Post by Deleted on Aug 25, 2016 21:06:43 GMT -5
[Open to an afternoon to Sunny Lake, home of the Brotherhood. Lester Parish toils at the dining table with tax forms stacked into two piles: those completed and a larger, untouched stack. He speaks with their fiduciary on the landline the receiver propped against his chin.]
“Yes, the influx will require a health plan. I anticipated the move ever since our agent brought them here. I understand your concerns about our status, but the taxable income won’t be a problem. Thanks anyway, Thomas, I’ll keep in touch.”
[Solomon, a member of the newly acquired freak show, takes a seat. Fresh from weight training, “the Swahili Steam Machine” cracks open a diet soda without a word to Lester. He’s wearing sweat pants and a battered hoody with rips and cigarette burns allover. Parish folds up his reading glasses as the scraggly presence taps for his attention.]
“Are you their liaison?”
“Mr. Parish, we want to thank you for letting us come in. Announced an all.”
“We enjoy a diverse environment here. Is there something your group needs?”
[Solomon cracks his knuckles, weighing something heavy in mind.]
“We’re not used to this.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re not used to people helping us. Man, we’ve all be outcasts—and we embraced.”
“But there’s something different. And I assume it’s not with our kindred spirits.”
“Sylvester and I, we used to run this group. Now he’s buddying it up with Kevin and Sean. It’s like he forgot how we got here. I tell you, hard work and low pay brought us here. Now we’re making this wrestling venue. Side attractions are our bread and butter, Mr. Parish.”
[Lester assorts the paperwork into a stack for later management. His steel eyes pierce into the strongman. They look without blinking for a ling moment.]
“Have I shown you the music room?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Solomon, follow me.”
[They walk outside into a frenzy of activity. Dozens of the Brotherhood members, new and old, aid in the construction of Kevin Bishop’s newest venture. About a square mile of yellow and red striped tarps waits in a heap while their teamsters erect Barnum & Bailey infrastructure. Parish leads the strongman into one their dormitories and back into a spare room. Someone is already inside practicing on a tarnished flute, blemishes from prior use has eroded much of its nickel finish. She practices a classical march called the “The Circus Bee” at a reduced tempo.]
“I don’t play music. More of a soul guy anyways. Motown, you know the hits.”
“You need not become one, Solomon. This is one of many epicenters. We grow from this point, expanding until the day this whole world sees what the Plague has to offer. Until that day, we rest the message in the hands of our membership. We aren’t overly sentimental or zealous, and we don’t much care for rituals. However, there are results from joining the Brotherhood. Excuse me for a moment.”
[Parish instructs the girl to play softer, thus letting her dynamic range grow towards the song’s epic conclusion. She tries but fails. Lester urges that she play longer, minute sounds until the tone matches the intention. Solomon braces to the wall with his arms crossed. Lester leads him back towards the construction site.]
“I don’t get it, why the music? What’s that have to do with our group? We’re freaks and performers, not some rag-time, barbershop number.”
“Maureen is practicing for the show. You can’t have a production without ambiance, nor could you play music without proper presentation. That’s the essence of entertainment, my friend. Tell me, did your old show have a music playing?”
[Solomon laughs while shaking his head.]
“I’m serious, did you have music?”
“Yeah, we played stuff on a sound system.”
“There’s your problem. You lacked the nuance of a circus. We’re going to fix that one note at a time. I trust your group can perform to its highest. You leave that part of the show to me.”
[Solomon grabs his shoulder, pulling Parish back. Lester stops and breaks free of the hold.]
“Hey, we do this together.”
“And we shall. You may not see it yet, Solomon, but I have a grandest show to unveil. The Plague wants a full-scale production, hence why I have invested in your presentation. Maureen is but one of twenty-three members to join “Parish’s Pipers” your personal band. And I serve as their bandmaster.”
“You aren’t going to wear the mask the whole time, are you?”
“Only if my boater's cap doesn’t fit. Now prattle along, there’s more work to be done inside.”
[Parish walks a few steps before he sees Solomon still hot on his tail.]
“I want to help you, with the forms and all. Me and Sly recruited this troop. And I know all their health issues, if you have questions. Titan has knee problems—has this nurse drain them each month onsite. My back sometimes gives out. Oh, and Sylvester had an infarction last year. Was legally dead for about five minutes. We’re all sorts of broken, Mr. Parish.”
“Please, call me Lester. I’m not your master or your boss. We’re peers Solomon.”
“All right Lester. Let’s get those forms done and sent.”
***
“Sisters, brothers and all whom listen—I have come to you this evening with important news. Revenge, a caustic topic, has come upon us. These lectures come and go, but our resolve stays strong. This week threatens our very core. Diehard fans say that our survival hinges on this pivotal show. Not only is our leader Kevin Bishop defending his moniker as champion of the people, your teacher has intertwined within this show. I have the chance to glimpse upon a title not meant for the weak of heart. This is the hardcore title—and it takes no prisoners.”
[Firelight illuminates the seams of his latex mask. His audience clumps together to hear him over crackling logs, all while night creeps in.]
“Danger awaits those without a cause. Pain awaits whomever thinks light of this battle. I’m not going to shine myself before you: My strength and skill will not be the deciding factor here. No, there’s too much bad blood floating around that ring. In an absence of sophistication, I feel the need to remove my clevis. Wit binding me to your suffrage, you rights and all that makes our collective grow. Our numbers depend on dual success—but that will cost my wellbeing. You may not see me walking from this ring. You may not even see a capable fighter ever again. Scars will be sewn. My voice will crack. My bone will shatter. And worst of all, my dreams may decay. Tomorrow rises a troublesome sun, bruised beyond recognition. That will be my dawn.”
“Yes, the influx will require a health plan. I anticipated the move ever since our agent brought them here. I understand your concerns about our status, but the taxable income won’t be a problem. Thanks anyway, Thomas, I’ll keep in touch.”
[Solomon, a member of the newly acquired freak show, takes a seat. Fresh from weight training, “the Swahili Steam Machine” cracks open a diet soda without a word to Lester. He’s wearing sweat pants and a battered hoody with rips and cigarette burns allover. Parish folds up his reading glasses as the scraggly presence taps for his attention.]
“Are you their liaison?”
“Mr. Parish, we want to thank you for letting us come in. Announced an all.”
“We enjoy a diverse environment here. Is there something your group needs?”
[Solomon cracks his knuckles, weighing something heavy in mind.]
“We’re not used to this.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re not used to people helping us. Man, we’ve all be outcasts—and we embraced.”
“But there’s something different. And I assume it’s not with our kindred spirits.”
“Sylvester and I, we used to run this group. Now he’s buddying it up with Kevin and Sean. It’s like he forgot how we got here. I tell you, hard work and low pay brought us here. Now we’re making this wrestling venue. Side attractions are our bread and butter, Mr. Parish.”
[Lester assorts the paperwork into a stack for later management. His steel eyes pierce into the strongman. They look without blinking for a ling moment.]
“Have I shown you the music room?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Solomon, follow me.”
[They walk outside into a frenzy of activity. Dozens of the Brotherhood members, new and old, aid in the construction of Kevin Bishop’s newest venture. About a square mile of yellow and red striped tarps waits in a heap while their teamsters erect Barnum & Bailey infrastructure. Parish leads the strongman into one their dormitories and back into a spare room. Someone is already inside practicing on a tarnished flute, blemishes from prior use has eroded much of its nickel finish. She practices a classical march called the “The Circus Bee” at a reduced tempo.]
“I don’t play music. More of a soul guy anyways. Motown, you know the hits.”
“You need not become one, Solomon. This is one of many epicenters. We grow from this point, expanding until the day this whole world sees what the Plague has to offer. Until that day, we rest the message in the hands of our membership. We aren’t overly sentimental or zealous, and we don’t much care for rituals. However, there are results from joining the Brotherhood. Excuse me for a moment.”
[Parish instructs the girl to play softer, thus letting her dynamic range grow towards the song’s epic conclusion. She tries but fails. Lester urges that she play longer, minute sounds until the tone matches the intention. Solomon braces to the wall with his arms crossed. Lester leads him back towards the construction site.]
“I don’t get it, why the music? What’s that have to do with our group? We’re freaks and performers, not some rag-time, barbershop number.”
“Maureen is practicing for the show. You can’t have a production without ambiance, nor could you play music without proper presentation. That’s the essence of entertainment, my friend. Tell me, did your old show have a music playing?”
[Solomon laughs while shaking his head.]
“I’m serious, did you have music?”
“Yeah, we played stuff on a sound system.”
“There’s your problem. You lacked the nuance of a circus. We’re going to fix that one note at a time. I trust your group can perform to its highest. You leave that part of the show to me.”
[Solomon grabs his shoulder, pulling Parish back. Lester stops and breaks free of the hold.]
“Hey, we do this together.”
“And we shall. You may not see it yet, Solomon, but I have a grandest show to unveil. The Plague wants a full-scale production, hence why I have invested in your presentation. Maureen is but one of twenty-three members to join “Parish’s Pipers” your personal band. And I serve as their bandmaster.”
“You aren’t going to wear the mask the whole time, are you?”
“Only if my boater's cap doesn’t fit. Now prattle along, there’s more work to be done inside.”
[Parish walks a few steps before he sees Solomon still hot on his tail.]
“I want to help you, with the forms and all. Me and Sly recruited this troop. And I know all their health issues, if you have questions. Titan has knee problems—has this nurse drain them each month onsite. My back sometimes gives out. Oh, and Sylvester had an infarction last year. Was legally dead for about five minutes. We’re all sorts of broken, Mr. Parish.”
“Please, call me Lester. I’m not your master or your boss. We’re peers Solomon.”
“All right Lester. Let’s get those forms done and sent.”
***
“Sisters, brothers and all whom listen—I have come to you this evening with important news. Revenge, a caustic topic, has come upon us. These lectures come and go, but our resolve stays strong. This week threatens our very core. Diehard fans say that our survival hinges on this pivotal show. Not only is our leader Kevin Bishop defending his moniker as champion of the people, your teacher has intertwined within this show. I have the chance to glimpse upon a title not meant for the weak of heart. This is the hardcore title—and it takes no prisoners.”
[Firelight illuminates the seams of his latex mask. His audience clumps together to hear him over crackling logs, all while night creeps in.]
“Danger awaits those without a cause. Pain awaits whomever thinks light of this battle. I’m not going to shine myself before you: My strength and skill will not be the deciding factor here. No, there’s too much bad blood floating around that ring. In an absence of sophistication, I feel the need to remove my clevis. Wit binding me to your suffrage, you rights and all that makes our collective grow. Our numbers depend on dual success—but that will cost my wellbeing. You may not see me walking from this ring. You may not even see a capable fighter ever again. Scars will be sewn. My voice will crack. My bone will shatter. And worst of all, my dreams may decay. Tomorrow rises a troublesome sun, bruised beyond recognition. That will be my dawn.”
