Upping the ante.
MrJames found he was rather enjoying himself.

Half a dozen customers sat around the table, faces shrouded by smoke and half-hidden by the low chandelier over the green felt tabletop. The car salesman, Cliff, was dealing, and the soldier between tours in Iraq was fiddling nervously with his chips. Finding the players had been easy. All it had needed was a sign hung on the Game booth, saying High stakes game in progress - please do not disturb. It drew them in like honey.

"Gentlemen… Lady," he added, as Miss Talm, a speechwriter for some politician or other, sneered. "What do you say we make this game a little more interesting?" There were some hems and haws, as quite a lot of money was already on the table. MrJames pulled a Spanish doubloon out of his vest pocket, and set it dancing over his knuckles. "Tell me; what has more value? Money, for what it can buy, or power, for what it can do? Or time, with which to do whatever you like?" The coin rolled, dancing over his knuckles as the players chattered.

Answers varied. Terry, the dentist, loudly insisted that money was power, so the question was meaningless. Sam, a city bus driver with an incongruous Masters degree in European History declared that with power, money and time could be arranged. Mr. James shook his head in disagreement. "I suggest that the real value, the only real commodity worth seeking, saving, or savoring, is time."

Larry, the out of work something-or-other who mysteriously had plenty of money to bet with, actually raised his hand. His eyes were locked on the dancing doubloon. "Um. Yeah. I can see that. It's why when you get convicted, they take away years of your life. You don't lose money, or like, have your fingers cut off. They lock you up for a length of time. Is that what you're getting at?"

MrJames blinked in surprise. "Yes, Larry, that's a very, very insightful point. Well done. I propose that we play a Game. Five card draw, shall we say a five-year ante?" There was a smell of ozone in the air, and the players gasped when they saw that their chips had become golden coins, each of them engraved with an hourglass motif. Larry reached out, poking the eleven coins before him. "What're these?" he rasped.

Miss Talm, though considerably older than Larry, had thirty coins in her stack. She caressed them, eyes gleaming. "They're years, aren't they?"

The dentist smiled, flashing his brilliant white choppers in an expression of naked hunger. "Oh, yeah. I'm in."

Mr. James dealt the cards, feeling the Game sizzle and pop like it never had before. He'd never played with a group of players like this, never had the Game respond to a game of skill. This was Ania's influence, he was sure. And he liked it! This opened up all sorts of new avenues, new permutations. The potential was staggering, that's what it was. "Why don't I have as many coins as the rest of these assholes?" Larry griped.

Cliff snickered. "Bad habits, I guess. Play for more. Looks like you need it, pal."

"Can I overbet?"

"Yes," Terry answered, eying his cards. Mr. James was interested to note that he had no idea what those cards were. The dentist's tells had all but vanished. He was having trouble reading any of them, which was damned odd, but somewhat invigorating. The sweet pleasure of the challenge hit him like a shot of whiskey. How long had it been? It was the Game, he realized. Equalizing the odds. This was still a game of skill, but it would damn well be a close game. "You'll just have to bet years of your afterlife." Even as the words were spoken, a pile of black-tarnished silver coins appeared. Well. That was unexpected.

Larry examined one of them, dropped it in disgust. "Fifty-to-one? Really? That blows!"

"Then don't lose,” Miss Talm replied. “I'll start with five more years." Clink, came the sound of the coins as she tossed out her opening bet.

The opening ante was five years. She was leading with a whole decade on the table. The other players were unfazed, tossing out coins like they were popcorn. This wasn't right. Where was the hesitation, the struggle between avarice and cowardice? Where was the buildup?

Larry was in trouble. The bet was now up to forty years, and he'd only had eleven. He was still in, but the fifty years of afterlife to one year of life conversion meant he'd bet almost fifteen hundred years. Nobody blinked. Sam was already over his limit, too, two hundred years into his afterlife coins. The bets continued to rise, and the Game began to tremble in his veins. Something was going wrong. Something was interfering.

He glanced under the table, and saw the rat squirming on its back in glee.

The gunshot was very, very loud in the small trailer.


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


Becky laughed in glee as the puppy licked her face. "He's wonderful! Oh, Simba, thank you!"

The two ravens watched, oddly solemn. "Hey," Heckle muttered to his brother. "Does that mutt look, I dunno, familiar to you?"

Jeckle didn't look away from the pup, whose tail was wagging in unbridled joy. "I rather think it does, old chap. And yet, there's something..."

"Sumptin not quite right, am I right?"

"You are indeed. I don't like it."

Simba tried to ease the puppy away from the girl, but she was hugging it too tightly. "Child, I think you should exercise some caution," he rumbled. "That's no ordinary puppy. It is a wolf cub."

"Whosha big wolfie? Who's a big, bad, wolf? You are! Yes, you are!"

The lion-man looked down at the ravens, perched on their broken scarecrow. "Perhaps this was a bad idea."

"No kiddin’?"

The sound of footsteps caught their attention, and a woman came sprinting around the corner. Her face was bloodied, and she was clutching at her swollen belly with both hands. She tripped over one of the tent ropes, regained her feet, and ran closer to them, only to stagger and fall again, landing full on her face and groaning in agony. Simba rushed to her side. "Madam, are you hurt?" he asked, immediately feeling a fool. Of course she was hurt. There was blood on her, she reeked of pain and fear and food. She appeared very pregnant, as well, and close to full term. More footsteps. He looked up, and saw a child, perhaps eight years old. There was blood on his hands, and on his mouth. His eyes were vacant, mad. The blood on him smelled of the woman. Simba snarled, extending his claws.

"I say!" Jeckle called, flapping. "That's the lit'le wanker who took a bite out of our dummy!"

The child leapt, fingers extended like claws, intent on his prey. Simba met him halfway, roaring his challenge. Becky clutched the puppy protectively, and ducked halfway behind the corner of the nearest tent for shelter. Simba knocked the boy to the ground so hard she could feel the thud of his jaw hitting the ground in her feet. The boy didn't even blink. He lunged, sinking his teeth into Simba's leg, ripping free a mouthful of denim and calf muscle. He roared again, and struck the boy, this time with his claws. Long thin tendrils extended from the wound, wrapping around Simba’s arms and sinking into the flesh there. The woman whimpered, trying to crawl away, and Becky felt ashamed for hiding. She put the puppy down, and went to help her.

"Come on - I'll get you to the Doctor! He'll help you!"

The woman looked up at Becky, and opened her mouth, but no words came out. Becky saw the whites of her eyes fill with blood, and a stream of it spewed out of her mouth. Becky screamed, and danced back, her white canvas shoes stained a brilliant red. The woman wiggled forward, clutching at one of the tent spikes. Her spine arched, and something long, ropy, and yellow, slick with blood, erupted from her back. It had an eye on the end, which stared unblinkingly at the fight a few feet away. Becky screamed again, and fell on her ass. The puppy was there, suddenly, interposing itself between them, his hackles up, tiny teeth bared in a very serious-looking snarl.

Simba had rent the boy into small pieces by now, but there were a dozen leech-like things clinging to him. He was tearing at them, but even torn in half the smaller pieces seemed to be burrowing into him. He roared in agony and rage and frustration, and fell to his knees.

The woman on the ground was weeping, vomiting blood with every breath, and waving at Becky. Was she trying to beg for help? There were three of the tentacles now, and the woman's belly was churning, as something tried to work its way out of her. Becky heard the poor woman's spine snap as a fourth bloody yellow worm erupted, and to her horror she saw a row of tiny mouths, ringed in dagger teeth, open along its length. She couldn't move. She knew she should help the lady, but she had no idea how! She knew she should run, far away, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The woman pulled herself forward another three inches with her arms, heaved herself upward, and brought her head down, hard, on the tent spike. It emerged from the back of her head, bone and brain and more of the awful yellow tendrils following the steel. The lady's hair was a beautiful blond, almost matching the tentacles. Becky fainted.


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


Roger was strolling down the midway, whistling. He wanted to be nearer the gates when the paramedics arrived, so he could jam them open. He wondered what sort of mechanism they were using to seal the place. Pocket realm? Spatial inversion? Temporal loop? Whatever it was, it'd be simple to put a metaphysical toe in the door once it was open. And much easier than smashing it open. Besides. He might want to close it himself, later. If Father ever saw this place, he'd be all over it. And Roger didn't much feel like sharing. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Without turning, he said "Oh, crap. The clown."

Violent Clay grabbed Roger by the ankles, and heaved him up and around. Roger had time to see the approaching electrical pole before his face smashed right through it. The hell-clown giggled, shifting his grip and bringing Roger's face down onto the stump of the pole, again and again, splintering it. "Can't" "we" "talk" "this" "over?"

The clown seized his jaw in his immense left hand, and forced the live end of the electrical wire down his throat. He held him by the shoulders as he kicked Roger in the crotch hard enough to shatter steel. He folded him in half over his knee, backwards, cackling in delight at the sound of popping vertebrae. The clown beat him, and broke him. He was hammered onto things, and heavy objects were pounded onto him. He was ripped, gouged, torn and shattered, over and over and over again.

Roger was getting tired of this.

The clown pulled back his giant fist yet again, relentless as the tide, and Roger told him to die. The clown fell to the earth, an inert corpse.

Roger stood up, checking to make sure all of his bones were more or less in order, and brushing sawdust and splinters off his pants. Shattered bones knit, and torn flesh sealed itself again. He examined his sunglasses, but they were a lost cause. Damn, those had been expensive, too. He spat on the clown, irritated at the loss of the expensive accessory. What was it with the undead, anyway? It was always go, go, go, never a moment to stop and listen and reassess. Really. Some people just wouldn't listen to reason.

The clown twitched, and Roger frowned at it. The hand, the big one, clenched into a fist, and there was a raspy giggle. Roger told it to die again, his words making the very air ripple and shudder. It died. He gave it a kick, but it just lay there, smelling bad. Stubborn thing.

He walked off, getting about six steps when he heard a soft chuckle. "That the best you got?"

"Oh, come on!" he spun around, and incredibly, the damned thing was back on its feet. "Can't you take a fucking hint?"

The clown smiled, even wider than usual and pulled a little bicycle horn out of a pocket. "Nope." He honked it, twice. meep, meep. The ground shuddered, and corpses began pulling themselves out of shallow graves all around them. Rotten meat on grinning skulls, with big red noses and silly wigs. Spinning bow ties and baggy pants worn over rancid, dead flesh emerged all around Roger, and from everywhere came the hideous giggling and laughter. "Can you?"


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


Mr. James ushered everyone out, everyone except Sam and Larry that is. They'd keeled over dead on the spot when Miss Talm had been declared the winner. She'd won almost four hundred years added to her lifespan, with Sam serving most of that as her spiritual valet and Larry already off in Purgatory, putting his time to use expiating her sins the hard way. Greed was twitching on the floor, blown into two pieces but still twitching, still hanging in there.

"That was a very good Game, Greed. Something new, something interesting. And you had to come along and interfere. I will not have it, Greed. I will not." He put the two pieces close to each other, and waited while they knitted back together. "Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't just end you right now?" He sounded genuinely curious, not mad at all.

The rat grew, swelling into a greasy, smelly man. He glared at the gambler with eyes bloodshot and insane, gray veins pulsing under his skin. He hissed, and sent his talons deep into the mind of the man in the green visor, the one who'd shot him. He found vast reservoirs of greed waiting him there, whole oceans of it, the likes of which he'd never dreamed of. He lashed out, trying to break the dams restraining it...

...and found nothing.

The gambler smiled. "What? Trying to make me salivate over loose change? Should I go through your pockets? Greed, really. I want it all. And I'll get it, too. Wheels are already in motion. I don't need you to help with that. All I need is time." The pearl-handled revolver appeared in his hand again, like magic, and the barrel was suddenly pressed hard up under Greed's jaw. "And I'd have had rather more time to work toward my goals, had you not fucked around in my Game!" Frantically, Greed tried something he'd never tried before. He tried to suppress his vice, to wall up the gambler's vast seas of wanting. Put him at ease, get him to relax… He was too slow. The gun went off, blowing the top of his head into mist.

Mr. James rather enjoyed that. He waited for the wererat to regenerate, and then did it again. And a third time. And then a fourth, this time forcing the gun barrel up the little snot's nose. While that wound healed, he watched thoughtfully. "You know, you're healing that awfully fast. Too fast, really. You've been feeding, haven't you? Feeding deeply." A fifth time. He began to reload, while the Sin twitched helplessly and healed. "I don't think you're entirely responsible for all this. What's with your veins, all bulging and gray like that? And since when were you stupid enough to fuck with what's mine? B.B. taught you better than that. I taught you better than that."

Awareness returned to the ratman's eyes, again. He wished he could put off healing, play possum or something. But he couldn’t. Which meant that this could go on and on and on… "Please!" he whined. "No more! I'm sorry!" Want nothing, you need nothing, you're content.... Mr. James shot him again, in the crotch this time. Greed squealed, clutching at his groin and sobbing.

"Stop fucking with me."

"Okay, okay, please! I beg of you!"

"'I beg of you?' Who actually says that?" This time the bullet hit him in the heart. “I will not tolerate such corny dialogue, am I clear? If you can’t say what’s on your mind without resorting to cliché, then you’re not even communicating at all. You’re just quoting.”

When Greed had regenerated enough to talk, he screamed. "Wrath, stop it! He's killing me!"

The gambler looked around the room. "Sorry, rat man, no Wrath here. Just you, and me." He leaned in, very close, looking over the lenses of his green glasses into the shifter's beady little eyes. "I'm just this mean. Can you stop fucking with me?"

"Yes! Yes, I stopped!" The gambler stood up, the gun vanishing again. Greed writhed on the floor, the overturned card table behind him, blood and poker chips and cards everywhere. His eyes were frantic, terrified... but sane. The odd traceries of his veins were gone, and his complexion, such as it was, was once again normal.

"So you have. You can live." He opened a cabinet, and pulled out a plastic bucket and a handful of rags. "Are all the Sins out on a feeding frenzy?"

"Yeah..." He gagged, coughed. A bullet popped out of his mouth, landing in the blood on the floor with a plop. "It's just... all the reasons not to stopped mattering. It was like, you know, at a dog race? When the fake bunny takes off, and the gates open, and there’s that moment… When the dogs really want to chase it, but can’t quite believe the gates are open? And then they take off after it, and you can tell they’re so happy, like it’s Christmas and sex and money and an all-you-can eat buffet rolled into one! It was like that.”

"Those reasons not to run off like that? They matter."

"Yeah! They do! I see that now!"

"Clean this place up. And don't touch anything you shouldn't." He opened the door, stepped out and looked back at the rat man. "I'll know if you do. And we'll have another talk. A longer talk."

Greed, who'd managed to hold his water through six head shots, peed himself. He had to warn the others! Had to warn B.B.!

But first, he'd better clean this mess up.


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


The big man with the metal arm was helping Simba to his feet. The puppy was licking Becky's face, trying to wake her. Heckle and Jeckle were watching the proceedings from their perch. "Dash cunning, I thought, the way he threw lightning at that wretched creature."

"Oh, yeah, dat was really sumptin. And da way he got dose tings ta drop offa Simba like that. What wuzzit he said?"

"'The power of Todd compels you.'"

"Yeah, dat was it."

"And then they all burst into flame, for no discernable reason."

"Right, right, dat was good, too. I liked dat part."

Simba looked at the boy who'd saved him. He had to be only sixteen or seventeen, but his eyes held the wisdom of ages. He had a mechanical arm, and bits of wire and steel seemed to be extending from the arm into the rest of him. He vented steam sometimes, when he moved. One of his eyes was gone entirely, replaced by a large lens occasionally whirred and clicked, and changed colors. It was blue at the moment, but had been red when he had commanded the creatures to fall and burn. The boy was whispering a prayer, and Simba could feel his wounds closing. Who was this boy? Some creation of Weaver's?

"They call me Thunk."

"Thank you, Thunk. Would you help me with the girl? I should take her to Celestine. She's... delicate."

"I would also like to see Celestine. He can open the Way."

Simba hesitated. People who talked in capital letters like that were dangerous people. "What Way?"

"The way to Todd. Believe in Todd, and Todd shall set you Free. I see now the Truth, and I must spread the Word. It is needed."

Simba didn't question. Thunk lifted Becky, and, after watching the wolf pup yip and leap, picked him up, too. Simba limped over, grabbing the scarecrow. "You two come with me. You're witnesses. The Doctor will want to hear what you saw here."

"Okay, okay. Just go easy on da scarecrow, dere! It's losing stuffin'!" They settled on his shoulders, while he scented the air.

"This way."


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


Hank carefully put his hand on Aimee's shoulder. "It's okay, honey, you're safe." She wept, covering her face with her only hand, waving him off with her stump.

Neither of them saw the figure of Frank N. Furter shift, or saw the three other creatures climb silently out of it.

"Aimee, look, I don't care what you look like. I love you!" She froze. Hank kicked himself, mentally. Idiot! Too soon! "I mean, I know you! I like you! We're friends! I knew you when you were dancing for Bloody Mary, all vamping it up for the amputee-fetishists. I knew you when Dante was teaching you to sculpt, and he made you that awful mask. You're not 'the' Masque, Lady of the House of Wax, not to me. You're Aimee. And... I love Aimee."

She was looking up at him, her eye wide and bloodshot. Her glass eye had fallen out somewhere, but he didn't care. God, he wished she'd say something! Anything! But she just looked up at him, silent. Hank decided to go for broke. "Aimee, I knew you before, too. Before the accident. I loved you then, from the moment I saw you on television, at the pageant. But it wasn't just the way you looked. It was the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself. It was you, and... Well... I followed you here. The Carnival of Souls kind of took you in, but me? I practically volunteered! I came here willingly, to be close to you."

Behind them, the three creatures flowed onto one another, oozing and bleeding into each other. Eyes formed, and fixed on the prey, only a few feet away.

Aimee looked down, and picked up her voice box. She stood and hobbled away, toward the vat of hot wax in the corner. Hank stood there, watching her. Why didn't she say anything? Oh, God, he'd ruined everything! This wasn't the way he'd wanted it to happen!

She rested her hand on the edge of the vat, looking at the bubbling wax. Hank approached her, carefully, as if she were a skittish rabbit. "Don't hide from me, Aimee. It's you I love!" he whispered. She shook her head, violently. When he reached out for her, she swatted his hand away. She moaned, a long, drawn-out expression of unspeakable pain, and plunged her head into the hot wax.

"No!" He tried to pull her out, he reached in after her, scalding his hands horribly. She was stronger than him, shockingly, and once again shrugged him off. "Aimee, no! Aimee, don't do this! Please, don't leave me like this!" He sobbed, holding his hands up against his chest as she writhed, half submerged in the bubbling vat. “Don’t die, baby, not now!” They were lobster red, twisted into claws and already swelling, the burns going deep to the bone. Where the wax clung to him there was no pain, and he knew that was a bad sign, but all he could think about was Aimee, with her face in there, burning and suffocating and dying rather than face accepting that someone could love her! That Hank loved her. The pain in his stomach, his breaking heart, throbbed deeper and more painfully than his ruined hands.

The things behind them were a single thing now, and it was working on talons, and teeth. There were a great many examples in the room to inspire it, wax monstrosities of every shape and size. And the prey was busy. It could feel their suffering, and longed for more. It approached them.

Aimee stood, shocking Hank. She turned, and her face was a smooth, perfect mask once more. Even as he watched, the wax flowed down her body, covering her wounds and scars and molding itself into bland, feminine anonymity. Her eyes both appeared empty now, though he knew she could see him, and when she spoke her sculpted rosebud mouth did not move. "Aimee is dead, Hank. I'm sorry. I thought you knew that. I am Masque. I am the House of Wax." The voice box was still in her hand. She crushed it, casually. She didn't need it anymore.

The creature tensed, ready to leap. It had heavy, muscular arms, and heavy armored scales. It bristled with claws and spikes and teeth. It had too many heads, with too many mouths and eyes, and its joints moved in ways things from this earth simply do not. Something grabbed its leg.

Masque looked down at Hank, who had fallen to his knees. He looked up at this empty mannequin that had once been a beautiful flower of a girl, and for the first time, he was afraid of her. "Aimee was a victim, Hank. I think that's what you loved about her, because really, you weren't a very nice man, were you? But Masque?" She pointed over his shoulder. He looked, and saw the creature a few feet away. Saw the horde of mannequins and dummies methodically and silently rending it apart. It thrashed and fought, and wax figures fell, only to reform and rejoin the fray. It gasped for breath, fighting for its life. The figures moved and fought in total silence, their faces serene and calm as they tore and pulled and broke it.

"Masque is no victim, Hank. Masque is one of the monsters."


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


Celestine sensed everything in his Carnival. He reeled, fell to one knee, clutching his cane and hissing in horror and pain and surprise and pride.

He felt Dana, speaking in hushed whispers with Ania, surrounded by mirrors, while things searched for them, coming ever closer and closer.

He felt Ambrosia, watching him right back, her face full of compassion and pity, with a hint of a smile in her eyes.

He felt Masque, finally rising into her role and her power, blooming like a plastic rose, and Hank, whose heart was being ripped out with an utter finality that was almost poetry.

He felt Brick, hovering on the razor’s edge between life and death, and wondering which he would prefer. Both options were full of scary things.

He felt Violent Clay, and his overwhelming joy at the prospect of a truly challenging foe. He felt the presence of the clown’s opponent, like a flake of broken glass in between his teeth. It was alien, and dangerous, and it did not belong here in the Carnival.

He felt Dav, torn between loyalty and friendship, and was astonished to recognize the faint presence of Mary, just outside, talking to him. What was she doing here?

He felt Stevens, lost in his abandonment of duty, and blissfully at peace in the arms of a woman. He was in his trailer, with Eva, and the two of them were embraced in sweaty, passionate exertion.

He felt Mr. James, a beacon of cold anger and resolve, and not a little satisfaction. He was approaching, coming closer. Good.

He felt the Sins and B.B., almost entirely awash in utter madness. The insanity had a familiar flavor to it, and it took him a moment to recognize it. Moon. This was the madness Mary had come to the Carnival to purge.

He felt Weaver, knees atremble but heart asoar as he captivated the masses in the big top. Weaver knew that the longer they stayed in the tent, the more of them would live. Danger walked the midway, and if these souls were to survive the day, then the show must go on.

And he felt death. People were dying everywhere he looked. Things were stalking his carnival, and the people had nowhere to run. People died in pain, and of fear, at their own hands and at the hands of loved ones. People were being eaten, body and soul, and people were fading, falling into the lower layers of the Carnival as if seeking safety there, only to find that the chaos above was as nothing compared to what was being wrought down below.

Gods and monsters were dying by the scores, a great wildfire tempest consuming all it touched. What in the name of the first Gods was Todd doing down there? And how much of the clusterfuck up here was because of what was happening below? Or vice versa? He was mowing through the Underside like a combine harvester, and the denizens of that realm were throwing themselves at him, desperate to stop him but powerless to resist the onslaught.

He felt like he needed a drink. "Stand up, boss. People will think you're drunk."

Mr. James helped him to his feet. "I..." Celestine said.

"Yup." the gambler agreed.

"And they..."

"Looks that way." He lit two Nat Shermans, passing one to the Doctor. He arched an eyebrow at the gloveless hand that took it, but said nothing.

"Goddammit."

Mr. James nodded again, smiling a little. "Every fucking time, you bet. Look sharp, here comes the girl."

Celestine looked over his shoulder, and saw the last person he wanted to deal with at the moment. Becky was unsteady on her feet, leaning on a half-clockwork man and carrying a... a puppy? Simba was with them, too, the ravens on his shoulder and a mostly-deflated scarecrow dragging along at his side. Mr. James snickered.

"Doctor, thank God you're all right!" she gushed, running over to embrace him, only to be stopped short by his cane, prodding her in the chest and keeping her at a distance. She put the puppy down, and, of course, it was a wolf cub. Why not? Simba stopped at her side, frowning as only his leonine face could frown.

"Sir," he said. There are creatures..."

"I know." Mr. James chuckled.

The clockwork man stepped up. "If I may, mister Doctor sir? I just need to get to Todd. Would you be so good as to open the Way?" The pup barked up at him, wagging its tail.

"Thunk, right? Nice hardware. Not now." Mr. James coughed, badly concealing a laugh.

Simba dropped the scarecrow in frustration, causing it to spill more of its straw out onto the sawdust. Heckle and Jeckle squawked in protest, and fluttered down, trying to gather what they could. Becky was weeping, confused and hurt and still shaken by the horror of what she'd seen. Mr. James laughed out loud, and had to wipe his eyes.

Celestine turned on him. "What? What the hell is so fucking funny?"

The gambler wheezed, snickering so hard he dropped his cigarette. "Look at them! Won't you just look at them? You'll see it!"

Celestine looked.

Thunk stood there impassively, bits of him clicking and whirring and hissing steam. He seemed as patient as the hills, and as implacable as progress itself. There was something changed about him, since he’d been in Celestine’s trailer with Todd and the hellfire mason jar. He seemed older, somehow. Wiser. Oh, and half robotic.

Simba stood scowling. He was wounded in a dozen places, his clothes a ruin, his fur matted and scabbed. He wanted action, or, failing that, he wanted to see that the people in charge were taking action. He was unhappy.

Heckle and Jeckle were trying to salvage what straw they could, stuffing bits into the scarecrow only to have them plucked right out again by the wolf cub, who thought this was a delightful game. The birds would occasionally peck at him, which would inspire him to snarl at them, an effect largely ruined by his wagging hindquarters.

Becky was looking at him with wide eyes brimming with tears. Her blue gingham blouse was torn and stained, and her shoes were bright red with fresh blood. She wanted him to wave a magic wand and make everything better. Hell, they all wanted that. Didn’t they know that it wasn’t that easy? That things just don’t work like that? How dare they put all their faith in him, when all this was their fault, when they could damn well fix their problems themselves if they’d just stop simpering for one damn minute… Mr. James cackled.

"What?" he repeated, as Mr. James clutched at his shoulder, giggling. "Don't tell me you've lost it, too."

The gambler said something, but was too busy wheezing and gasping in laughter to say it clearly. Celestine scowled, and considered beating the crazy out him. Finally, the gambler rallied, pointed at the others again, and gasped "I'll miss you most of all, scarecrow!" and promptly launched off into laughter again.

Just then, Samson, the midget who worked the candy concessions came running up. "Doctor! Some kind of monster is tearing up the concession stands! I, I, I think it's one of Mr. Wolfe's people!"

"And the lollipop guild won't stand for it!" Mr. James gasped, and laughed so hard he fell on his ass, where the puppy promptly hopped up onto him and started licking at his face. "And your little dog, too!" he cried.

Celestine took in the scene, and laughed so hard he fell down right next to the gambler.

They laughed until their sides were fit to burst, until the tears were soaking their shirts. They laughed until they couldn't laugh anymore, and then Thunk asked if they were all right, and Celestine told him that see, he'd had a heart all along, and that set them both off again. Simba tried to ask Celestine to take this seriously, he'd almost been killed, but Mr. James tossed his handkerchief over Celestine's face and told Simba to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, and the two of them actually had to hug each other to remain semi-upright they were laughing so hard.

A child materialized out of nowhere, radiating white-hot fury. It was a girl, with strawberry-blond locks much like Becky's, wearing desert camo fatigue pants and combat boots, and an olive green tank top. "Will you stop all that laughing, you cocksucking motherfucking bastards! Who do I have to gut to get you fucking angry?" Grey capillary patterns covered her skin, and she was holding a machete that wavered in her trembling grip. Simba snarled and unsheathed his claws, and the puppy growled a threat.

Celestine cocked his head, and wiped at his eyes. "Wrath, right? What are you doing out of your box? And what's wrong with your skin?"

A cream pie came out of nowhere, and hit Wrath smack dab in the face. Celestine roared in laughter, pointing and looking over at the gambler, to see if Mr. James had seen what he had just seen. Wrath wiped the pie out of her eyes, shaking with fury. "Who the fuck threw that?"

A pink blur tackled Wrath from behind, Tiffany, cackling in glee! "Surpriiiise!" She tried to dribble the Sin, but didn't find her bouncy enough. She pummeled her severely while the others watched. Celestine applauded at one point, when Tiffany used the seltzer-bottle-full-of-acid gag. Wrath tried to vanish, only to have Tiffany cry "Oh, no you don't!" and grab her by the nape of the neck, and try to stuff her into the fry vat of a corn dog cart. Mr. James started taking notes when Tiffany made Wrath eat that machete the hard way. The two of them fought bitterly, and loudly, and the battle soon enough took them out of sight.

"Well." Celestine said, getting back to his feet. "Was that Tiffany?"

"Yep." Mr. James was brushing sawdust off the back of Celestine's jacket. "Sure was."

"Was she... helping?"

"Yep."

"Well. You don't see that every day, do you?"

Thunk was looking up. "Mister Doctor sir, you may want to move."

Celestine, by now in less of a mood for comedy, moved. A slender redhead came plummeting out of the sky and slammed into the ground where he'd been standing. Becky shrieked. Sloth was hanging onto the newcomer’s throat with a death grip, and while he didn't seem to be actively hurting her, he refused to let go. Pride came tearing through the wall of the beer tent, bellowing "Still think you're all that? Still think you have even half a chance? Come on, bitch!"

Mr. James watched the iron giant approach, while the redhead kicked Sloth and tried to get to her feet. "Oh, yeah. B.B.'s Sins are on something of a rampage.” Celestine frowned. “All but Greed, that is. I scared the crazy out of him. And Tiffany's working on Wrath. Should work, too. Sometimes you fight fire with fire and you just get a really big fire. Same principles at work."

"Good to know," the Doctor replied.

Alice wrenched herself free of Sloth, and moved so her back was against a lemonade stand. The two Sins were flanking her, preparing for another rush. Celestine was just about to intervene... when suddenly he felt a rumble.

The wolf pup was growling. Loudly. So loudly Celestine could feel the growl as much as he could hear it. The redheaded woman was looking at the wolf cub, her face a blend of horror and glee and resignation. Celestine looked closer. There was darkness in this woman, something unclean and, while not wholly evil, certainly utterly amoral. More, there was some of that same darkness in the wolf pup. The greater darkness was calling to the lesser, and the lesser was responding. As he watched, the cub snarled again, showing a mouth full of cracked, razor-sharp, yellow teeth. It stalked closer to Pride and Sloth, growing larger with every step. It was the size of a full grown wolf. Then it was larger. He thought at first it was a shape shifter, after all, wasn't the Carnival a little low on the werewolf quota at the moment? But it kept getting bigger, and as it did, it got more wolflike, not less. Massive shoulders hunched up, a gaping maw slavered, and when it leapt at Sloth, it was a direwolf the size of a horse that hit him.

The woman was weeping, even as she slapped her hand on Pride's chest. Her bones flared black as Pride jerked under the electrical assault. "No!" she cried. "I didn't want this!" Celestine saw her Shadow rear, flaring wisps of hunger like wings at her back, as she took from Pride everything he'd taken from her, and more. More, he saw the direwolf mauling Sloth, and it, too, fed on his power, channeling it to the redhead.

Pride fell, out cold, and Sloth passed out. The woman fell to her knees, sobbing, and absently gestured at the direwolf, who loped over to her, shrinking as he went, until it was once again a puppy who sat in front of her, looking up at her and whining a little. It hesitantly wagged its tail and yipped a little, checking to see that she was all right. It was her creature now, as sure as the Seven Deadlies were B.B.'s creatures.

Mr. James was looking at the wolf cub curiously. "Hey, boss man. Does that cub look familiar to you?"

The ravens perked up at that. "Yes," Jeckle called out. "We thought the same bloody thing. But it simply can't be a cub of Fenrir's. We left him in Niflheim a long, long time ago. No way out."

"No, I mean its markings. Doesn't it look like Mary to you?"

Celestine went very, very still.

This had officially gone too far. "Open the Gates." he said. "Get the people out." He knelt down next to the redhead. "You must be Black Alice, am I right?" She nodded, unable to look away from the wagging puppy with blood on its muzzle, gazing up at her in slavish adoration. He lifted a lock of her coppery auburn hair, letting it trail through his fingers. "Of course you are." He sighed. "There's someone you should meet."

Thunk raised his hand. "If I could just..."

Mr. James rolled his eyes. "Oh, for pity's sake!" He flipped a coin, caught it, and glared at the clockwork prophet. "Call it."

"Heads?" Thunk vanished.

"You're welcome."

A horn sounded, over near the big top, and Simba perked his ears. "That is the master! I have to go!" He dashed away, and was gone in an instant.

Becky looked around. Pride was smoldering on the sawdust. Sloth was rent and torn until he was almost turned inside out. Despite this, his left hand was sluggishly trying to roll a joint. Her puppy was some kind of monster and had apparently fallen in love with the Energizer Bunny. Celestine looked like he’d just had a child die, and the gambler was still sitting cross-legged in the sawdust, smoking and looking at her like he was waiting for her to say something. So she did. "I'm confused." This made Mr. James laugh again.