DelGato the Cat, and other tales.
Two hours ago....

Robbie looked up at the fat guy in the ticketbooth. He was fat, and pasty white, and had stringy blond hair that was almost white. He was wearing a white lab coat, of all things, and he looked like Humpty fucking Dumpty. Oh, Lordy. He thought of Big Nunzio, who was around four hundred pounds, and one of Uncle Artie's best kneebreakers. People tend to forget that fat guys lift weights just by standing up and walking. The Big N was strong. No good for running or endurance tasks, sure, but strong as an ox, and almost as heavy. The pasty-faced queer in the booth was twice as big. He was wearing makeup on his eyes, and was playing with a Hello Kitty necklace of some kind. There were Kitty stickers on the glass of the booth, and little stuffed Kittys adorning every available surface. Even the cash register was pink and white, with Jap writing on the keys. Normally, that would call for a wisecrack, but this guy was twice as big as the Big N.! Robbie cleared his throat, politely. The giant egg of a man turned inside the tiny ticket booth, with some difficulty. "Yessir?" He batted his eyelashes at me, Robbie thought. Okay, fine. Don't hurt nothing.

"Nice um... Necklace? Lanyard? Hello Kitty. Those are hard to find sometimes."

"I know!" And then he added something in rapid-fire Japanese. Robbie grinned up at him, hoping he didn't come out. "Are you a fan, too?"

"Nah, my little girl is, though. Rebecca." The sign over the gate read Doctor Celestine's Carnival of Souls, and apparently, the good Doctor took the term "bouncer" a tad literally. Geez, it'd take eight bullets to stop this guy!

"Did you bring her with you? Maybe we could trade!" His voice should have been high and girly, considering the decor and the makeup, but it wasn't. It was deep and solid, like he had eaten Darth Vader for lunch.

"No, she's back home in Michigan. I'm here on business." Personal business still counts as business.

"Then who was that girl?"

"What girl?"

"The eleven-year-old brunette in the ball gag." The big guy said, his tone mild and innocent. Robbie felt a chill at the words, though, and restrained his hand from going for his gun. Too soon. "She left this for you."

A golden ticket popped out of a slot in the side of the booth. Robbie took it, feeling the warm metallic foil. "Did she leave a message?" His hands didn't shake. His voice didn't quaver. But his heart was hammering again.

"Let me check." More awkward contortions in the tiny booth. From behind the white-clad bulk came the sound of rustling papers. Robbie considered making use of the barnlike target, but decided against it. Deal with the music first, then he could make as much noise as he wanted on his way out. The ticket guy wedged himself back facing the window, and held up a crumpled page triumphantly. "Yup, she sure did! It says 'mmmph mmm mmmm mmmmm! PhPhPhmmmm! mmmmp.'" He scratched his pale blond head with a pink Hello Kitty inkpen. "What does that mean?"

"It means I've come to the right carnival, that's what. Thanks."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Simba scented the breeze. The scent came again, but faint, ever so faint. The girl from the forest, the one who'd smelled of fear and sweat and sex. The one the Master had said wasn't food. She was coming.

He continued his circuit around the outside of the big top, checking the stakes and cables as he went. He stopped and removed a huge wrench from his belt, and set to work tightening the cable. The girl had been nice. She'd stroked his mane, and had had such pretty eyes. She'd made him hungry, some. Victim-scent had rolled off her like melted butter. He licked his chops, his rough tongue making a raspy sound. Still, the master had been clear. But she still smelled nice.

He hoped she came to see the show. He'd enjoy that. For the shows, the master let them shed their clothes, let them walk again on four paws. He'd roar for her, and savor her fear. He'd show her his mane, and maybe let her stroke it again. That would be fun. He strolled over to the next cable, rubbing his sore lower back. This two-legs thing was uncomfortable. But the master said to do it. The hands were amusing, though.

Another scent came to him, almost hidden in the smells of sawdust and manfood and blood that always permeated the Carnival. It made his lips pull back in a snarl, and a low growl thrummed in his chest. He dropped into a crouch, pawing at the ground with one hand, feeling his claws extend, even the ones in his boots. A predator. A hunter had come. The territory was challenged! He longed to follow the scent, meet the challenge and destroy the other, to defend his territory. He stood up again, remembering the master. This was the master's territory, not Simba's. Tell the master. He left his wrench and ran to find Vincente, ran just as fast as twolegs running could go.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One hour ago.... More or less.

A small man in a brown cossack dashed about, fleeing the horrors and wonders of the Carnival's Underworld. His clothing was stained and showed signs of unskilled repair, sloppy stitchwork mending numerous rents in the rough fabric. The ground shook slightly, and the little man scurried up to the top of a utility pole, clinging to it with practiced determination. With a deafening roar, a herd of wild go-karts rounded the corner, scattering vending carts and sending up clouds of dust and woodchips. They snarled, gnashing metal gear teeth, and chased down a passing pedestrian, running her down beneath their bloody spiked wheels. In moments, the herd had passed, and the little man slipped back to earth. He inspected the woman's remains, but they were already melting into the ground. He was fairly sure he'd seen her before, several years ago. Hadn't she been the one the men in the little red hats and tiny cars had chased down and skinned? He shook his head, sadly, and murmured the Last Rites over her fading corpse. Maybe this time, she would know the true death, and avoid resurrection back into this hell. Maybe this time, she would know release. Maybe next time, she'd learn to avoid the killer cars.

He looked up, and saw a wagon not far away. Gypsy-style, it sat on huge spoked wheels, and was painted in bright red and yellow. The All-Seeing Eye was displayed prominently, as was the Eye of Horus, and a palm. A prophet, then. He heard a crash, not far away, and thought the karts might be returning. He ducked inside the wagon, ready to run if a threat was lurking inside.

"Hello, mister," a child said. Tapestries adorned the walls, but they were hideous to behold. Care Bears on black velvet, playing cards. Rainbow Brite, reclining with multicolored grapes, nude. She-Ra, weeping, cradling the dead messiah. Hannah Montana, rising out of the sea in a giant oyster shell. He blinked at them in confusion, not comprehending any of it. "Hey, mister? Why are you wearing a dress?"

He understood her words, but her manner of speech struck him as odd. He told the little dark-haired child that his name was Duxtor, and he was a fallen monk, now a scribe. The cossack was acceptable garb for either calling. His words were spoken in an ancient dialect, but the child seemed to have no trouble understanding him. "Why'd you fall? Did you slip?" No, he replied. He lost his faith. "Oh. Did you ask Mr. K? He finds all sorts of lost things."

He sat down opposite the child, at a small table. It was ornately decorated, the signs of the zodiac inlaid in white marble in the dark wood, and a plastic tea set was set out, the girl sharing tea with a wooden pony, a raggedy doll, a masterfully stuffed and mounted stoat, and a small robot that the scribe recognized as Optimus Prime. He'd met the larger one five years back, where it had been attempting to repair a ferris wheel. She poured him a cup. He explained that he had foolishly wagered his faith, in a dice game. "Mr. James' Game?" she asked. He replied that it had been a Professor Jameson who had taken his faith from him. "I don't know that name. Was it a long time ago?" It had, in fact, been in the Year of Our Lord 901. "Yup. That's a long time ago. Cookie?" He accepted, with thanks. The last food he'd had was a month ago, when he had ambushed a pack of corn dogs, killing some of the young ones and fleeing before the adults had been able to rally. Sadly, starvation was no escape from this hell. He asked the child her name, and she replied "I'm Ambrosia. I see the future. Would you like a Foretelling?"

Duxtor shrugged. He'd been trapped in this place an eternity. It would seem likely that he would remain for all time. The child tossed her curly hair out of her eyes, and fetched a crystal sphere from a yarn net nearby. She gazed into it for a time, and Duxtor listened to the sounds of a flood outside, hearing heaving oarsmen and someone with a whip. He sipped his tea.

"Your time in purgatory is almost at an end. The Dark Messiah comes. He who will save the world, or end it. He will open the way." She looked up at him, dimpling as she smiled. "See, Mr. Duxtor? Good news!" He shook his head. He could not believe her. He had no faith in any God, any Messiah. "Silly man! You don't need faith in God! Have faith in Todd. Follow the Sinister Saint, whose faith in Todd can move mountains."

Could it be? Had the God who had damned him for his reckless abandonment of faith been supplanted? Could this Dark Messiah end his torment? "Todd is the end of all. Even torment, Mister Duxtor." She yawned. "Now G'way. It's time for my nap."

He stepped out into the hellish fair almost eagerly. The way seemed clear, for the first time in ages untold. Find the Saint. Find the Dark Messiah. Be free. A linnorm slithered past, and he swung up onto its back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Robbie followed the music. It was a lot trickier than it sounded. He kept confusing the music around him with the music in his head, and in any case the source seemed to keep moving. He slipped into the big top, following a haunting melody, and was immediately blinded, floodlights from all directions glaring at him. He flinched back, only to feel iron bars at his back.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Roberto DelGato! Direct from the jungles of Detroit, Michigan, this mighty killer knows no mercy, no kindness! His is the thirst for blood, the thrill of the hunt! Do not move suddenly, dear members of the audience! The DelGato is easily provoked, and this one is far from tame!" Oohs and aahs sounded, hundreds of them, and Robbie squinted against the glare. There was a sense of wide open space, and he could hear people, lots of them, whispering in the shadows behind the floodlights. A man walked by nearby, in a fedora. Robbie saw he was black, and dressed in some kind of Indiana Jones in the Banana Republic outfit. Complete with a whip. Something nearby snarled, and he looked down to his right and saw a freaking leopard smiling up at him.

Showing its teeth, anyway. "What the fuck is this?" he yelled. Who are you?"

The whip snapped right in front of his face, and Robbie covered his nose with his hand, surprised that he wasn't bleeding. The crowd applauded, impressed. This was horseshit! He pulled his gun and trained it on the little guy with the whip. "Do that again, boy. Just once."

"The tiger, the king of the jungles of India! But tame as a kitten, you will see!" He was still playing to the crowd, actually turning his back on Robbie, and sure enough a goddam big tiger was there by his side, purring as he scratched its ear. "How's that, Tony? Does it feel grrrr-eeeaaat?" The crowd laughed. He snapped his whip a few times, and the tiger began running a circuit around the ring, leaping through hoops and over barricades. Robbie's vision was adjusting, and he could make out two bears, a leopard, a lion, and one of the biggest fucking snakes he'd ever seen, a python easily twenty-five feet long. He was in the center ring, and bars surrounded the entire circle, reaching far up into the shadows high above the massive enclosure. People were packed into the stands, applauding and gasping as the act went on. He saw an door to the big cage nearby, a pale girl in a white dress waiting outside with another tiger and an honest-to-god polar bear. While the black guy with the whip was busy putting Tony the Tiger through his paces, Robbie sidled toward the door. Maybe the girl would help him get out.

The whipcrack sounded right next to his ear, and it was louder than a gunshot. "Down, boy! Back to your place!"

"Fuck that." He raised the gun, but before he could fire it the whip cracked again, sending it flying out of the cage, where the girl caught it neatly, and curtsied, as the crowd went wild. "You goddam coon!" Robbie rushed at him. Fists, then.

"Tony! Up! Hup hup hup!" The whip cracked like machine gunfire, and Tony the Tiger was suddenly flying at Robbie. In midair, his fur faded away, his bones shifted under his skin, his face flattened and the tail shrank away to nothingness. A man, with dark skin and hair, and tiger-stripe tattoos on his arms and legs and back, slammed into Robbie. The guy looked Indian, and Robbie was reminded of that Suresh guy from that show, Heroes. But this guy was almost seven feet tall, and muscled like a pro wrestler, and he still had those freaky cat's eyes. Robbie was so stunned by the transformation that the impact floored him, and Tony straddled him, pinning his arms to the ground, glaring at him with murder in his feline eyes. The guy with the whip leaned down, and switched off his throat mic. "My name, Mr. DelGato, is Vincente Johnson. Master Vincente to you, or just Master. I tame animals. Animals like you." The crowd was screaming, amazed and thrilled by the change, and Vincente walked a wide circle around Robbie and Tony, waving and mugging to the crowd. His mic back on, he called out "DelGato here doesn't think he's an animal! Isn't that funny?" I think he should perform for you! What do you say?" They cheered, and Tony lifted Tony right off the ground, holding him by his biceps as though he were a child.

"I'm not an animal! You sick fuck!"

"No? You hunt, to put food on your table. You kill. You defend your territory. You're just a beast."

"That's not true!" But it was, and Robbie knew it. He marked his territory, he killed to defend it. He ate nice food and lived in a nice house because he was the biggest alpha male on the block. "It's not like that!"

"Please. You're not even a wild animal, not really. You've already been tamed. Tony, release him!" Robbie landed in a crouch. "Stay!"

Robbie wanted to strangle this guy. He wanted to pound his black ass into the dirt. He wanted to run toward that door, and get away, somewhere where all these people weren't watching him. Anywhere this Vincente shithead wasn't. But he couldn't move.

Why couldn't he move?

"Because I told you not to. You stay when your master says stay. You hunt when he says hunt. You kill when he says kill. You're a wonderful creature, but you're not the boss. Not the 'man.' You take orders. You're tamed." The mic switched off again, and Vincente leaned in, grinning a hard smile. "And that makes you mine."

Robbie snarled at him, too enraged to speak, and was horrified at how bestial he sounded. How like an animal. Just like this guy said.

"Down, Robbie!" The whipcrack sounded in front of his eyes, and he flinched, hiding his face against the ground. Again and again, the whip snapped around his ears, at his back. He cowered, like a dog. He cried out, like a sheep. And in between snaps, he snarled, like a cat. "Down! It's not right that you walk around like a man. It's wrong. Bad DelGato! Bad! Four legs! Show us your tail! Down!"

The crowd was crooning, excited. Robbie was angrier than he'd ever been. How dare this guy? How fucking dare he? He was Robbie Del fucking Gato! He had killed people for less than this! The whip snapped, brushing the back of his neck and sending pain through his whole body. He growled, even as he cowered down lower, below the crack crack crack of the whip. He wanted to tear this guy apart, piece by piece! He'd make "Master Vincente" cry like a baby, even as he tore out his throat with his fucking teeth! Crack!

"Down! Bad! Don't make a fist at me! Fists are for men! Men who think for themselves, who don't follow orders because they've been trained to! Show me your paws!" Crack Crack! His hands stung horribly, and he shook them, trembling in terror, telling himself it was rage. Or maybe it was rage, and it only felt like terror. Crack! He dug his claws into the ground, getting his feet planted squarely, preparing to leap. "Bad! I said get down! Show me your face, Cat! Roar for us!" Crack!

The huge black panther shook off what remained of Robbie DelGato's clothing and roared, a primal scream of rage and fury that silenced the crowd. One by one, the other great cats took up the roar, and then the bears joined in. "Ladies and Gentlemen," Vincente yelled. "DelGato, the Cat! Fierce killer, soulless beast, and obedient servant! Get him to swear, just once, and he'll do anything you want! For the rest of his life! Cat! Run the hoops!"

It was like Uncle Artie had said it. It reached that deep into him. He saw himself stretch and leap, his claws digging deep, his tail twitching to correct his balance. He saw his fangs, his rippling muscles, but Vincente was right. He'd do as he was told. He always had. DelGato, the great panther, sailed through hoop after hoop. With each jump, he heard Master Vincente whispering.

"Burn down that shop."

"Shoot that guy."

"Kidnap his wife."

"Sell those drugs."

"Shoot that little girl." Robbie roared again, in anguish. He hadn't wanted to! He'd been sorry! He hadn't enjoyed it!

"But you did it."

The lights dimmed, and about half the animals stood up, becoming manlike. Vincente opened the cage door, and they began filing out. Robbie followed, hunched low to the ground, afraid to meet the tamer's eyes. At the door, Vincente stopped him with a gesture. "You make me sick, DelGato. Get away from me. Get out of my sight. Don't come back up here until you can do it on your own two feet. The whip cracked, behind him, and DelGato pounced. Soaring out of the cage, he barely noticed all the people were suddenly gone. He raced across any empty big top, and out into a Carnival of dreams and nightmares. He roared, flexing his claws, his keen eyes piercing the shadows, seeking prey.

He was one of the nightmares.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now....

Todd felt as though he'd exploded. Power radiated out of his body, blinding him with its white-hot fury. He was falling, and all around him, stars blazed and dazzled him. Far below him, he could make out a warm, welcoming light, and he fell toward it, laughing at the sheer joy at the feeling of his power flying out into the night sky.

Ribbons of white flame flew across the sky. Greasy smoke dimmed the stars, as sheets of pale flame spread out, consuming them completely. In the Carnival's Underside, frenetic activity everywhere slowed to a stop. Faces looked heavenward, and saw the sky itself consumed in flame, a white comet plummeting down, a laughing god in its heart. The earth trembled. The paper lanterns and electric lights seemed to grow brighter, as the millions of stars overhead were consumed by the inferno above. Everywhere, from the pits where starved bears fought three-headed dogs, to the lists where knights in techno-organic armor jousted for the favors of the Ladies of the Seelie Court, the denizens of the Underworld looked to the sky and knew fear.

Todd hit the ground and stood, looking around. It was noisier than he'd expected. Darker, too. Long ribbons of the night sky clung to him like tattered silk banners, and he looked at them, causing them to smolder and burn away, the white fire of his gaze reducing them to ash and foul-smelling smoke. Above, the last few stars were consumed, and the sky was completely dark. No longer the silky, infinite darkness of night, but now the black, rough charcoal of a wasteland. The stench of it reached even to the earth, which trembled again beneath Todd's feet.

"I'm here, Sheila. I'm here to save you." The way he'd felt, he'd half expected his voice to shake the firmament. To echo throughout this plane. Instead, his voice cracked a little, and he sounded, even to his own ears, like a boy in out of his depth.

Still, he thought. Great entrance. Brushing a few smoldering scraps of night sky off his hoodie, he set out to find Sheila. I wonder if it looked that impressive from ground level?