Vanishing Act
Genres: Horror, Supernatural
Summary: A magician never reveals his secrets. / Trackshipping, Shaadi x Yami Bakura
A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season 8, Round fifteen—the pairing this time is Trackshipping (Shaadi x Yami Bakura), which is the most challenging pairing to date if I do say so myself. This is quite strongly an AU, so please go along with it for me (even though it does reference a good amount of canon). The AU is Itemless and non-contemporary; the exact time the story takes place is irrelevant, but think circa 1950's, with regards to the (lack of) technology, etc. Genre is horror, which shouldn't be taken lightly. Bonus points if you can spot the Kerouac reference in the very first section.
Please enjoy!
Vanishing Act
Shaadi met him by the side of the road, resting his elbows against the fence as he watched the carnival tents rise. All striped, all dull with age, yet batted down against the ground and strung taut from thick rope and thicker wooden poles, the tents had a sort of iconic gleam to them, and it was one that had Shaadi mesmerized. The lights were the next to rise, and even from this distance he could see the racing rows of bright clear lightbulbs lining the edges of the midway stands and the Ferris wheel, glowing in succession brightly even though it was hardly two in the afternoon on a sunny day.
"You going to get somewhere, or just going?" The man approached Shaadi slowly, hands stuffed in the pockets of his tweed overcoat. "I own this carnival, and I'm looking for some extra hands. I'll give you room and board for a month's work, plus fifty a week for incidentals. What do you say?"
Before them, a lone car zoomed down the long road, not slowing down. All of the lights were on now, he could see, and they stuck out from every surface, creating a wave of illumination.
"I'm not going anywhere," Shaadi answered. It was true; he honestly could not remember where he had been headed, but he figured if it was important enough, it would have come to his mind.
"Well, follow me then and I'll tell you more," said the man. The gates to the carnival were wide and high, made of metal coated in shining black paint. They reached a smaller tent with a painted sign reading 'General Management' out front, and the man held the flap open for Shaadi to walk inside. He gave it a quick glance as the manager followed, taking in the stacks of papers and general disarray clouding every surface. The light shining through the fabric over their heads gave the small room a golden glow.
"Fifty a week, plus room and board?" Shaadi asked slowly.
"That's my deal," the manager replied.
No part of the room went uncovered by Shaadi's gaze. The desk looked to have been carved from African rosewood, and tiny hints of wealth—medallions of gold half-buried under papers, a large split geode serving as a paperweight—glimmered from around the room.
"You can afford more," he said disinterestedly.
"What makes you say that?"
"Besides the curios," Shaadi said, gesturing to the small trinkets littering the room, "your clothes are sharply cut and tailored. These things all take money, and you have no shortage of it. If I shook your hand now, I bet it would be soft. Uncallused."
The expression on the man's face changed slowly, offense disappearing as his enthusiasm grew. "Well, you're a perceptive one, aren't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "Maybe I shouldn't have you doing manual work after all—you should be working with your mind, not your hands. What's your name?"
"Shaadi."
"Has a nice ring to it. Foreign. I like it. Shaadi the Amazing Psychic, that's what we'll call you. Got any experience reading palms?"
"No."
"Doesn't matter, just tell the customers about their prosperity, their love lives, their children—make up whatever you want, just make it good, and I'll pay you sixty a week. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it. When do I start?" he asked.
"The carnival opens tonight. We'll find you a costume, don't worry. It's great work," he added. "I've been with this carnival as long as I can remember." He paused, rubbing his hands together. "Look around, get yourself familiar with the place. You seem strange, so you'll fit in well here, I think."
"Is that meant to be a compliment?"
"Consider it a piece of advice," the manager replied. "The strangeness…that's what people are here for, don't you think?"
As Shaadi exited the tent, the first strains of the calliope music began to rise up, surging through the air to reach his ears, the tune growing sharper and clearer as the seconds passed. As he walked, he noted the names and words scrawled artfully on signs hung above the closed doors—magic and mystery you must see to believe! Enter if you dare, and see the man who is half shark! Dangerous stunts with tigers and pythons, watch and be amazed!
He spotted the manager standing outside of a small tent, crammed against the side of a much larger one—The Great Disappearing Act! The Unexplained, the Real, the Magic of—and true to his word, the manager was adjusting a newly-painted sign, large enough that Shaadi had no problem reading the words painted in a hasty, bright purple scrawl:
Shaadi the Amazing Psychic! Futures told within.
"For now, this tent is yours," the manager said. "We open in a few hours, that should give you enough time to get something to eat." Patting the side of the adjacent tent, he rocked back lightly on his feet, smile gleaming, calliope music never ceasing. "Make sure you catch the magic show at the end of the night, if you can. See what you make of that."
"I will," Shaadi said.
The Great Disappearing Act! The Unexplained, the Real, the Magic of Bakura! Magic and Mystery you Must See to Believe!
The carnival was free, and that was the only reason he attended. He had never been before, but the bright lights arcing into the sky in circles from the rides and games promised little in comparison to the big tents with their displays, he wanted to see them all. The lights had been comforting then, meant to draw them in with their hypnotic blinking, and the music...the music...
The sky had been clear and cloudless, even as the sun set, and once the last rays had disappeared, the show began. He remembered thinking at the time that it was a very good show.
The turban they had given him itched uncontrollably, but he ignored it as he glanced down at the woman's palm before him, tracing the lines with a fingertip.
"You were born in July, yes?" The woman wore a garnet bracelet.
"—How did you know?—"
"And you are a musician, yes? Guitar?" The last was a guess, but her voice was high and musical, and she had calluses on the fingers of her left hand but none on her right.
"—Wow! Tell me more!—"
Each was the same, and it was much easier than he thought; by asking them simple questions about the current state of their lives, he was able to concoct various elaborate predictions for his customers. To the last, he said her love life would flourish within six months time, and that she should enjoy her upcoming vacation.
"—How did you know I was going out of town for the holidays? You really are psychic, aren't you?—"
As the hours wore on, the traffic began to dwindle to the point where Shaadi left the tent, watching instead the long line of people waiting to enter the main display—Magic and Mystery—he could see the signs even in the dim evening, the darkness punctuated by the whirling lights lining the air above him.
Curious, he left his tent, slipping in past a young couple to stand in the back and survey the show. The space was set up as a theatre, with long rows of benches leading to a wide, empty stage. The room was almost full, but even more people tried to pack in as, for the first time that night, Shaadi heard the ever-present music dim a little in volume, even if it was only his imagination.
The crowd grew silent, and the only sound was the tapping of boots as a single figure walked onstage from the wings, dressed simply in dark blue with an unbound shock of white hair flowing across his shoulders.
Suddenly, a deck of cards was in his hands, flying from one to the other as he shuffled them in mid-air. They landed in a stack in his outstretched right hand, and he gestured with his other towards the audience.
"For this act I require a volunteer! You will do—miss, in the front." He pointed at a woman in a yellow dress, who climbed to her feet with a broad smile.
"Ah, but first! Check your pockets, you will find a handkerchief missing. Kindly retrieve it from the gentleman sitting near the aisle two rows behind you, please."
To applause, Bakura bowed as the woman quickly checked her pockets, and the man in question two rows before removed a square of flower-embroidered cotton from one jacket pocket.
"Come onstage, don't be shy!" Bakura shuffled the cards again, showing them to a boy in the front row. "Can you confirm for me that this is a normal deck of playing cards, with each number represented?" The boy nodded, and Bakura reached into one coatsleeve, withdrawing a stick of peppermint candy. He handed one end to the boy, and the candy continued to grow as Bakura stepped backwards, until the boy was left holding a stick of candy well over three feet long. Again, the audience applauded.
"Miss, pick a card, please." He fanned the deck and holds it out, and the woman's fingers hovered over the cards.
"I tell you now," he continued, turning so he can address both the audience and the woman. "You can only be my volunteer if you draw a queen. Choose quickly, now."
The woman snagged a card from the middle. She held it closely, refusing to turn it over.
"Now," Bakura said, "tell the audience what card you have chosen."
"…The queen of spades," she said softly, but the sound was enough to carry to the very back of the hall, and the audience once again erupted into applause as she held up the card for everyone to see.
Bakura stepped forward as an assistant enters, wheeling a tall, black box. "For my next trick," Bakura said, "I will make this woman disappear, right before your eyes!"
The shape was not unlike a coffin, Shaadi realized, but this box had red-painted doors on the front, which Bakura opened with a flourish. "You do not have to fear," he said, "simply step inside the box." He took her hand and guided her to the front, helping her inside and closing the doors to lock her in. As Bakura closed the last door, the assistant returns, holding half-a-dozen swords in his hands. The audience gasped, and Bakura gestured to the box before taking two of the swords.
"If the woman you saw enter this box has truly disappeared, then these swords should not harm her." Slats lined the sides, barely visible from the back of the hall, but the audience waited in anticipation as Bakura slid the first of the swords through the box. He repeated the motion with the others, until each sword was lodged inside, piercing the box from every direction.
He stepped back and held out one hand towards the box. "Open!"
One by one, the doors opened on his command, revealing empty space where the woman once stood, and clean blades piercing through the air.
The audience was on their feet with applause, and Bakura gave his deepest bow yet, sweeping one arm underneath him before rising back on his feet.
"For my final trick of the evening, I need no volunteers. You see, making someone else disappear is easy. Making yourself vanish—now that's magic." He extended his hands up, palms flat, and the lightbulbs mounted around the front of the stage began to flicker.
"Watch closely, if you can," he said, before the hall was plunged into darkness. Each light had been stopped for only a second, and they returned just as brightly as before to an empty stage, devoid of all its prior contents—the box, the swords, and Bakura himself.
The applause was deafening, almost to the point of drowning out the calliope music that had once again started to play.
He accepted the invitation with hesitation, but ascended the stairs to the stage regardless. "I need a volunteer for my next act— you will do perfectly," the magician praised him.
"The magic I am about to show you will dazzle and amaze you! I will make this man disappear before your very eyes! Watch closely, now, as he enters the box! Now, we shut the doors"— and all he could see is the magician's grinning face before that, too, was obscured— "and bring out the swords! No need to be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen, for the man is no longer in the box, but somewhere else entirely! Watch closely...open!"
Why do they clap when a person disappears? Shouldn't they clap when he makes something appear, instead of taking something away?
The woman sitting before Shaadi was obviously a skeptic. "Like you could tell me anything about my future I don't already know," she said.
"Ask me a question, and I will do my best to answer it," he replied.
"Alright, then. How many siblings do I have?"
He considered the question for only a moment. "You're an only child," he said. "Am I wrong?"
"No," she admits, her frown deepening. "Tell me my age."
She didn't look a day under thirty-five. "Twenty-eight," he answered, smoothly. "Am I wrong?"
Her frown disappeared and a funny, pleased smile came over her face. "You're right," she said. They both knew she was lying, but it didn't stop Shaadi from asking if she wanted him to read her palm.
"It's not necessary," she said. "I'm not even sure why I'm back today—I was here yesterday, with a friend, but we got separated…she volunteered in a magic show, you see, and I couldn't find her afterward."
Shaadi straightened. "The woman in the yellow dress?"
"Yes," she said.
"Perhaps she simply forgot to meet you, or lost track of time?"
The hands resting on the table before him clenched together tightly, withdrawing into the safety of the woman's waist. "Impossible. I drove us here."
"Then you should speak with general management—"
"But you're a psychic!" she interrupted. "You must know!"
"I do not know where your friend is," Shaadi said. "Although I will do my best to uncover the truth."
Bakura gave an afternoon show on weekends, and it was a simple matter for Shaadi to slip out of his tent and make his way into the theatre next door, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others waiting for the chance to witness or participate in the acts of magic they thought were being performed right in front of them.
"You, sir! On the right!"
Bakura was calling up another volunteer; the man wore a large hat, and Bakura reached forward and snatched it from his head as he walked onto the stage. The audience laughed, and Bakura grasped the brim of the hat, lifting it upwards to reveal a second hat, lodged inside the first. He repeated the motion twice more, until he had four identical hats resting on a narrow table before him.
"Which hat is the original?" Bakura asked. "Guess correctly, now! If you can't, you will be in for an unpleasant surprise!"
"It's impossible, they all look the same," the man said. Shrugging, he pointed at the second hat from the left. "That one."
"Are you so sure?" Bakura flipped it over, and held it out to the man. He took it and peered inside, before dropping the hat to the floor and gagging, stepping back to the edge of the stage as the audience could see the mass of worms and insects crawling out of the hat and across the stage. Some in the front row shrieked, but Bakura simply watched their reactions, gesturing to the remaining hats.
"Can you pick the correct one?" He widened his focus, turning to the entire audience. "Can any of you tell me which hat is the original? You, sir?" He pointed to a man in the third row, who shook his head in opposition. In one fluid movement, Bakura dropped down from the stage into the aisle, moving swiftly through the audience.
"Miss? Can you?" A woman by the far side of the room was singled out, and she waved him away. "You? Your children? Can anyone do it?" His lips opened in a wide grin to reveal gleaming, even white teeth.
He stopped before Shaadi. "Can you?"
"The man was wearing the original hat," Shaadi answered simply. "So the brim would still be warm, and the others would not."
Bakura stepped back, wearing a surprised expression, and an appreciative silence grew over the audience. "Test your theory then, friend," he said, his voice low, "and let's see if you are correct."
Shaadi allowed himself to be led onstage, where he reached a hand under each hat, feeling for the tell-tale warmth that it had recently been worn.
"The middle hat," he answered calmly. "There is no mistaking it."
Bakura's loud laughter filled the space as he flipped the hat, showing it to the audience to reveal it full of coins. "For our generous volunteer!" he said, returning it to its original owner.
"And as for our assistant here, who wouldn't have recognized the carnival's psychic? An easy trick for one such as yourself, I'm sure." The audience applauded him, although not with as much attention as they did Bakura, and he did not stop Shaadi from crossing the stage and leaving it, walking alone up the aisle to the door, pausing at the threshold just long enough to hear Bakura's next words.
"—Now, I need another volunteer for my next act—"
He waited until everyone had left the theatre following the final show before slipping inside. All but a few lights were off, and those that remained glowed with a half-hearted phosphorescence.
"Watch closely, if you can," he said, before the hall was plunged into darkness.
Shaadi reached for a lightbulb, letting his fingers rest on the warm glass for a moment before withdrawing. The lights lit the stage well enough, and as Shaadi climbed to it surface he knelt to run his fingers over the smooth wood.
He recreated it in his mind; Bakura stood here, the assistant there, and the box…the box…
Crossing to the side, he knelt once more. The box had rested here, and the woman had disappeared, right before his eyes. His fingertips raked across smooth wood, no grooves or tracks. If there was no trapdoor hidden in the floor, then how did the woman disappear?
The stage was empty, so Shaadi left it to quickly walk backstage. It was much darker here, and shapes were just beginning to take definition against the walls and along the floor.
He found the box quickly enough and made to open it, although the doors rested fast against his hold. Next to it was another box, lying on a wheeled table, with hinges separating it horizontally in its exact middle—
Shuddering, he turned away, spinning on his heel to come face to face with Bakura. In his surprise, Shaadi staggered backward, his shoulders hitting the closed doors of the vanishing box.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Nothing. I'm not sure," Shaadi answered. "I'm interested in how these machines work."
"Hmm, which ones?" Bakura said, drawing closer. He snapped his fingers, and a lone lightbulb seared into life far above their heads, but it was bright enough to bring Bakura's expression into sharp relief against the shadows masking most his face. "How many of my shows have you seen, psychic? They're never the same twice, you know."
"Two," he answered. "And I am not a psychic. I'm simply an…observer, you could say."
"Pity," Bakura said. "Although this would be much less fun if you knew what was coming."
"Explain yourself," Shaadi demanded. "The handkerchief, the disappearing woman, all of it!"
"Easy enough. I stole a handkerchief from a woman as she walked in and then planted it on someone else. I just had to make sure I knew where they were seated, and pick marks that I knew wouldn't notice that anything was wrong." He rested one arm on the box beside him, which appeared deep and unending in the darkness. "Does that satisfy you?"
"And the…vanishing box?"
"A magician never reveals his secrets, Shaadi."
It was no surprise that he knew; anyone who had read the sign knew his name. Bakura said it smugly, like he was reveling in a secret that only he knew. "You're wondering about the hats now, and about the cards, and the lights, aren't you? You're wondering about magic."
"Illusions, Bakura," Shaadi said, "and nothing more. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
He tried to move past Bakura, but his arm on the box prevented Shaadi from moving far. "Are you interested in this one, Shaadi? Would you like to know how it works?"
He had enough of an idea without Bakura explaining it to him, but hearing it from his lips was the last thing Shaadi wanted, not when it sounded like that. Not when it sounded like a promise and a secret all rolled into one; not when it sounded as dangerous as it was.
"I can make you disappear," he said. "I can bring your nightmares and your fears to life. I can cut you in half." He grinned, again, and the light-bulb burned just a little bit brighter.
"Are you afraid of me, Shaadi?"
"I have no fears for you to bring to life, Bakura," he replied. "I have no nightmares. Try, if it pleases you."
"…Dreams, then? Do you have those?" Bakura's fingers played with the latch on the door to the box, the one that covered a groove for a saw to slice through, illusions and magic and Bakura's mercy. Even in the dim light, he was captivating. He needed no stage to enthrall an audience; Bakura himself was the stage. "They can be just as frightening, once you're faced with them. Do you fear death? What do you think the people fear, the ones who sit before us every day?"
"That is irrelevant. I asked you about the vanishing box."
"If you want to know so badly, I'll test it out on you, and you can see where it goes," Bakura said. "But not today—we both have jobs to do, don't we?"
"I think you enjoy keeping me in the dark." Shaadi's mutter was barely a whisper, but Bakura heard it and with another snap of his fingers the single light was extinguished.
"You have no idea."
Shaadi stumbled forward, searching with fingertips and the edges of his feet to find that Bakura had disappeared again. He was never more grateful when he finally rediscovered the light.
"What makes you happy?" Shaadi asked the man before him. He barely glanced at the lines on his palm, choosing instead to study the planes of his face and the angry, tight set of his jaw. They were far more telling.
"It is clear you are unhappy with your current life," he continued. "Spouse, work, lifestyle, or is it something else? I predict that you can be happy again, if you can figure out what is causing this and reverse it."
"I don't feel alive anymore," the man said. "I used to—I can remember the feeling, but I don't feel it anymore. I feel…disconnected."
"And how long ago was this?"
"I…don't remember," the man admitted. "Weeks, maybe years. It's all a big blur."
"What do you fear most?" Shaadi asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Your fears. Sharing them will help you." He failed to add that it was his own personal curiosity driving the question, and not any desire to help the man through them. His own desire at the moment was to uncover Bakura's secret. The thought hit him in an instant—if Bakura was giving a show, Shaadi would be free to explore the rest of the tent.
"I'm afraid of death, and dying, and—"
"Everyone dies," Shaadi informed him flatly, already rising to his feet. "And wouldn't you prefer dying while you were happy to dying in misery?"
"—Gee, that sounds cheerful—"
"I have full confidence that one of us will figure it out," he said. "Now, I need to close for the evening."
"I need a volunteer! You, sir, can you pick a card? Any one will do, but I'm positive you've just chosen a King, is that correct?"
Shaadi could almost hear the voice in his head as he slipped beneath the dark-colored fabric, sneaking past stacks of boxes and the strange devices Bakura used in his shows. The rhythmic sound mixed with the calliope, building to a frenzy as Shaadi continued his search. He did not know what he was searching for, but he knew that something was there to be found.
The building was constructed of wood and fabric, sturdier than most of the more temporary structures in the carnival. Two doors built at an angle into the sloped wall and floor caught his attention; he tugged on the handles, and found them joined by a lock. He tested it, twisting the catch to find it opening in his hand. The lock only needed to look real; as a magician, he would have a fair supply of trick locks and cuffs. Shaadi tried not to think about it as he descended the narrow steps, the air growing cooler as a series of familiar lightbulbs line the path into the large, cavernous room before him, with thin boxes stacked in rows with strange shapes resting on top, covered in glass.
It was the yellow that caught his attention first. The yellow of the dress, and he presses his fingertips to the glass, watching the woman lie there, searching for a pulse or breath and finding none. This is not what he was searching for.
"Another volunteer, please!"
He was on a time limit, Bakura could be coming at any moment, yet as he glanced at the bodies around him he wondered about their purpose, and what Bakura could be doing with them.
"I'm afraid of death, and dying, and—"
He could hear the voice again, loud, coming from somewhere right above him: "Now, for my final act."
Running, Shaadi hurried for the stairs, taking them two at a time and closing the doors tightly behind him, screwing the lock back into place. He looked around for any place to duck away, any place to escape, when Bakura's voice, much closer, cut through to him like a knife.
"Our volunteer, ladies and gentlemen, Shaadi! Welcome him with your applause!" From his position on-stage, Bakura could see Shaadi standing in the wings, and with one arm he beckoned him forward and Shaadi found his feet following the motion, carrying him on-stage to the applause of a full house.
"The mystic box, the grand disappearing act!" Bakura intoned. "Bring it forward!" The box was wheeled on-stage, placed over the spot where Shaadi knew there was no trapdoor beneath to catch him, nothing to prevent his death by being impaled with the swords he can see lingering just off-stage, nothing but magic—
"You have nothing to fear," he repeated, and Shaadi remembered the woman in the yellow dress being told those same words. "Now step into the box."
The doors opened on his command, and Shaadi places one foot into it before turning to Bakura. "You never had me draw a card, you know."
Bakura whispers the words for only Shaadi to hear. "You would never have drawn any other card but the Ace."
The doors shut, and all he can see is darkness, and he hears Bakura's voice one last time and the crowd's applause.
"— magic— "
The hand on his shoulder was keeping him down. The turban was loose and his head was cold, and as he looked around he knew exactly where he was.
Rows of bodies, lying as if dead and likely so, and as he looked down at his hands, raising them to observe them more closely, he has only one question for Bakura.
"I am dead, aren't I?"
"I killed you once, you silly fool, but you just keep coming back for seconds."
A second hand joined the first, pressing down onto his other shoulder as Bakura leaned over him, upside-down to Shaadi's eye. "What do you fear, Shaadi?"
"This place...what is this place?" he asked. "I am a ghost. That fact should trouble me more than it does."
"That is not what you fear, otherwise I would be full by now— "
"You feed on it? Their fear?"
"I fed on their lives, their souls. Now, I feed on their fear."
"I have none." Shaadi looked away. "You do not either, am I wrong?"
"Do not play the psychic today," Bakura growled. "I am not in the mood. You're one of the better souls, you know. You might not have fears...but you do have dreams."
Shaadi tried to rise, and Bakura let him. "What would happen if I found my body?"
"Ha!" He leaned back. "One out of hundreds, you would not— "
Shaadi leaped forwards, running down the row as fast as he could, sparing only a glance towards the bodies locked in each case, searching for his own. "That is not the answer to the question I asked, Bakura!" he called.
Bakura wasted no time in pursuing him, moving down an adjacent row as Shaadi cut right, knocking one of the glass shells over and into Bakura's path as he ran.
"Which do you choose?" He stepped over the intrusion, crushing the glass beneath his boots. "Live in a world that you know isn't real, or find your body and leave to a world you don't remember or understand?"
"I may remember you, but I don't understand you," Shaadi called. "I do not remember what I will find when I open my eyes, but I will understand it. And I will find my body at the center, of this I am sure."
He heard the fingers snapping across the distance, and the lights vanished. Without the light to guide him Shaadi ran into one of the cases and the glass shattered as it tipped and hit the ground. "For you to be using such tricks, I must be close," Shaadi said. He kept moving, pushing off the shells, the sound echoing harshly in the darkness.
"You're wrong!" Bakura shouted. "Wrong! You cannot leave, you will see!"
Shaadi's fingers found the glass and broke it, another shell that was not his. He moved to the next, and his fingers met cold metal, and he knew with a chill that this wasn't the glass box at all but the vanishing one, the original, still holding his body from what must have been the first time he climbed inside—
He accepted the invitation with hesitation, but ascended the stairs to the stage regardless. "I need a volunteer for my next act— you will do perfectly," the magician praised him.
"How do I open it?" Shaadi called. Bakura's laugh was his answer.
"You cannot! Only I can open it!"
Realizing too late, the crunch of broken glass grew stronger as Bakura ran towards him. The doors were already unlocking at the open, and as they swung forward Shaadi stretched his hands forward, fingertips just lightly brushing the edges of his skin, but it was enough—
His eyes opened slowly, needing to adjust to the light. He was lying in the middle of a room, cracked wooden floor beneath him, uncomfortable. There was a breeze, a window was open— no, the window was actually missing, and some of the wall along with it, leaving just a section of the fabric canopy of the tent flapping in the breeze. He stood, and the motion was difficult, his joints stiff.
The midway lane was overgrown with weeds and grass, the tents damaged from weather, the paint on the signs chipped and faded, hardly even legible. As he walked he could see a few lightbulbs flickering weakly, but most are dead or cracked, unmoving. The gates were open, and as he turned to observe it one last time it's like it never even existed at all.
But he knew this wasn't true. He reached up one hand to feel the fabric still wrapped loosely around his head, and the other reached into his pocket to find what he already knew was two hundred and forty dollars, payment for his work.
He could almost hear music on the air, slightly out of tune, and the sound of a hundred or more hands clapping for him.
End.
Notes:
1. This story was inspired by something I saw earlier this past week while traveling. My GPS unit sometimes gives me totally wrong directions, and while trying to find a Sonic (that didn't exist) it took me past a random parking-lot carnival, all lit up in the middle of nowhere, and it was literally one of the creepiest things I have ever seen. So I decided to incorporate it into my story!
2. Kerouac reference is the very first line of dialogue. There's a Prestige reference in here too! =D The "Shark-Man" mentioned briefly was supposed to be Ryouta, haha. xD
3. "Mystic Box" is the card (from the Paradox brothers duel) with the box + swords combo. "Magical Hats" is the card with the...hats.
4. $240.00 in 1950 had the same buying power as $2,196.09 in 2010...a pretty good deal if you ask me.
4. Thank you for reading. I would appreciate and value your reviews!
~Jess (My Misguided Fairytale)