Path: usenet.ins.cwru.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!psuvax1!news.pop.psu.edu!news.cac.psu.edu !howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!sgiblab!sgigate.sgi.com!olivea!charnel.ecst.cs uchico.edu!news.xmission.com!xmission.xmission.com!not-for-mail From: kralk@bloody.nowhere.com Newsgroups: alt.devilbunnies Subject: Story: Calliope music Followup-To: alt.devilbunnies Date: 6 Mar 1995 13:48:16 -0700 Organization: DevilBunnies News<->Mail Gateway Lines: 157 Sender: snowhare@xmission.xmission.com Message-ID: <3jfseg$fvo@xmission.xmission.com> Reply-To: kralk@bloody.nowhere.com NNTP-Posting-Host: xmission.xmission.com Part 1 ------ Kralk hated driving. The strain of constantly being linked to his human form was bad enough; worse was the extra attention required for the demanding task of piloting an automobile. His bunny brain pounded with a migraine from the effort of negotiating the snow-covered country road. The equipment--devices Teral could not possibly obtain by theft from Case Western--had been hastily stowed away in the back seat. The constant shifting of the load nearly sent the car into a fishtail. The doctor had the puppet lift its foot off the gas pedal. The weatherbeaten brown Olds crunched to a stop on the shoulder. Rolling down the window, Kralk breathed in the crisp winter air. The cold numbed his headache somewhat, and-- He hopped into his puppet's lap, sniffing at the draught from the open window. There was just the faintest trace of sweetness threaded through the medley of country air and exhaust fumes. Just this side of cloying. Maddenly familiar. Summers at the fair, he realized. In his youth, his father had often taken him into the village for fair days. There was always a balloon man, who would give him a brightly colored one for a smile and a ha'penny. A ferris wheel and a few rickety rides erected in a muddy field. And stalls which would happily dispense rock candy, toffees...and sweet cotton candy. Kralk climbed into the greatcoat the puppet wore. The robust smell of the garment obscured the odor, but failed to conceal it. Linking once again, he steered his human form across a field of stubble. The scent of cotton candy drifted over a low ridge a hundred yards ahead. Kralk increased his pace, stumbling through snow drifts. The ice-covered ridge was murder to climb, but he managed it. To find himself staring at a big-top circus tent, strung with lights. ******* "So, you're wintering here, I take it." Kralk spoke through his puppet to the circus owner. The gaunt, hunched old man had come across him peering at row of empty animal cages. "Yep. Rented the land in August from a farmer a mile down the road. We keeps the tent up for country auctions--helps pay the way during the slow months." The owner hocked phlegm into a faded handkerchief. Deep within the coat pocket, Kralk sneered. At close quarters, the enchantment of the circus tent dissolved into threadbare reality. The canvas was torn; the guy ropes frayed. It had seen too many hard years, too many lean days. This walking testament to failure mirrored that plight. "I've always enjoyed carnivals. Reminds me of my mispent youth." Kralk sighed as his companion merely favored him a dumb gaze. This was a welcome break, but he had a schedule to keep. No time for-- "Don't get too many visitors these days." The owner's surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder stayed Kralk. "Be honored if you'd join the wife 'n me for some supper." A rumble from his puppet's stomach reminded Kralk he had to "eat for two". Literally. "Why, thank you. The honor is all mine." ****** The owner and his wife resided in a trailer behind the big-top. The accomodations lived up--or rather, down--to Kralk's expectations. The dominant decorating motif was Greasy Linoleum, enhanced by Stained Carpet Plush on select points. A gasoline-powered electric generator, supplying power to both the trailer and the tent, chugged outside. The green dining table was tiny, forcing him to wedge his human body into a niche. He had to admit the food was good, though. The wife, a hard-faced drudge with even more grey in her hair than her husband, produced miracles from the small kitchenette she had to work with. The stew was thick with vegetables, if not meat; Kralk himself nibbled at a boiled carrot he had slipped into the pocket. "So where you headin'?" Clarence, the owner, asked. "Oh, Case Western. University. I'm a...professor there," he replied. "Told ya, Clarence. He talks like an educated man. Me 'n Clar, never made it past high school." "Pshaw. I never would have guessed." Clarence's spouse gave him a sharp look. Kralk resolved to be more cautious; she, at least, was savvy enough to catch on to the irony. "Pays well, I reckon," Clarence speculated. Kralk had his puppet do a dismissive shrug. "Not *that* well. Tenure is all well and good, but"--what did I say I taught? Oh, right--"history professors are not quite at the top of the pay scale just now." "Bet you do a good sight bettern' us. Beryl's been doin' good 'nough, but we're havin' trouble makin' ends meet." Oh, wonderful. Setting me up for the proverbial touch. I should have guessed. Kralk cast about for a suitable response. He was saved by the rush of snow which whirled through the trailer. A young girl stood stamping dirty snow off her boots. Dark-blond hair escaped from under a longshoreman's cap two sizes large for her. Grey eyes darted about the dimly lit space; her features were pinched, and not just from the cold. "Dammit, close the door! Sorry, Mr. Kralk--our Robin's a bit careless that way." Beryl's jaw was clenched in anger. Kralk chuckled--the daughter's entrance had interrupted the smooth pitch the couple had tried to inflict on him. Robin finished taking off her jacket as Beryl berated her for cutting in on "adult business". Under a baggy sweater, her frame was painfully thin. Teenage gawkiness could not account for such skinniness. He suspected her portion of stew would be a mite thinner than her parents'. Time to leave this sordid mess, he thought. White-trash melodrama was all well and good, but the attraction paled after a while. "Have time for a drink 'fore ya hit the road?" Clarence proferred a pair of jelly glasses. In his other hand he held up an open beer bottle. Kralk's sinuses were singed by the reek of homemade liquor wafting from its neck. He tried to push past the owner; the man kept blocking the only exit from the trailer. Rolling his eyes, he accepted a shot of the stuff. If only to get out of-- Kralk's senses reeled. He swiftly broke the link to his puppet. He leaped out the greatcoat as his human body toppled over. By the seven hells, the bastard slipped me a Mickey! Kralk huddled into a dark corner as Beryl and Clarence riffled through his pockets. They made disgusted noises when they found the few bills he kept on his person. "Shit, the bastard wasn't kiddin' 'bout his salary. Sonawhore doesn't have 'nough on him to keep the generator runnin' two days." Clarence wound up and kicked "Kralk" in the belly. "Shaddup and get 'im to the hole. His car'll bring a few hundred, and that stuff you spotted in the rear we can unload for scrap." Beryl pulled out a spade from under the sink. Clarence shouldered the puppet's unconscious form in a fireman's carry. They disappeared into the night. Behind them, Kralk raged. He was miles from UCirc, with no way of contacting Teral. If those two sodding grifters caught sight of him, he'd face little better fate than to become an ingredient in the belle Beryl's roadside cuisine. He was as good as-- Wait. Hole? From outside came a sharp, meaty *thwack*. The sound, say of a shovel crushing a human skull. Kralk screamed as the fires of hell ripped through his brain. TBC!