Dirty Jobs
Mr. Weaver scowled at Mr. James' back as he left his workshop. He distrusted those that had too much knowledge. They tended to forget to listen to their gut. His frown turned upside-down as he wondered what his own gut was trying to tell him. Hungry? No. Problems with the rides? No. The back of his hand itched. He idly scratched it as he took survey of his domain.

Workbench was tidy. His chest of drawers was correctly inventoried and in place. He scratched the back of his hand harder, becoming irritated at himself. The garbage bags. There was still a bag of body parts that hadn't been taken to whatever carnivorous denizen of the Carnival it was destined to feed.

"Prime!" Nothing. "Optimus Prime!" Still nothing. Weaver put his hands on his hips, and felt something drip down his itchy hand. He looked at it, or rather, the clawed-up remains of what had once been a tattoo. It looked like an animal had torn it apart. He looked at the tips of his other hand's fingers. Normal nails, albeit dirtied with grease.

"Oh no."

He rushed out back of the barn, where his faithful creations usually sat and clicked and clacked and chittered at each other, as carnies are wont to do. There was silence, save for the occasional hiss of steam. His clockwork contraptions of all sizes, even the roller coaster cars, were standing in a circle, surrounding something. He pushed his way through, leaving smears of his blood on the carapaces and armor plating of his friends. He pushed through, and dropped to his knees.

"Oh no."

Optimus Prime. Buzz Lightyear and Woody. Voltron. Toys of every shape and color lay in a pile, in pieces. Each one had been torn apart by claws, like his hand. Sparks flew from their moving parts - the bits he'd added to give them life - as they died. This had all happened in a moment. But, as he'd told Thunk, time is funny.

Only the toys had died.

A footstep fell behind Weaver, and he whipped around. His friends followed suit, only to discover a sullen Hank, with his hands in his pockets. Hank's gaze shot up, as if he was just realizing where he'd wandered to. Not many people came to see Weaver, after all. Hank seemed to register the whole scene at once, and then asked a question as if he were vomiting it.

"Who broke your toys?"

Weaver glanced at his creations, and they clacked and clunked and rolled off to attend to their duties. He stepped forward and put his injured arm around Hank's shoulder. He led the morose man back to the front of the shed before looking him in the eyes.

"I did."

Hank saw something move deep inside Weaver's eyes, and shuddered. He tipped his hat and mumbled about having to get to a job, and then took off at a trot. Weaver shook his head and headed back inside his shop. He placed his torn hand on the workbench, and grit his teeth. With his other hand, he picked up a pair of needle-nosed pliers and began to fish around inside of the wound for something. He grunted in pain as he pushed under a bone and grabbed something. With a yank, he pulled the pliers out.

"Found you, you fucking fuck."

He dropped both the pliers and his price onto the bench, and then tore a piece of aluminum foil from a roll above him. He smoothed it out, being careful not to tear it. Working was always more difficult one-handed. Weaver smiled as he picked up his prize and turned it over in the light. A single green scale the size of a fingernail seemed to dance in the light. He set it in the center of the foil, and carefully folded the metal sheet around it.

He cackled softly to himself as he took the foil wrap to an old television. He blew the dust off of the thing - it was supposed to be for parts - and pressed the foil around the antenna until it stuck. He turned the knob to turn the thing on, and waited for it to warm up.

Audio came first. The haunting melody of a calliope filled the barn from the one tinny speaker. He wrapped his hand in a dirty rag as the screen slowly came into focus. It showed the inside of his shop, without the color, of course. He turned the knob to change the channel, and saw Hank approach the new girls' trailer. Flipped the channel again and saw Dr. Celestine in questionable circumstances with one of the new girls. Making a face, he changed the channel again, seeing the ruckus at the front gate with a thin woman, B.B. Wolfe, and Envy. He changed it again to see the Beast Master pointing at the Big Top. One more twist of the knob brought Weaver to what he needed to see, and his stomach sank.

No one was in the Big Top, and the audience was restless.

Weaver set his jaw. He hauled out a crate - below the one that had housed Arm, Left - and opened it. He tore off his hooded sweatshirt and tossed it into the dust. He grabbed his tool vest and turned it upside down, silently apologizing to the tools. He quickly put it on, and then steeled himself. Out of the crate came three items.

First came a black derby, embroidered in a spiderweb of silver thread. This, he carefully placed on his head. Second came a majestic black cloak, also embroidered in silver. The pattern reminded one of slithering as one walked. This, he carefully placed over his shoulders. Third, and lastly, came a walking stick. It was made of brass tubing, and was coiled around by copper in the shape of a sinuous lizard body. At the top, the body split into the maw of a copper dragon, which held a light bulb so antique that Edison might well have crafted it. This, he lifted out of the crate with his bandaged hand.

Weaver took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and headed toward the Big Top. No one paid him a second glance as he walked under the roller coaster rigging and past the House of Mirrors. No one inside questioned him as he entered through the back double flap. No one moved a muscle as he walked, in darkness, to the center ring. The boom of an explosion came from somewhere far off. A roller coaster car rumbled overhead. None of that mattered.

Weaver thrust his arms into the air, and the light bulb burst into life, its filament the color of fire. "Laaaaaaadies and gentlemen!"

Time to grow up.