Why, thank you.

As Asher strolls past the brooding guard, he winks and whispers, abracadabra.

———

They struck a deal. Carpat listened. Asher shared his information. Carpat thanked him, and true to his reputation, offered his services. The young magician asked the gang lord only two things. First, a handful of armed henchmen. Second, the help of the most talented grave robber in the city.

Once all was said and done, Asher headed for the eastern market with enough coins in his pocket to buy himself a coffin he could rot in.

Showtime. Packed crowd, conversations stacking on top of each other in grumbling piles, the warm smell of sweat and unwashed bodies colliding, peanuts and sandwiches filled with questionable meat, spotlights making the temperature rise. 

Peeking through the curtains, Asher spots them with no effort. Spread out and not even trying to blend in with the crowd, as discreet as dynamite. The squid-kin wear distinctive mafia clothing, summer blue military jackets with four sleeves, one for each arm. They wait, unblinking.

Asher backs away from the curtains and says, I left my will in the caravan. Make sure my mom gets her share. And there’s enough money for you to open your own clinic. Or blow it all on shrooms, shrimps and sluts. Whatever floats your boat.

Callahan pats Asher on the back. Are you sure you can do this?

Asher turns around and smiles. Are you sure you can do this, doctor?

It takes Callahan a long time to hug his friend and whisper, I’ll miss you.

———

Ladies, gentlemen, and inbetweeners. Welcome.

The crowd cheers and claps. Some devoted fans chant die, die, die, and stomp their feet in anticipation. Children chomp on popcorn while their fathers sip beer.

Asher stands in the very middle of the big top, multicolored lights blinding him. His lips almost touching the microphone, he says, tonight will be very special. More applause. He waits, then says, tonight, I will not kill myself. Silence. Confused faces study each others’ for an explanation. Tonight, resumes Asher, I’ll let someone else do the job for me. Why waste my own bullets when others are oh so eager to take care of it? He offers a devilish grin and the audience hoots and laughs, applauding louder than before. Everyone, it is my pleasure to introduce my assistants. Meet my murderers.

Asher steps away from the microphone and nods. The spotlights move, illuminating random audience members before finally settling down. Three different lights shine on three shub’nar, who hiss and look around, reeling from the sudden attention. The crowd eggs them on, cheering or booing them. Some hidden faces throw racial slurs at the shub’nar.

Asher says, our squid brothers are here to shoot me. Months ago, before this all started, I borrowed money from a less than honest character, you all know him by name. Count Voto. I needed money to pay for my mother’s medication. I repaid him in full, but his bills keep coming to this day. When I stopped sending money, the threats began. And tonight, it ends.

One of the shub’nar shouts, we don’t care about witnesses, trickster. This is your last chance to pay Voto.

Asher laughs into the microphone before backing away. He unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor. He spins around on himself, displaying a skinny sunken chest and an army of ribs lurking under a tapestry of tattoos, showing them all that there are no tricks tonight, no hidden armors, no misdirection, only a young man grabbing death by the jaw. Once everyone in the circus understands this will be Asher’s final show, he grabs the microphone with one hand, raising up his middle finger with the other and says, everyone, I would like to thank you for appreciating my art and showing up night after night. Godspeed to you all. He pauses. As for you three bastards, you can tell Voto I’d happily rip his tentacles off with my bare teeth and shove them up his flabby ass. Blow me.

As soon as the last two words escape Asher’s lips, the shub’nar whip out their respective weapons. Myriads of explosions bang through the tent. Sparks fly from the foaming mouths of shotguns. The audience screams and pushes for the exit. Bullets tear through the magician’s flesh, lodging themselves deep within him. He feels it all, more pain than any of his previous deaths granted him but he forces himself to stand tall, blink through the red veil cloaking his vision. The shots keep coming, but too many for it to simply be the shub’nar and as he falls to his knees, blood pouring out of his mouth and filling his nostrils, he catches a chaotic glimpse of one of the squids’ head blowing apart, Carpat’s men landing a killing shot, an all out gang war blooming within the circus.