The Carnies: Part Two of Part 2

A large, white sign with bold, black font reading INTERMISSION suddenly goes up in smoke. By the time it settles, everything on the gigantic stage before us all has vanished.

Pure silence passes for seconds that feel like minutes.

Then, a small clown emerges out of nowhere driving a miniature, black car. The tiny driver is cruising around rather erratically while trying to scarf down a steak. He hits what must be a speed bump on the stage and a calculator drops out of his little buggy. Noticing his precious missing, the little guy stops abruptly and jumps out of his ride. As he hustles toward his calculator, a red car bursts onto the scene right in front of him. He staggers, trying desperately to regain his balance, and plummets off the stage.

Looks like he hit his head.

That second car comes to a halt in a distant corner. No license plate, but the clown does have one peculiar feature. No big goofy smile or sad frown. Instead, the paint almost looks like the clown’s lips have been zipped shut.

I’m speechless.

A third, and fourth, clown appear out of nowhere in a neon green with hot pink stripes two-seater side-by-side. They are both shirtless and really into each other. Their shared license plate reads S&M.

Another clown runs out in a tank-top with more holes than a slice of swiss cheese. He’s bald and bearded and constantly looking over one shoulder, then the next. He’s holding… a mirror? Things are weird.

A sixth clown speeds into the scene in what looks like a mini-batmobile. He drifts a couple circles around the paranoid, car-less clown before stopping center stage. The top of his car retracts back, revealing a clown with an arrogant smile giving a thumbs up.

On this clown’s shoulder; a snail.

RING-RING-RING

RING.

Like we warped into a forgotten episode of Lost, the smoke returns and envelopes everything in sight.

Slowly, it dissipates and reveals a new set of sideshow acts across an extravagant set of your typical carnival decos.

Welcome back to The Carnival de Grandiose!

Thank you for your patience. It will not go unrewarded! We hope the Handson popcorn and well-done hair was delicious!

And I hope they put down a couple of those Crash Authentic sodas to get through the rest of this thing. Like 10 of them.

Let us continue, shall we!?!

Prior to our brief intermission, we were finishing up with the “Cry me a river” part of the show. For those who wish to be reminded, they were five men and a snail whose pride has been stomped on. Their respect stripped from them. Naked and mostly alone, with their fortune cookies crushed, they joined The Carnival de Grandiose against their will.

Voluntold.

Which is a nice segway to our next act. He also joined against his will, but unlike the others, he is more than happy to find himself here.

Locked in a cage. Surrounded by sacks of weeping flesh.

Before proceeding to our next act at Carnival de Grandiose, we must warn you. 

Up until now, it’s been peaches and cream. Or steaks and potatoes. Or leftover subs on park benches and half smoked cigarettes. 

A Brain and his snail.

Whatever strikes your freakish fancy

However, up next is a man whose spoken name sends shivers up and down the spines of Astrologers and English professors alike. 

GASP~!

In order to keep some modicum of sanity in this world, he who must not be named has many a moniker here at The Carnival de Grandiose. The Beast. The Wild Hog. The Monger. The immovable, immense, incoherent animal we keep behind bars who The Maestro of COOL throws peanut shells at.

Just to rattle off a few. 

You see, this mongrel of a man is far too wild, and far too crazy to be allowed to freely walk about the Carnival grounds. Not without a muzzle anyway. We couldn’t possibly have him talking to the guests. They might catch something. AIDS. The Fever. A migraine, for sure. Et cetera.

You could say this prehistoric man is truly a security and insurance nightmare. He can not be fed during the day, and you don’t want to see what happens if he’s fed after midnight. He can not be pet, not even by others in his pack. He can not be talked to, reasoned with, or settled down. He’s a true lone (were)wolf and before joining the Carnival he was, as coincidence would have it, patrolling the grounds of the High Octane Cemetery.

We’ve been throwing the term “join” around pretty loosely. We should clarify, he didn’t really join. It was more a lure and capture. But that’s a story for another time.

He is stronger than Soviet Russia.

He is a Gemini.

God I feel bad for the other twin.

He is more lethal than a dictionary to the head.

He is… The Kostoffian Nightmare!

RAWWWWRRRRR!!!

With his bearded lady and caretaker, Barbie!

There she is.

Everygutter, REPRESENT!

And their two dogs, Scratch and Sniff!

…?

REMEMBER. DO NOT ENGAGE HIM. HE MIGHT LOOK LIKE HE’S NOT LISTENING OR CARING TO LISTEN OR UNDERSTANDING ANYTHING YOU SAY, BUT YOU BETTER BELIEVE HE IS AND HE WILL SCARE YOU SO BAD YOU’LL GET THE SPINE SHIVERS AFTER HE BORES YOU TO DEATH WITH HIS EMPHATIC RAMBLING!

You have been warned.

You mongrel.

————

Next up at the Carnival…

Oh, sorry, it appears we went mute there for a few seconds there. Fitting really, as there’s not much that can be said for our next act.

He’s no sadist.

He’s no machochist.

He’s just got a zipper for lips.

He’s Zipperlips.

Distant cousin of Thunder. Not even a fraction as energetic or enthusiastic, though.

Before Zipperlips snitched his way to the Carnival de Grandiose, he was part of the meteoric rise of a now defunct High Octane Wrestling superstar, Some Guy. Before that, he was drawing pictures for men wearing badges. He probably even did a sketch or two for The Zionaught if we here at the Carnival de Grandiose were betting men.

I can see it now; the body of a horse with a naive bag of douche coming out the neck area hanging above Handson’s bed.

Signed, Happy Birthday pal! XOXO, Darin.

Did we mention he also mentored someone?

Well, he did. So there’s that.

Yawn.

With Zipperlips’ focus now set on the Carnival, he silently hopes to witness glory yet again.

Not attain it, though.

Cuck.

A doodle.

Do.

————

Next in our long line of can’t miss attractions is a man who doesn’t dare walk a straight mile. Physically, possibly mentally, unable to put one foot straight after the other, this crooked hook comes to us as a relative unknown.

However, we here at the Carnival de Grandiose are diligent folk. And, like we said before, we accept everyone.

He eats glass. He can swallow ten razors. He has a tattoo of Trent Reznor’s abdomen on his lower back.

He can steal home plate with the best of them.

Some call him Crash.

Some call him Benny.

All here at the Carnival call him “The Jet.”

He is Crash “The Jet” Rodriguez. Or Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez. He once outlasted a gigantic dog, on foot, wearing brand new slippers.

The dog was ICE’s main attack dog, named Barbie.

No relation.

“The Jet” has fled to the Carnival de Grandiose in an attempt to make a name for himself. To prove his worth, in a land he will soon find out he doesn’t want to be in.

Hope he has his PF Fliers ready.

Oh, and though he has only a few prized possessions to his name, he once gave Bobby Dean a hat.

And a baseball glove.

————

This next act is a man whose treachery knows no bounds. He comes to us from the ocean, and is now beached upon the Carnival de Grandiose’s shores.

He is the only man here at the Carnival de Grandiose who isn’t welcome.

To everything he can eat at least.

A man, who does not know what the word guilt means. Rather, he thinks it’s a type of sauce you can get at McDonalds.

Not wrong.

Bobby Dean.

Just look at him.

Tell us he doesn’t belong here with the rest of the sideshow acts!

This is the man who ate a man who ate another man. He’s a human tur-duck-en!

MISTER Dean, now more formal and apparently suffering from amnesia, has been banned from any type of eating competition in 97 countries.

They’re marked out RED on a map he keeps on him at all times.

This once beautiful behemoth of a talking head is either the most life-like puppet yet known to man… or he got bit by Kostoff and is now under control of a higher, more visceral calling.

Once destined for greatness, poised to join Eric Dane et all on the Best Alliance at War Games, the Human Hungry-Hungry Hippo choked like he swallowed a chunk of gristle from his porterhouse while trying to breathe in between slurps a double chocolate, peanut butter milkshake. Alas, he accidentally won something not long ago and found himself relegated to The Carnival de Grandiose!

Welcome, Bobby.

We will take special care of you, old friend.

#NeverForget

————

By now…

You dined with The Scorpion Boy.

You bathed with Mirror Mandell.

You survived a hit from The Zionaught.

You star gazed at Handson.

You shriveled in fear of The Kostoffian Nightmare.

You drew pictures with Zipperlips.

You stole home with “The Jet.”

You learned to despise the treacherous pig of man named Bobby Dean.

And you aren’t quite sure what you did with wannabe Bruce Wayne from the future and his snail named Jace.

But you had fun.

Now, it’s time for you to meet the top of the freak chain.

The reason everyone is here.

THE HALLMARK OF THE CARNIVAL de GRANDIOSE.

The Egg Bandits.

They are an eccentric group of hooligans whose numbers are always in flux. Could be ten of them. Could be ten thousand. However, today, you get to meet the two responsible for the whole shebang. The two cornerstones of an egg empire that has spanned the better part of ten years. 

For the record, they have never Sex and Monied.

Not with each other, at least.

Also, they are the ones who managed to coral The Beast and bring him to the Carnival de Grandiose. 

TO HEAR THEM TELL THE STORY…

heh heh heh.

The Scorpion Boy was there, just don’t have him tell it to you. He doesn’t do a very good job at it. Gets bogged down in the details. Not enough numbers.

But back to the Crown Jewels.

There’s the guy who is always wearing his worker bee, 97red Carnival de Grandiose themed tracksuit.

And some other guy.

I wonder who narrated that.

As for the worker bee tracksuit guy, well, he’s known as The Maestro of COOL around these parts. He is what you would call blessed. His hair is rumored to be a gift from Zeus himself. His protective eyewear came right off the assembly line from Skynet.

He was born with an old english birthmark across his chest.

Beat that Zion.

Oh wait.

Good job.

His ability to be pinned inside of a wrestling ring is bar none. No joke, his back is to a canvas like a magnet to a refrigerator. It’s been said he would need an EMP for a successful kick out.

And good luck finding one of them.

Don’t say Skynet either. The Maestro was cut off. Something to do with Data gifs.

Anywho, our Maestro enjoys long walks to the ring, probably because he knows he won’t be out there very long.

He smokes pot.

Real cool, High Flyer.

His only friends are cardboard cutouts, blow up dolls, and old people. Granted, his denizens would take a bullet for The Grand Maestro of COOL. Problem is, well the cardboard isn’t stopping shit, the doll would be useless after, and the old timers would probably seize up before they had the chance to do much.

But like we said; blessed.

He is the Super Deluxe Grand Maestro of COOLNESS. 

OR.

HOW everyone else knows him in this shittyverse, The Loser King.

And, just when you thought it couldn’t get any more blessed.

There’s the big old number two.

The Shit.

The Doozeman.

The Dooze.

The Snooze, to the uncreative, but still somewhat creative.

The old fuck from Beantown. The Bureaucrat of Brawling. The Potentate of Powerslams. The American King Kong of Clotheslines. The Used to be All That Shit Ten Years Ago.

Now, might be more like… The Sand in the Quick. 

It’s true. 

Dooze might be slower than molasses, but that just means he’s all the more steady.

Like Fraggle Rock steady. 

But slower. 

And more dormant.

Like Cantus.

He’s the Carnival’s HEAD paleontologist at the tender age of 46. He can spot a fossil from two inches away, but fails to do so when looking into the mirror.

With his special glasses on.

His resolve is untested. If needed, he could arm wrestle Dan Ryan and still be able to throw a baseball the next day. He might’ve lost at the arm wrestling part, and the ball might not’ve hit its target or gone very far, but that’s not the point.

“Give up” are two words that don’t exist in this man’s lexicon. 

That’s the point.

Oh yeah? Then guess who’s taking Stevens out for all you can eat Prime Rib dinner?

If any of you dare to question his heroic history, then go on and find the fan site some Doozermaniac built for him decades ago.

I dare you not to be impressed!

Don’t bother.

It’s gone, just like Big Daddy Doozer’s eyesight.

Well then you’ll see for yourself after he kicks out of your finishers like riding a wheelchair. It comes back to him that easy. To touch back on an earlier metaphor, if his shoulders were magnets like the Maestor’s then they’d be the reversed polarity.

You have to damn near knock the man unconscious to get a 3 count when he’s on his game. 

Albeit, with age, that might not be that difficult.

Not like living in a wheelchair. What was that about? He doesn’t even know.

But please, don’t be mistaken. These are not the Bandits you were looking for, no… However, these are also NOT the good-for-naughts who look like they’re just going to sail off into the sunset of their careers; snickering betwix themselves at their inside jokes.

They’ll still do that last part, they always will. BUT, more importantly, these are the Bandits who’re nothing less than the clever tricksters who reigned supreme over the squared circle a decade ago.

Like the mythical Phoenix, they have arisen anew… born again from their own ashes.

That’s a lot of ashes.

And these Bandits planned every step, and played every card to perfection.

Boy that’s a stretch of the word.

And then, they waited.

Until Lee spoke those precious words.

The words that broke the endless outlook of overcast weather above their heads.

It became their time to shine.

Their golden opportunity.

Who knew? The last freak in this sideshow of the Carnival de Grandiose would be none other than Lee Best, himself…

The Goose who laid the Golden Egg.

Oh fuck.

Well, folks, that about covers everyone. It’s been our pleasure. Trust us.

We do hope you all enjoyed the show.

Make sure to mark August 3rd on your calendar, too.

You wouldn’t want to miss our going away grand finale.

Anyone who’s no one will be there.

Roleplay Countdown

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