Carniville

Carniville

By J. R. McLemore

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright 2014 J.R. McLemore

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

Dedication

For George and Betty

Also by J.R. McLemore

Rabbit on the Run

Lathem’s Lament

The Old Royal

Majoring in Murder

An Adverse Anthology: Strange & Disturbing Short Stories

Hush, Hush, My Love

Jason’s Last Wish

Sweet Charlotte

Footprints in the Snow

Available at Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords.

Chapter 1

Crystal Springs isn’t your typical apartment community. For starters, it’s smaller than most apartment complexes; it’s only one building, comprised of ten evenly distributed units: the even-numbered units on the first floor and odd-numbered on the second, accessible by two stairways that lead to the second floor walkway. Yet while our complex—in Gibsonton, if you’re curious—is indeed small, that’s still not what makes it so unique. To most of the locals, Crystal Springs is most commonly referred to as Carniville, although it does have some other, less colorful nicknames: Kooksville and Freaktown.

Our building is home to carnival workers, when they’re not touring the circuit. I’m not talking about average carnival workers, either; not the people who operate the Ferris wheels, shooting galleries, or those kinds of attractions. No. The residents of Crystal Springs are sideshow workers; human oddities that are themselves the attraction, the stars of the 10-in-1, or Single O shows, as they’re called. Carnies stick together because they’re more comfortable with other carnies, but the freaks and geeks are even more close-knit because they share similar afflictions and disfigurements. In this profession, we’re strangers in every town we visit, so we only have each other to rely on. In our community, the stares and whispers behind our backs aren’t based on how someone looks. Oh, believe me; there’s plenty of whispering going on, but it has nothing to do with appearances and everything to do with the sort of gossip that circulates in just about any community. Our neighborhood is very small—the true definition of a microcosm. And, just like any small community, there’s always some new flavor of gossip making the rounds.

D’you hear, Gertie let Marvin feel her tit for twenty bucks? That’s the latest tidbit in circulation.

Gertrude happens to be The Fat Lady and Marvin is dubbed Lobster-boy because each of his pair of fingers is fused together. What makes this rumor so scandalous isn’t that Gertrude—who’s much older than Marvin—pimped her tit out for a twenty, but that she’s married to Roger, a skilled knife-thrower. And, if Roger hears this latest rumor, he’ll be furious. Who the hell would want to piss off a knife thrower?

Among the other tenants living here at Crystal Springs is Carey Lewis, a geek known as The Human Pincushion because his regular performances feature him pounding nails up his nose, eating broken glass, and piercing his tattooed skin with long needles. With a head-to-toe bodysuit of ink, he’s sometimes referred to as the Tattooed Freak or, my personal favorite, The Illustrated Man, after the book by Ray Bradbury.

Jeffrey Burnhardt, known as The World’s Tallest Man, stands a monumental eight feet three inches tall. Of course, he’s not really the world’s tallest man, and we sometimes tease him about that. But, if you found yourself standing next to him, you’d be convinced he was the world’s tallest man. Jeff is an amateur astronomer and can usually be found squatting behind our building during the warmer months with his telescope pointed at the sky. I’ve watched him tote his telescope behind the building and thought it’s funny how small he makes the thing look, reminding me of a kid’s toy clutched in his enormous hands.

On the other end of the spectrum, our smallest resident, Cindy Mezack, stands a mere two feet two inches, earning her the name Thumbelina. By the way, Cindy is the one who put the bug in my ear about Marvin and Gertrude’s latest folly.

Then there’s Enrique Juarez, called Half-Man because of a birth defect known as sacral agenesis, which is a congenital disorder that causes abnormal fetal development of the lower spine, as I’ve heard him explain on several occasions. As a result, his legs were amputated at the hips when he was just six months old to, as the doctors put it, improve his mobility. To get around, Enrique—or Ricky as we call him—walks on his hands or propels himself around on a skateboard.

Donna Fowles is known in the biz as Left-brain because of a tragic auto accident when she was in her early twenties. Doctors removed the damaged half of her brain as well as the shattered skull, leaving her with only one half of her brain intact. The end result: her head resembles a cheese wheel with a quarter-slice missing from it. It’s quite jarring when you first meet her. She has quite a few oil paintings hanging in her apartment that she created before the accident. Donna doesn’t paint or write poetry any more, though. Now, she enjoys engaging in discussions about astronomy or physics with Jeffrey. She claims that this is due to the creative side of her brain being destroyed in that car accident.

Kirk Wheeler holds the dubious honor of being The Man with Two Faces. He shared his mother’s womb with a twin that died before birth. Kirk absorbed his sibling’s fetus, giving him the appearance of a conjoined-twin-gone-wrong. Kirk’s face is twisted to accommodate a milky third eye that doesn’t function—I don’t think; a soft, malformed second nose that can’t smell; and a partial mouth near his ear. Like most of the other residents, Kirk’s had a hard life. His appearance elicits the most stares and jeers, which has made him extremely cynical and introverted. If you can get past his cynicism, though, he’s actually a smart and decent guy.

The apartment next to mine on the second floor is occupied by Marina Shiska, who isn’t really a freak and is also the most attractive woman in our complex. Marina works as a magician’s assistant when she’s touring the carnival circuit. She’s from the Ukraine, and quite the cougar, always eager to flirt with any man in her presence. When other women are around, Marina’s behavior becomes more flamboyant than usual, as though attracting attention was a competitive sport. What I find funny is watching Marina behave this way around Cindy, because Cindy’s a lesbian.

And, then there’s me, Blake Stanwick.

Unlike most of my neighbors, I have no outwardly freakish qualities, but I do work for the carnival, so I’m with it. Whenever I’m on the circuit, I usually run the Hall of Mirrors, what we call the Glass House. Despite my normal appearance, my neighbors have accepted me as one of their own, a confidant, although I do have a secret. Only a few of them know of my limited ability to glimpse the future. I consider this ability more of an annoyance than a gift though. From out of nowhere, an image of a future event will come to me. The best way to describe one of these visions is to compare it to an out-of-focus snapshot that doesn’t usually make a whole lot of sense until it actually occurs. Although, very rarely, some of the visions I see are as crystal-clear as a photo. When the real-time event happens, it’s like experiencing déjà vu. This isn’t a talent that I can control, either, because the visions come sporadically and their timing is completely unpredictable. A good indication that I’m about to see one is that they’re usually preceded by a headache, but this isn’t always the case.

Recently, however, I’ve been haunted by an image that came to me while I was in bed two nights ago. This is, by far, the most disturbing vision I’ve ever had. In it, the fat woman, Gertrude, was lying on the kitchen floor of her apartment in the middle of a pool of dark red blood. Her enormous body lay face down. Her head turned, glazed eyes staring into infinity.

After hearing today’s latest rumor about her letting Marvin feel her breast, I can’t help thinking that Roger will hear the news and become unhinged. I have to be discreet about what I’ve seen. I don’t think Roger knows about my visions and I don’t want to exacerbate the situation, so I can’t go tell him what I saw or what I’ve heard through the proverbial grapevine. Like any carnie, I prefer to stay out of other people’s affairs. If Roger finds out, then he finds out and we’ll just have to see how he responds. If not, well, that’s for the best; the poor bastard.

I wish there was a chance that my vision could be wrong—I can’t think of a time when any of them have not come true—because Gertie’s a sweet person. I’ve known her and Roger for four years—since they helped me get a job with the carnival and I moved into the building. They’re a unique couple. Roger’s about my height, which puts him around five-ten, but, he’s wiry. He probably weighs about one-hundred-seventy pounds or so. On the other hand, Gertie’s somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred pounds. To see her enormous girth standing beside his average frame is a startling lesson in the contrast of size.

She’s had a hard life filled with people who stare, point rigid, mocking fingers, and make snide remarks about her size. She used to be married to some guy named Allen. If I remember correctly, she said he lives in Minnesota with their daughter, Wendy. Gertie dropped out of school when she was seventeen, just after she became pregnant with Wendy. Her relationship with Allen hit the rocks a year or two later, and Gertie said she felt the urge to get out. Not knowing what to do with her life, she joined up with the carnival. She said she was big even then due to her pregnancy, but nowhere near the size she is now. I think she said she was shilling for some of the game booths or something—a shill is someone who pretends to play games so others’ll play.

Despite her enormous size, Gertie can still walk. Most people who get close to her weight are usually bed-ridden. Not Gertie, though. Stick around long enough and you’ll eventually see her shuffling to somewhere. She and Roger live in a ground-floor unit; while she can get around, she can’t navigate stairs very well. Most of the time, Gertie’s lounging in their apartment in the middle of a circle of humming fans. She doesn’t like to lay out by the pool because the Florida heat gets so bad, although I have seen her swimming on a few rare occasions, but always in the evening when the sun was setting.

Just about every Wednesday night, all of us gather at Roger and Gertie’s to play penny-ante poker. Tomorrow night’s game is one I’m looking forward to because Gertie’s daughter, Wendy, is in town. Before yesterday, I’d never seen Wendy, though I’ve heard Gertie talk about her quite a few times. Man, you’ve got to believe me when I say she’s hot. Wendy’s probably four or five inches shorter than me, with tan skin, blonde hair, and a svelte body; nothing at all like her mother. I don’t know exactly how old she is, but if I were to guess, I’d say she’s in her mid-twenties. It’s hard to believe she’s Gertie’s kid! Hell, it’s hard to believe she lives in Minnesota with such a beautiful tan.

I was lying out by the pool when she and Roger passed, on their way to the apartment from the parking lot. I found it difficult not to stare as she went, pulling her travel bag behind her. Of course, I’ve already mentioned that Roger’s a knife-thrower, so I didn’t want to get caught gawking. I can’t wait to see her there tomorrow night while we’re playing cards.

* * *

From my front window, it looked like a gorgeous day, so I decided to enjoy it sitting by the pool. When I got there, I found Cindy lying on her stomach on a lounge chair beneath an umbrella. I scooted a lounger over beside her, the metal legs scraping along the cement as I pulled. She glanced up at me over the rim of her sunglasses from the book she was reading. She had on a one-piece, white swimsuit with the back cut out. The top of a tribal tattoo on her lower back was visible; the black ink stood out in stark contrast against her pale skin. When she registered who it was, she turned her attention back to the story.

I spread my towel across the chair. Whatcha reading?

"Bloodsucking Fiends," she said.

I reclined on the chair. Oh yeah. Who wrote it?

Cindy stared at the page. Christopher Moore. She turned her head, asking sarcastically, Ever heard of him?

Nope.

You know, you really should read more. I bet you’d like it.

What makes you say that? Cindy didn’t know that I used to read quite a lot when I was incarcerated, mainly science fiction.

Because, reading stimulates your mind. She smiled and added, "Your mind could definitely use some stimulation."

The door opened at apartment 100. I sat up and tilted my chin so I could peer over the top of my sunglasses. Cindy noticed my curiosity, marked her place in the pages with her thumb, and looked over her shoulder to see what I was staring at. It was just Roger taking some garbage bags to the dumpster. I leaned back and said, I’ve got other things to stimulate my mind.

Cindy smirked as she found her place and continued reading. If you’re referring to the hot blonde staying with Gertie, then I don’t blame you. I’d like a crack at that myself.

Yeah, and Denise would kick your ass.

Denise is Cindy’s partner. She doesn’t live in our complex, but she comes around so often that everyone treats her as if she did. She’s an average-sized woman, jet-black hair, lip and nose piercings, and pale complexion. She has a nice ass, too, but not much up top, if you know what I mean. She could be really attractive if she applied her makeup differently and stopped trying to appear so gothic, but that’s my