Dice Goes to the Circus

My name is Dice, and I’m having a real bad day.

The cops fuckin’ busted me, although I suppose I should be grateful. If they hadn’t, I’d be dead right now. Dead in a real bad way. Dead like my former boss.

I’m sitting in the interrogation room. Looks just like a movie. Metal table, blank cinderblock walls, obvious two-way window. The officers got me a cup of tap water. I asked for bottled water.

I’m still in the clothes I was wearing when it all happened. I’m covered in blood and I smell like a dead pig.

There’s two officers standing in front of me, a big one and a little one. The bigger one’s looking at me all sympathetic-like. He’s the one that brought me the water and sat me down and acted like he cares about my feelings. The littler one’s standing in the corner, looking at me like he’s gonna beat my ass. I’d like to see him try it, the skinny little shit.

So it’s the classic scenario — good cop, bad cop. It seems like they might be better off if they reversed their roles, but hell if I’m gonna tell them that. They do this because it works on most people. It doesn’t work on me.

“So tell the story,” says the little one. “All of it.”

Normally this is the part where I clam up until my lawyer is here, but I got nothing to lose.

I take a sip of my water, look the skinny fuck in the eye and start talking. I tell them a lot of what I’m about to tell you, but not all of it. You’ll see why.

It goes like this, see?

I’ve had my own business for a few years. Got a little office behind my buddy Vinnie’s barber shop on the lower east side, right? It’s a few blocks away from the river, just off Jefferson. Total shithole neighborhood but nobody bothers me as long as I’m out of there by seven or eight every evening. I got some brothers from down the street keeping an eye on the place when I’m not there and in return I keep their little weed operation funded. People keep telling me to move out to the suburbs and I probably will eventually, but for now I’m doing fine. The cops in the city are easier to grease than the ones in the suburbs, anyway.

Vinnie gets some of the money when he needs it, I keep the office no charge, and there’s no problems. Smooth little operation. Never go too big or too crazy. Good place for business. I got a desk and a laptop and some plants and books. I live out in Bloomfield Hills, so I’m not shitting where I eat.

A couple of days ago I’m just sitting there minding my business, checking over the books, deadlines and what not. Updating, balancing, you know. It’s a pretty nice day and I’m thinking about going down to Buscemi’s for a grinder.

But then, I get a visitor. I’m not expecting one. I hate getting visitors when I’m not expecting them.

It’s Clem Lawley, from Sal MacGuff’s place.

Vinnie sticks his head in the door and tells me about it.

“Sorry, Dice, I know you got no appointments today but he knew the password.”

Clem walks in and I shake his hand. Clem’s all right, kind of of a meathead but all right. He’s one of Sal’s muscle boys. His left hand man, in fact.

Sal always sends his guys over to talk. He never uses the phone or the Internet for anything, and I mean anything. Convinced the NSA is watching every last pixel and electronic blip there is. It’s a little extreme but he’s not wrong.

Clem has a seat and we do the usual ‘how you been’ bullshit. He seems on edge. Keeps looking everywhere. Jittery. Not like him. I can tell he’s about to ask me for something he’d rather not ask me for.

I cut to the chase.

“So why you here, Clem?”

“It’s an urgent thing, Dice,” he tells me. “I didn’t want to bring you into it — “

“I understand. What’s MacGuffie need?”

“He needs you, man. Told me to come get you, bring you back to the club. Something happened, and you’re not gonna fuckin believe it.”

“What happened?”

“Sal wants to tell you himself. I’m just here to bring you over.”

Sal MacGuff is an old friend of mine. Or was. He’s older than me, we met through a mutual acquaintance back in the day. I ran some jobs for him when I first moved to Detroit, we got a good report going on and once I was on my feet we did some business together. I owe my start to him, really. He married this nice blonde named Carla. Good couple. Like an aunt and uncle to me, almost, even though Carla’s probably only a few years older than I am.

Sal owns a couple of strip clubs — The Cat’s Meow on Woodward in Midtown, The Crotch Rocket on 8 Mile in Warren and Wings Royale out in Inkster on Michigan Avenue. Clem tells me Sal’s holed up out at Wings, which right away I can tell is weird cause Sal doesn’t usually leave the city, either.

“You need me, like, now?”

“I got the car outside,” says Clem. “Sal says he’ll pay you back for whatever time or money you lose for helping him out, but he needs you now.”

Clem’s nervous attitude and the way he’s talking about Sal gets me kind of confused. Sal is a really chill guy. He can afford to be. Nobody fucks with him.

I decide to move this along.

“Yeah, man, let’s go see him.”

So Clem takes me out to Inkster. It’s about a half-hour, forty minute drive. When we get there it’s just after lunch and the place isn’t even open yet. No one’s there but us. Showroom’s lit up but no music playing.

Clem takes me to Sal’s office upstairs. Before I go in, he tells me, “Take it easy in there, man. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Right,” I say. I’m still wondering what the hell is going on. Clem refused to tell me anything on the way over, reiterating that Sal wanted to tell me himself.

Sal’s office is dark and relatively organized. He’s got the shades down and the sun’s coming through in these slices of light that makes the room look like it’s got old fashioned prison bars on the window. Sal’s got his head down on the desk and I see a .44 in his hand. I approach carefully.

I step outta the way of the gun and say, “Sal, it’s Dice.”

Sal jerks his head up. Clem’s right. He looks terrible. His eyes are all puffy, hair’s falling all over the place, he fucking stinks like he hasn’t showered in days, looks like he hasn’t slept in days, either.

“Dice,” he says, and he smiles at me and it’s like someone smiling at their mother’s funeral. “Good to see you. I knew you’d come. I really fucking need your help, man.”

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Clem tells me some shit went down.”

“Someone’s fucking with me in a big way, Dice, but it’s nothing you’d expect. Have a seat.”

I do.

“Did Clem say anything?” Sal asks. He lights up a cigarette.

“Just that something happened and you wanted to tell me yourself.”

Sal nodded, inhaling.

“Last Saturday. Gonna sound crazy, but here it is.”

He exhales a cloud of smoke. I fucking hate cigarettes. I want to just hear what the fuck is going on and what he wants.

“You remember that kid Shorty?”

“No.”

“He was one of our examples.”

Our examples. The hits we’d made to get the word out — whenever you start a business, you gotta have examples. Let everyone know that anyone who fucks with you won’t get away with it.

“Which one was he?”

“There weren’t a lot, Dice,” Sal snaps. Clem was right — this isn’t like him. “What, you forget fucking everything that happened between us?”

“No, Sal, just can’t remember which one he was,” I say. “One, two or three?”

“Fucking three, the last one.”

“Oh, yeah, I do remember him. What about him?”

When I worked for Sal, we only did in three guys. That’s all it took.

We went elaborate and slow, focused on the pain. Made them feel it. Made them know. These days, with the terrorists and the cartels and everything else, people are pretty hard to shock. Putting a cap in someone is as common as smacking them.

Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a sociopath. I don’t get a boner off of watching someone bleed. But I did what I was told, cause that’s business.

Out of the three we did, Shorty got it the worst.

He was a naive tweeker kid who was buying some blow off Sal and had apparently somehow broke into the storeroom at Wings one night after getting the keys off one of the girls (how he did that no one’s been able to figure). He strangled the girl and made off with a good half a million in goods — heroin, coke, and weed.

From the looks of him you could tell he came from money, family of enablers, that whole deal. But Lord knew why he bothered to try and pinch that much off Sal. We had no choice but to put him on the evening news.

Sal was livid, more about the goods than the girl, who was a dippy bitch anyway. He sent me after him. The kid (he couldn’t have been more than twenty) didn’t get far. I caught him in a motel outside South Bend surrounded by the stuff, blazed out of his mind. He could barely talk when I got him in the car and didn’t wake up the whole drive back. I didn’t even have to knock him out. I got most of the stuff back, too. The stuff that he hadn’t used already anyway.

Come to think of it, I don’t even remember his real name. Sal and I just called him Shorty. He was short, dark-haired, kind of paunchy, doughy. He sat at the bar and drank a lot of pixies and a lot of Blue Moon. He liked to do these cute little magic tricks for the girls — cards, pulling a dollar out from their asscrack, stuff like that.

We didn’t know where he’d come from or what he was about. He’d just shown up one day, knew the right questions to ask, wanted some blow. He started showing up at Wings on the regular, once a week or so, and he always had money. Neither of us expected him to be anything other than another fucked-up customer looking to numb his brain a little.

So he had to be dealt with. It had been awhile since the second example and we hadn’t had any real problems since. If we let this go, especially with a two-bit weirdo burnout like Shorty, word would get out. This would have to be done tenfold. Sal already knew what he wanted to do.

We brought Shorty to The Janitor Room. It’s the room we did the other two guys in. It’s in the basement of one of Sal’s warehouses. It’s basically a walk in closet with the shelves taken out.

We put him down on the table we got in there. There was a tarp laid across it. We tied his arms and legs and head down.

Sal brought an ax with him. He handed it to me and said, “Come get me when he wakes up.”

I sat in a chair in the corner and waited. I listened to Shorty breath what would be his last breaths. He was kind of snoring, making these “snuck” noises when he inhaled.

It was kind of dim in there, just old fluorescent lights flickering, half of the tubes burned out. It stank of fear and death. I didn’t like it. No windows, one door.

There was a boom box plugged into an extension cord that ran under the door. There was also a camera that Sal set up in the corner. We sent copies of the vid to the appropriate outlets. Everyone got the message.

The last two examples were the same. Sal would tie down the fuck-up, get his tools, turn the camera on and start blasting this music out of the boombox. There’s only one CD in it, a Nickelback CD. Sal blasts it. Really fucking loud. Generic alternative rock from the turn of the millennium. Really whitebread.

The first guy was just a local nobody who’d tried to cheat the girls out of a few dances and then was enough of a moron to come back. We just socked him in the balls a few times. We let him live, sent him packing to the hospital. He never came back.

But lo and behold, something else happened not three months later — one of Sal’s rivals was trying to gain access to the storeroom, had some of his guys sniffing around the club. I kept telling Sal to move the storeroom, but he’s got so many of them and he wants to keep at least one stash in a place he’s at somewhat frequently. Whether the guy was looking to steal from Sal or just find out how he did business so he could undercut him, we never bothered finding out. We stuck icepicks through his ears, twisted off some fingernails, pulled teeth and toes. Sal had me cut his throat after about four hours of fun. I did all of it without complaint. I was on autopilot. It’s amazing what you can convince yourself when you believe some assholes just need to be shot.

I was psyched after we’d sent those files out. I figured that’d be the last time we’d ever have to do this. I mean, who would come Sal MacGuff’s and fuck up again after hearing about that?

But there I was, sitting there in the Janitor Room with all this plastic and tarp around on the floor and the table. I got the heavy double-bladed ax in my hands and I’m not sure I want to do this again. I’m looking at Shorty lying there, breathing loudly. He wasn’t much younger than me at the time, in fact. I tried to detach from him, make him an object. He definitely wasn’t married — too young and too much of a partier, so at least I wouldn’t have to worry about some widowing some poor girl who didn’t know what her dipshit husband was up to. The second guy had a wedding ring on his finger. I remember from ripping out his fingernails.

So anyway, Shorty started waking up, groaning and crap, sounded like a beached seal or something. So I went to get Sal and we came back.

Just before we went back in, Sal put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye.

“You guess what I have in mind here?”

I do.

“Take off his feet, work my way up?”

“You’re a good kid, Dice,” Sal said. “A good kid.”

I was ready.

When we walked into the closet, this was when most people would start blubbering here, saying they’ll make it up, no harm’s done, saying we don’t know who you they are, that we’re really fucking up here, blah blah blah. Typical dead man words.

Not Shorty.

He just looked at us and said one thing that I’ll never forget.

“Cracker jack, cracker jack, trip and twine, you might get yours but I’ll get mine.”

Just that. Like a verse. That was it. He looked right at us when he said it.

Sal went over and turned the camera on, turned the boombox on, went over to Shorty and grabbed his cheek. Shorty yelled. Sal slapped him and said to the camera, “Looks like it’s that time again.”

Shorty was still reciting that one verse, his eyes all wide and bugging out. You wouldn’t have known he’d put himself to sleep only earlier that day. He was looking at the ax blade.

“All right, Dice,” Sal said, stepping back. “Show him how to feel sorry.”

I didn’t think. I brought the ax down on Shorty’s right ankle. He didn’t scream, only kept yelling that verse. The ax was sharpened once a week and it went right through him into the tarp and the wood of the table. I wiggled it and yanked it out again.

Shorty’s yelling that verse like a maniac, his face pouring sweat, snot coming out of his nose. His ankle gushed blood, spreading over the tarp and dripping down the leg of the table like paint.

His foot was separated from his leg. I brushed it off the table and it hit the plastic on the floor. Like a shoe.

“What’s my name?” Sal yelled at Shorty over the blaring Nickelback song. Shorty was too busy yelling that weird little incantation. He was shaking something fierce, like he’d grabbed a livewire. He was going to go into shock if we weren’t quick.

“Hey, what’s my fucking name?” Sal yelled, grabbing Shorty by the cheek again. I just stood there. Sal smacked him again and took ahold of his chin, forced Shorty to look at him. Shorty kept mumbling the same thing.

“Cracker jack, cracker jack, trip and twine, you might get yours but I’ll get mine.”

“Huh?” Sal said. Shorty stopped for a second and makes some croaking noises. Sal looked at me and I didn’t even need him to say anything.

I brought the ax down on Shorty’s other ankle and Shorty wasn’t walking anywhere ever again.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” Sal said. “What’s my fucking name?”

Shorty, to his credit, stopped chanting, looked up into Sal’s face.

“Sal MacGuff,” he said quietly. “You’re Sal MacGuff.”

“And don’t you forget it.” said Sal. He pressed a finger into Shorty’s forehead.

He looked at me.

“We’re done. Between the eyes.”

Shorty saw it coming. He didn’t scream. I chopped until his head is split like a melon. I finished what I was doing, tried not to look at Shorty’s eyes, which were now bugged out in two different directions. I dropped the ax and got the fuck out of there. I could’ve really used a coffee or something right then.

Sal was out in the hall waiting, having a celebratory cigarette, and he put his arm around me and lead me outside. Two guys came running down the hall past us, ready to clean up the room and get the camera card and the message out.

“You did good, Dice,” Sal said to me. “Last time, right there. I guarantee it. This isn’t a hard area. The niggers might make things more complicated but we don’t do direct business with them anyway. As far as the whiteboys and the spics and the towelheads are concerned, we’re gravy. Respect.”

That’s when I had to break away from him and go to the bathroom where I puked for the third and final time. I’ve done in two people since then, but both of those were on my own terms for my own business. Bullets to the back of the head, both of them. Nothing fancy. The message is all the same for me. Like I said, I’m no sociopath.

The guys dumped Shorty in the river and we never heard anything about him after that. The cops were either bought out or indifferent to that kind of shit in these parts. They know what’s small time and what’s business. And Sal was right — there were no problems after that. I moved out and got my own place a few years later.

So now Sal’s sitting here in front of me, looking like I’ve never seen him.

“Yeah, I do remember him,” I say. “What about him?”

Sal shakes his head like he can’t believe it.

“Apparently his fucking family? They’re not too happy about what’s happened to him. And guess what they do, Dice. You won’t believe it.”

“What?”

“They run a fucking circus.”

“A circus?”

“A three-ring, freak show circus. Runs year round on some property out in Washtenaw. Off Ninety-four. The Perk and Jinx Circus, it’s called.”

“Yeah, and what about them?”

“It’s not just any circus. It’s a sideshow. Freaks. They exhibit freaks like they used to back before it became all politically incorrect.”

“That shit’s illegal now, Sal.”

“Don’t tell me what I already fucking know!” Sal yells. “You think that’s not the first thing I said? That’s what they fucking do!”

“All right, all right,” I say. “What about his family? So what, they’re gonna sic the clowns on us or something?”

“Don’t try to joke about this, Dice,” Sal snarls. “Lame-ass joke anyway.”

He drags on his cigarette and finishes it. He lights another one right after.

“Here’s what happened,” he says. “It’s last Saturday, the place is hopping, we’re doing good business like normal, right? So I’m sitting in the back just minding my own business when Carla, who’s gone up front to talk to Dennis about the VIP tickets, comes back looking scared as hell. I noticed there’s some kind of commotion up at the front door, but I can’t see anything and I figure it’s just some bastard with a fake ID or something. I figure Billy Britches’ll take care of it. He’s the bouncer nowadays. Or was. Cause then Carla says she saw some huge redheaded guy come in and tear Billy’s head off.”

“His head?”

“That’s what I just fucking said,” Sal snapped. He dragged on the cigarette and continued. “I got the same reaction you did just now. I don’t believe it. But then I get up and start getting my way through the crowd, and people are freaking out, and I see people coming back from the door looking all scared like Carla, like they’re trying to get away from something.”

“Then I see him. It’s this giant fucking guy. Just this impossibly huge guy. Coming through the crowd from the front. Walking through, people are getting out of his way, and if they can’t he walks through them, just pushing them out of the way, not even with his arms, just moving like he’s wading through mud or something. He’s a least two feet taller than anyone in the crowd. He could see right into the display cages, and those are suspended just below the second floor. And his shoulders, man. I bet he could’ve bench-pressed a dump truck. And he had red hair like Carla said — a lot of it. Red hair sticking up like a sunrise, bushy red eyebrows and hair running all down his arms. And he’s got Billy’s head in his hand. Like a basketball. Billy’s tongue was hanging out his mouth. That’s all I remember of it. I just looked down and there it was, Billy’s fucking head in this guy’s fist.”

“And this giant’s walking through the crowd and coming right at me and I know it’s me he’s looking for because his eyes are focused right on mine. I’m standing right in the center of the showroom floor and people are making this hole around me, the people that haven’t already run for it, anyway. And the big redhead walks right up to me and says, ‘You Sal?’ in this deep, retarded-sounding voice.”

“I’m still sitting there. Clem and Chip are behind me but they’re backing up and goddamn it, I don’t blame them. Carla’s gone, ran off somewhere, but that’s fine.”

“I’m standing there, barely able to say anything, and I kinda nod, you know? This has all happened in less than a minute, and I’m still staring at Billy’s head with his neck flaps dripping. It looked like shredded cheese off a slice of pizza.”

“Anyway, Big Red must’ve got it, cause he turns around and yells behind him, ‘Mr Zachrich, I found him!’”

“I can’t see behind the guy, but he just stands there looking down at me, and his head’s illuminated by the strobes and the fucking music is blaring and I remember it was that stupid fucking Taylor Swift song that’s out now, a remix of it, the ‘Look what you made me do’ and I’m looking up at him and he’s got these two little beady black eyes looking back at me. No expression. I’ll admit it to you Dice, I’ve never really been scared before but I was fucking scared right then, but I must’ve done a pretty good job not showing it.”

“Then all of a sudden Big Red steps aside and behind him there’s this little old guy in a red suit with tails and a little black top hat and little dress shoes. Little fucking Wizard of Oz munchkin-type guy. He’s got a little black cane, and he’s jabbing it at me. He’s got this utter fucking rage on his face.”

“He goes, ‘You killed my boy, didn’t you, you filthy crook?’”

“I kinda snap back out of whatever daze I was in, and I’m like, ‘Huh?’”

“‘You killed my boy, Jeremiah,’ says the little scarecrow guy. You split his face and chopped off his feet. You bled him to death. You spilled my innocent boy’s blood, you filthy crook!’ His eyes are all wild, big, light blue eyes in this little pruny face and little wisps of white hair sticking out from under the tophat.”

“By now I’m getting kind of pissed off. I’m thinking this might be some kind of fucking joke. One that Frank the Stank might play, you know? And even if it wasn’t, nobody walks into my place and starts accusing me of shit like it’s something to do. I’m not sure what’s going on yet, but I’m not gonna take any shit from this twig in front of me. Even if he does have a guy at his back who’s twice the size of Clem or Chip.”

“So I’m like, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ and I set my drink down on the table behind me. Most of the customers are gone now. This little fuck just drained all my business out the fucking door. The cops probably got called and are on their way and now I’m gonna have to do something for them.”

“The little scarecrow bony guy is staring at me, and he’s like, ‘You took what was most precious to me. I’ve found you, and now it’s time to make ourselves even. I’m going to take something that’s precious to you. I know you’re married. Your wife. Where is she?’”

“And now I’m really pissed. And I’m like, ‘Why the fuck should I tell you?’”

“And this little dude freaks out, man. Right there. He’s like, ‘Would you like Roland here to twist your beastly body right in half, you devil!? Don’t presume to talk to me that way, crook!’ He’s fucking shrieking it, man, nails on chalkboard. The giant guy, Roland, drops Billy’s head and grabs me. He lifts me off my feet like it’s nothing. He puts me in a headlock. He smells like the dumpsters out back. And I’m gagging on his arm hair and all the nerve I’d worked up was all fucking gone. I can see Clem and Chip backing the fuck off. They got their guns out but they’re not doing anything. This guy doesn’t look like two bullets would stop him.”

“I hear the big guy go, ‘You respect Mr. Zachrich.’ and I can’t fucking talk or breath. The little guy, Mr. Zachrich, is looking at me more passive now, like he’s more satisfied seeing me this way. And he’s like, ‘I’ll ask one last time. Where is your wife?’”

“‘I don’t know,’ I manage to get out, and I’m telling the truth. But then I glance up and I can see Carla looking out from the kitchen door. She’s crying and I can see her saying my name. The old guy sees where I’m looking and he turns back and there’s this leer on his face now. Really nice teeth he had.”

“‘And the guy goes, ‘Roland, get,’ and he points at Carla. And I don’t feel nothing but air for a few seconds cause Roland kinda twirls me off his arm and I land across the room next to the bar. Got the wind knocked out of me. I feel the guy’s footsteps as he walks across the showroom to the kitchen and I hear the little guy give a laugh like he’s a cartoon or something. I turn around and I’m trying to scream at Clem and Chip to shoot, shoot the fucker, shoot ’em both, but I can’t breathe and the guy’s on Carla and it happens real fast. He grabs her by the hair and yanks her up. She’s screaming now, and she will not stop, and Mr. Zachrich turns to me on the floor and he bows and he says, ‘You can come get her here, when you’re ready,’ and he drops this business card on me and then he and Roland are out the door.’”

I’m sitting there practically drooling. These two characters just showed up and took Sal’s wife.

“Where did they take her?” I ask him.

“Back to the fuckin circus, where else, you fucking dickweed?” Sal snaps at me.

Now I’m getting pissed.

“Sal, I get that you’re stressed right now, but you’re gonna drag me out here in the middle of my day and ask for my help and then you’re gonna talk to me like that?”

“Of course not,” said Sal, cooling off right away. “You’re right, man, you’re right. I’m sorry. I just need to get Carla back.”

“Well, then let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Now since that set up took so fucking long I’ll tell the rest of the story as quickly as I fucking can.

Essentially what happened is this — Sal and I head out of town. Sal respects me and I respect him. He just needs to be reminded every now and then.

That business card Zachrich left had the place’s name and address, and on the back was a note further explaining that Sal had to come out to their place if he wanted to get Carla back. He could bring one person with him. Clem and Chip aren’t up for it, and I think Sal’s pretty much done with them anyway for pussing out when it really mattered. He wanted someone he goes back with, someone he trusts. So he sent Clem to get me.

We head west on I-94. We get off at an exit somewhere in the middle of the state. I’ve been up and down this freeway at least once or twice a year in all forty-three years of my existence and I’ve never noticed this exit. Little two lane. I wanna say it was between Albion and Jackson, but I could be wrong. Could’ve been closer to Battle Creek. Don’t remember now.

“One thing I’ve been wondering…” I said to Sal. “Shorty got whacked a good couple years ago.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Why’d these guys wait so long to come after you?”

Sal shrugged.

“Guess it just took ’em a while to find me.”

We head north for awhile on said shitty two lane surrounded by woods and fields, and then we see this giant big top in the distance. It’s big, it’s red and sticking out of the field like a zit.

Parking lot’s gravel, no vehicles there, not even trucks and trailers, which you would assume they’d need. There’s this washed-out old sign with a big clown on it — says Perk and Jinx, just like Sal had mentioned.

Sal and I park and there’s these arrows over the entrance to the Big Top, pointing in it and there’s a sign that says “Welcome Mr. MacGuff and Friend!”.

It looks like the opening to a clown mouth, big red lips stretched wide.

Sal goes to park in the lot but I stop him.

“Just pull the car inside,” I say. “And leave the keys in when we get out. I don’t think we’ll be here long.”

“Right,” said Sal. “You’re a good kid, Dice. Always were.”

So we pull inside and it’s dark and then the lights come on and I see in the center of the main ring or whatever, there’s the two guys that Sal was talking about — Roland and Mr. Zachrich. They look like an optical illusion.

There’s two cages next to them.

The first person I see is the one that must be Roland. Sal wasn’t kidding, the guy must be ten feet tall and six feet wide.

The next guy must be the ringmaster because he looks like Ron Paul if you stuck a vacuum tube up his ass. And he is actually wearing this red suit with tails and a red tophat.

I haven’t been to a circus ever, but something about all this is really fucking off. Everything about this place is like a kid’s idea of an old fashioned circus. There’s no semi trailers outside that move all this shit around. Nothing modern. Nothing regulated. The place doesn’t even smell like anything. No elephant shit or popcorn or diesel or nothing.

We pull up next to the ringmaster and his ginger giant and get out of the car. It’s just the four of us.

There’s two cages next to the circus fucks like I said. They look like giant birdcages. Carla’s in the one behind Roland. She looks sedated, slumped against the bars. In the other, behind Zachrich, is a gorilla. It’s eating an apple. Big male silverback. King fucking Kong sitting there on his furry black ass munching a red delicious.

Sal and I stand there a second and no one says anything, and then we hear the noises.

From all around us come the freaks. They come down through the bleachers, from behind Zachrich and Roland, I can even see them crawling down from the rafters. Mewling, twisted things. Human but just barely. All the stereotypical ones — you know, the shrunken head people, missing limbs, beards on women, all that. Clowns, of course. There’s animals, too — elephants and tigers and bears all dressed in frills and lace.

We’re surrounded now. Sal’s trying to keep his cool. I’m like, why the fuck did I come out here?

“All right,” says Sal. “Here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” smiles Zachrich. “First off, we’ll need your weapons, please.”

We both throw our guns into the dust, and Roland steps over and grabs them. The ground actually shakes when he walks. He crushes both our pieces into powder with his bare hands and steps back again. I hope I’m not showing how freaked out I am.

“Would you like some popcorn?” Zachrich asks. He opens his coat and pulls out two cardboard cartons of popcorn, the old red and black striped kind. Gotta admit, it smells pretty damn good.

But obviously neither of us is hungry or in the mood for this.

“What do we have to do to get Carla back?” Sal says, trying to be business-like.

“Well, your friend doesn’t have to do anything,” says Mr. Zachrich.

He throws the popcorn over our heads and the freaks all catch it and we can hear them eating it. Sounds like pigs at a trough.

“But you, Mr. MacGuff, you have to do something veeery simple.”

His voice sounds like a cartoon character. Super high-pitched, almost like he’s doing an impression for a kid. Sal was right.

“What?” Sal’s looking at Carla. She’s slumped against the back wall of her cage, and she’s dressed in this weird clown getup. She’s got lipstick smeared on and too much eyeshadow. Her hair is done up like a schoolgirl in a porno, curly pigtails. She looks like a lifesize ragdoll that some brat left on their floor.

“You see our friend Chuckles there?” Sal says. “We rescued him from the wilds of the Congo.”

He points at the gorilla.

“You need to give our friend Chuckles a hug,” says Zachrich. “Chuckles is an excellent judge of character, and if he decides to let you go, you may collect your wife and be on your way. No hassle.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“I’m not getting in the cage with that fucking thing.”

“Then I’ll have my entire family here rape your wife while you watch. I’ll wake her up first, of course. Roland will be first.”

“You little shit,” snarled Sal. “Do you know who the fuck I am? After I walk out of here — “

Roland takes a step forward and Sal shuts up.

“Is there another way we could do this?” I ask.

“You will not speak,” Zachrich snaps at me. “You are lucky I don’t feed you to my darlings. You are only here because I am a Christian and I don’t believe anyone should have to walk into an enemy’s den alone.”

I’m not used to being talked to this way, especially by someone who looks like this, but Sal puts a hand on my shoulder and says “Fine, fine.” He looks at the gorilla.

“I just gotta give the ape a hug?”

“That’s it,” says Zachrich, and he’s smiling and his eyes are these little black jewels set into a million little wrinkles. “You have my word, on Jesus’ name. That’s all I ask.”

“Is he friendly?”

Sal’s being sarcastic but the guy answers him sincerely.

“Oh, of course,” said Zachrich. “Gorillas are tremendously docile creatures. Here, in fact — “

Zachrich moves fast for a frail looking guy, but he runs over to the cage, opens the door and strolls right in. The gorilla gets up and extends both his arms. His reach has got to be at least seven feet. Zachrich goes over and the ape buries him in a huge gorilla hug.

“See?” Zachrich says when Chuckles releases him. “Chuckles will judge. All sinners deserve a fair trial, even when their sins are known.”

He walks out of the cage, leaves the door open, gestures inside.

The freaks around us are all making their noises. The car’s still running behind us.

Sal looks at the gorilla again. He turns to me.

“Fuck it,” he says. “I’ll give the monkey a hug.”

I lean in.

“I think we should just fucking go, Sal.”

He waves me off.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Sal walks over to the cage, steps through the door, and the gorilla’s looking at him.

I can hear all the freaks kind of meowing and giggling to themselves. I want to firebomb this place.

What happened next took probably thirty seconds, but it felt a lot longer than that.

Sal gets into the cage and walks toward the gorilla, kind of inching forward, and I can tell he’s scared but he keeps looking over at Carla.

Then, the gorilla gets up and grabs Sal and fucking rips him in half. Just like that. Gets up, and Sal kind of opens his arms like he actually expects the thing to hug him, but Chuckles takes hold of Sal by the neck and the leg and pulls. There’s a big splash of blood and guts, splatting to the floor of the cage and spilling out over the edges. It’s like the gorilla pulled open a bag full of wet garbage. I can see Sal’s heart still beating on the floor.

All the freaks and Zachrich and Roland go nuts. Everyone starts applauding and tittering.

“Chuckles has judged,” they all yell. “REEEE! Chuckles has judged! REEEE!”

“Didn’t even wait for him to get across the cage!” yelled Zachrich. “That’s what you get, you filthy crook! Huzzah!”

“REEE!” yell all the freaks. Roland’s yelling too, his voice is like a fucking foghorn. “REEEEE!”

I don’t even wait. I forget about Carla.

I turn around, charge, knock my way through a couple of the freaks. I jump in the car and throw the transmission into drive and fucking floor it, and I’m spinning around doing donuts and running over the freaks and they’re slamming into the windshield and it shatters. I’m covered in their blood. I can taste it.

I’m almost to the entrance, running over what feels like speed bumps or maybe logs, when I feel the car get lifted up and thrown. I’m weightless for a second, and then I black out.

When I wake up it’s only a few seconds later, and I’m upside down outside the entrance to the big top, and I crawl out of the driver’s side window and I get myself out and start running. I can hear them all chasing me but I don’t look back.

I run for a long time. My breath tastes like fire. I get to a gas station and do something I’ve never thought I’d do — I let them call the cops.

“So you went to the circus, huh” says the skinny shit. “And a gorilla killed Sal MacGuff.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Wow, Dice,” says the big nice cop. “You’re getting confident. Using something like this to get rid of a rival…”

He shakes his head.

I don’t bother reiterating, it’s all true. They’ve made their minds up. It doesn’t matter.

The skinny shit and his big softie friend let me go. They’ve got nothing on me, and I have a couple reps from the city come out and pay my bail, including my lawyer who’s one of the most notorious SOBs in the Midwest. I wish both of the cops a happy weekend as I leave. The blood on me isn’t Sal’s or Carla’s, just like I said, and they can’t find a match for it.

They went back to where I said the big top was. Of course it was gone. No sign of anyone. Just a dead open field. Sal and Carla MacGuff went the way of Jimmy Hoffa, as far as the Michigan State Police is concerned.

I get back to my place around eleven. The area can be dangerous as hell but I call ahead to my guys and let them know I’m dropping by and to make sure the streets are clear. Vinnie’s gone for the day.

I walk back to my office and I’ve seen that he cleaned it when I was gone. Nice guy, Vinnie. I need a shower and a fucking decent meal and some goddamn sleep. I’m grab my laptop out of the locked top drawer and get ready to head home. Hard to believe all of this happened in one freaking afternoon.

I’m about to shut the light off and head out when I see something on my desk, right in the center. I go over and pick it up.

It’s a piece of popcorn. Under it is one of the Perk and Jinx business cards.

The card says, “See you soon!”