Two for the Price of One

The Wizard/The Cape

Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. For the purposes of this story, I am having both shows take place in TV "now", which means that Simon and Alex A, have only aged a year or two since The Wizard was cancelled, and B, they have access to cell phones, PCs, the Internet, and other devices that either didn't exist or were very different when The Wizard was on TV. Originally published in the fanzine Our Favorite Things #28 from Elan Press: a FanQ nominee for Best Multi-Fandom Story.

Two for the Price of One

The Wizard/The Cape

by Susan M. M.

Place: Palm City, Southern California

Time: The Present

"I love the circus," Simon McKay announced. He was not enunciating clearly; his mouth was full of cotton candy.

"What's that?" asked Alex Jagger. He was a handsome man, fit and muscular. He was ten years younger than Simon ... and two and a half feet taller.

"I love the circus," Simon repeated. He had a slight, very slight, English accent. He'd been born in Liverpool, but had traveled all over the world before immigrating to the United States. He was 3' 11", in his late thirties.

"I'm surprised you didn't run away and join the circus when you were a kid," Alex said.

Simon shrugged. "Hard to run away from the middle of the Pacific."

Alex said nothing for a moment. When Simon's parents had realized that he wasn't going to grow big, they had decided he needed to grow up. He been apprenticed to a freighter captain as a cabin boy. "So this," he glanced around the big top, "is part of your 'better late than never' theory?"

Simon nodded. His parents, with the best of intentions, had denied him the normal carefree pleasures of childhood. He was trying to make up for lost time.

Three elephants marched around the ring. A pretty lady rode on the first elephant. She smiled and waved at the crowd. She turned to Simon and Alex; she blew them a kiss. At least, Alex flattered himself that the kiss was aimed at him. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was no stranger to female attention. On the other hand, the kiss might have been meant for Simon. Many women thought he was cute. Or perhaps her routine simply included throwing kisses at designated spots around the ring.

The second elephant had a Little Person riding it. He wore a turban and a glittering outfit that looked like a cross between a matador's traje de luces and something out of the Arabian Nights. He smiled and waved at the crowd. As he approached Simon and Alex, he turned and looked at them. His eyes narrowed. He leaned down and whispered to the elephant. The elephant's trunk reached out and grabbed the gray tweed cap covering Simon's red curls.

"Hey!" Simon called out.

The elephant handed the cap up to its rider. With a grin, the man removed his turban and placed Simon's cap on his bald head. The audience roared with laughter.

"Do you know him?" Alex whispered.

"He looks vaguely familiar," Simon allowed. "We might have met at a convention."

Alex nodded. Simon attended a great many conventions and conferences every year: for physicists, for computer programmers, for toymakers, for inventors, for science fiction fans, for Little People. As his bodyguard, Alex had to attend all of them. The federal agent pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of the man wearing Simon's cap. He was sure they'd get it back after the show, but just in case, he'd download the picture to the computer and run it through facial recognition software. Simon had enemies. The CIC didn't pay Alex to be reckless with Simon's safety.

The third elephant came past, ridden by a man in a clown costume. He didn't smile and wave. Instead, it looked like he was holding on for dear life.

"Do you suppose that's part of the act," Alex wondered aloud, "or is he really scared of heights?"

Simon shook his head. "I'm sure it's just part of the act, like grabbing my cap. Most of these folk were born and raised in the circus. Their families have been at this for generations."

The elephants came around a second time. The man on the middle elephant removed Simon's cap, replaced the turban on his head, and tossed the gray cap into the audience. Alex caught it.

"Thanks," Simon called out.

"Meet me after the show, Doc," the man on the elephant called back.

"He seems to know you," Alex said quietly. On the other hand, a lot of people knew, or at least knew of, Simon McKay. Not all of them were friends.

As they elephants marched out of the big top, the ringmaster stepped forward, juggling five apples. He was a big Black man, dressed like a Gypsy king. His hair was beginning to go gray, and he had a mustache and a small goatee. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, are you enjoying yourselves?"

The audience roared with approval.

"I can't hear you," the ringmaster fibbed. He caught the apples and tucked them into his pockets.

The audience cheered and roared louder.

The ringmaster gestured dramatically. A spotlight glowed on the perch high above. For a moment the perch was empty. Then two hands reached out of the darkness. The woman who'd been riding the elephant pulled herself up to the perch, then bowed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the ravishingly lovely, the insanely reckless - Raia!"

Raia posed, one arm flung up in a graceful, triumphant gesture, the other hand discreetly holding on to the safety wire.

"Watch and be amazed." A smaller spotlight gleamed on the ringmaster. The light caught the diamond earring in his right ear, making it sparkle. He predicted, "You will be dazzled as Raia dances on the high wire."

Simon and Alex watched as Raia first walked across the tightrope, a balancing pole in her hands, then retraced her steps - backwards. Next she flew over the circus, turning somersaults in mid-air as she leapt from one trapeze to the other.

Raia performed acrobatics as the audience gasped. The ringmaster did magic tricks. The tigers roared and jumped through hoops. Clowns did slapstick. The bald Little Person threw knives, narrowly missing Raia by mere inches. The crew was small; each performer did two or three different acts. Even the clown who ridden the elephant, looking as if he were terrified that he was about to fall, and the Little Person doubled as popcorn vendors wandering up and down the bleachers.

When the show ended, Simon asked, "So, what did you think?"

"Well, it wasn't Ringling Brothers, but it was fun," Alex replied.

"Bah, Ringling Brothers has so much going on at one time that you can't focus on anything. Lets the mediocre acts hide in the confusion," a voice said behind them. "Here, we emphasize quality over quantity."

Alex and Simon turned around to see the cap-thief. He had golden hoop earrings in both ears and a small goatee.

He stuck out a hand. "Don't know if you remember me, Doc. The Mighty Rollo. We met at the LPA{**} convention a year or two back."

Simon shook hands. "Of course, of course."

"Who's the cop?" Rollo asked.

"I'm not a cop," Alex denied.

"This is my friend, Alex Jagger," Simon introduced.

"Nice to meet you." Alex shook hands with Rollo. "Good show."

"Ah, this is nothing. These are our winter quarters; we're down to a skeleton crew. You should see us come summer, when we go on the road." Rollo looked Simon in the eye. He couldn't do that with many people without craning his neck, but Simon was 3'11" to his 4'1". "If you can wait half an hour or so until the crowd clears out and I get changed, I'd love a chance to get reacquainted. There's a bar near here where the beer is cold and the barmaids are sassy. I'll buy the first round," Rollo offered.

"I'm not much of a drinker," Simon confessed.

"How about dinner, then? There's an Italian place not far from here, has the best lasagna in Palm City. I can get a beer or some vino to go with mine, and you can have water or soda if you want," Rollo offered. He glanced at Alex. "The cop can come, too, if he wants."

"I'm not a cop," Alex repeated.

"You're packing heat," Rollo pointed out.

"I'm a federal agent," Alex admitted.

"Cop, fed. Same diff," Rollo declared.

"My bodyguard," Simon explained. "I haven't worked for the Pentagon in years, but they're still convinced that Moscow is out to get me." He shrugged. "I'm in more danger from Mattel."


The ringmaster sat at a dressing table, carefully removing his make-up. Rollo called out to him. "Hey, Max."

"Yes?" Max Malini replied.

"Just wanted you to know. Met up with a friend, we're going to dinner and catch up a bit," Rollo announced.

"The short guy with the cap?" Max asked. He removed the diamond stud he'd worn for the performance, and replaced it with his usual gold hoop.

Rollo nodded. He glanced left and right. "Vince around?"

"No, he's helping with clean up."

Rollo reached into his pocket. Grinning, he said, "I cleaned up pretty well myself." He pulled out the money from the pockets he'd picked and placed most of it on the dressing table.

Max picked up the money. He eyeballed the pile, but didn't count it - yet. "Between what we lifted and what we took in at the ticket booth, a decent haul tonight."

Rollo nodded.

"You don't want to embarrass Vince, or you don't want him disapproving?" Max asked.

Rollo shrugged, unwilling or unable to answer the question. "You know Vince - he's got scruples about stuff like this."

Max nodded. "Scruples are an expensive and awkward thing for someone in Vince's position."

Rollo shrugged again. "Just figured it would be easier not to rub his nose in it. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Vince Faraday had been a cop. Furthermore, he had been one of the few honest cops in the notoriously corrupt Palm City Police Department - hence his moral objections to theft.

"A gentleman, Brummell said, is one who never gives offense unintentionally," Max quoted. "You are the very soul of courtesy, Rollo."

"I try, Boss."


Parisi's looked like a hole in the wall. The paint on the walls was chipped and fading. The linoleum was cracked. Unframed paper maps of Italy and travel posters of Venice and Pisa decorated the room. Two of the light bulbs in the ceiling lights were burnt out. But it had the best lasagna on the West Coast, and the beer was cold. Rollo had no complaints. Neither did Simon.

Alex sat two tables away, eating fettuccine. He kept a discreet eye on Simon while allowing him and Rollo their privacy.

Simon and Rollo dug into the lasagna enthusiastically. They discussed everything under the sun: the problems of being short in a world designed for tall people, movies they'd seen, life in the circus, Simon's latest invention, the merits of plain rhubarb pie vs. strawberry-rhubarb pie.

"I was in Milwaukee for a computer convention. The hotel coffee shop had apple pie with cheese baked into the pie," Simon explained. "They put a layer of Cheddar just above the crust and under the apples."

"Sounds good," Rollo agreed. "You ever get to Baraboo, Wisconsin, where the Circus World Museum is?"

Simon shook his head.

"It's worth the trip." Rollo picked up his beer mug and took another slug. "Now, if you ever get to Memphis, once you get done with Graceland and Beale Street, you need to check out this museum of theirs called the Pink Palace. They've got a miniature circus there, all hand-carved. Some guy spent years - literally years - building it. Made it to look like one of the big circuses of the '30s -"

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Rollo was interrupted by the waitress' outcry. He and Simon looked up. Two men in gas masks stood in the front of the restaurant. One held an odd-looking rifle.

Alex pulled his gun from its holster. "Simon! Down!"

The man in the gas mask fired first. His rifle spit out a gas grenade. It exploded against the wall. A blueish mist spread through the dining room.

Alex fired and missed. He grabbed a napkin and held it in front of his face. He fired again. Then he, like everyone else in the restaurant, collapsed.

"The boss said to grab the little guy." His voice was muffled by the gas mask. "But there's two of 'em. Which one do we take?"

"Both of 'em."

"You think he'll pay extra for double?"

"Naw, but they're sitting together, right? So one's McKay and the other's prob'ly his brother or something. We take both, and then if the egghead don't behave, Mr. Katanga can make an example of one without damaging the merchandise."

His partner nodded his approval. They walked up to the table Simon and Rollo were sharing. Each grabbed an unconscious Little Person, slinging them over their shoulders in a fireman's carry.


Simon blinked. Everything was out of focus. His stomach burbled uncomfortably, and for a minute he thought he was going to throw up. There was something cold and hard on his wrists. He heard swearing to his left. He turned his head, his eyes still trying - unsuccessfully - to focus. He blinked again. He could make out the slightly blurry form of Rollo.

Rollo sat in a chair a few feet away from him. The words the circus performer used would make a sailor blush.

Something metallic caught Simon's eye. He glanced down. He was handcuffed to the chair. Rollo, he saw, was in a similar condition. "You okay?"

"No."

The door opened. Katanga, a tall Black man, stepped in. The two men who had abducted Simon and Rollo came in behind him. "Good evening, Dr. McKay."

Simon looked up at his captor. Katanga spoke in a British accent. His clothes were English, too - Savile Row, if Simon were any judge of three-piece suits. His skin was so dark a brown as to be nearly black. He wore a Rolex on his left wrist. On his right hand was a gold ring, inset with a large ruby. Simon said nothing.

"And who is this?" He turned to face Rollo.

Rollo kicked him. "Pudding-and-Tame. Ask me again and I'll tell you the - "

Katanga slapped Rollo before he could finish the childish taunt. His ring cut Rollo's cheek.

"Who are you?" Simon demanded.

Ignoring Simon, Katanga ordered Rollo, "Try again."

He hesitated a moment before answering. A trickle of blood crept down his face. "Rollo."

"Rollo what?" When an answer was not forthcoming, he raised his hand again.

"Just Rollo. I only use one name - like Cher or Liberace."

"Mr. Jenkyns, our guest needs to learn some manners."

"Right, Boss." One of the henchman picked up a cylindrical device from a nearby table. It looked like a giant dildo with two electrodes on top. He turned it on.

"Do you gentlemen know what this is?"

Rollo swallowed, but said nothing. He was the one Jenkyns was approaching, after all.

"An electric cattle prod," Simon replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And do you know what it does to human flesh?" Katanga peered down at Rollo.

Rollo nodded.

"I need two names for the tombstone. Now, Rollo what? Rollo McKay? Rollo Kennedy? Rollo Obama?" When the circus performer didn't respond, Katanga gestured to his henchman.

Jenkyns stepped closer to Rollo. The top of the cattle prod sparked malevolently.

"Jones," Rollo blurted out. "My legal name is Roland Jones."

With a disappointed frown on his face, Jenkyns lowered the cattle prod.

Katanga smiled. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Who are you?" Simon repeated. "What do you want?"

"You're a clever man, Dr. McKay. I'd have thought you'd be able to suss that out on your own. Money, Dr. McKay. A very large sum of money."

Simon squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

"The Americans might ransom you, but more likely the Eastern Europeans or the North Koreans will buy you. I hope for your sake you're good at foreign languages."

"This is the 21st century," Rollo protested. "You can't - "

Katanga nodded at Jenkyns. The cattle prod came down on Rollo's arm. He screamed.

"I will offer the pair of you together: two for the price of one. If we cut off one of your fingers, Doctor, it may slow you down in the laboratory. Mr. Jones, on the other hand, has ten fingers which are of no use to me, but which may have value to you."

Simon licked his lips nervously. "I cooperate, and Rollo doesn't get hurt. I give you trouble, and he pays for it instead of me."

Katanga nodded. "You are worth a great deal of money. His life means nothing to me, save as a means to persuade you to good behavior."

Simon looked at Rollo. He was an acquaintance, not a friend, but Simon couldn't allow him to be tortured for his sake. He bowed his head in defeat. "I'll behave myself."

"Excellent." Katanga turned to his henchmen. "Take them to the other room. You have your switchblade, Mr. Lopez?" When he nodded, Katanga continued, "If Dr. McKay tries anything, cut off Mr. Jones' thumb. If Mr. Jones tries anything, use the cattle prod."

Rollo's face went white. Without his thumb, he'd never throw another knife, never pick another pocket.


Alex coughed himself awake. He felt something cold and slimy on his face. He sat up slowly, very slowly, since each movement jarred his aching head and increased his nausea. Fettucine. He'd been lying face down in a plate of fettucine. Absent-mindedly, he grabbed a napkin and wiped his face off. His brain began to function. Fettucine. Restaurant. The gas grenade. "Simon!"

Alex tried to stand up, but collapsed back into his seat. He forced himself to try again, and succeeded this time. He looked around. Everything was blurry and out of focus. The dining room was full of unconscious diners and waitresses. A few of them were beginning to wake up. Alex looked at Simon's table. It was empty, just as he'd feared.

Alex pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.


Jenkyns unlocked Rollo's handcuffs, then shoved him forward. Rollo fell to the floor. The door slammed shut behind him.

"You okay?" Simon went to help him up.

Rollo swore. "I'll live. He turned his head as he heard the lock click shut behind them.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to - "

"Ain't your fault, Doc."

"How's your arm?"

"Hurts like hell."

Simon checked Rollo's arm. The cattle prod had burned a hole through the shirt sleeve, and left an ugly mark on his arm. He glanced at their surroundings. They were locked in a bathroom. The ladies' room, judging by the lavender-scented soap dispenser and the artificial flowers by the sink.

"I should have fought back more," Rollo complained. "Normally, I give as good as I get." He seemed more frustrated at his lack of fighting back than he did by his wound.

Simon wet a paper towel and tried to clean the wound. The cool water should at least ease the pain a little. "Normally, you haven't been drugged and handcuffed," he pointed out. "Normally, you're not dealing with people with electric cattle prods and gas grenades."

Rollo nodded wryly. "Barroom brawls are more my usual style."

"We were outgunned and outmanuevered from the get-go. Our job now," Simon remembered Alex's many discussions on security, "is to survive. Cooperate as much as possible, keep our eyes open for a way to escape, and wait for rescue."

"Rescue," Rollo repeated softly. He'd prefer to break out on his own, but that might not be possible. He had a lockpick in his shoe, but it did him no good with lock on the other side of the door. "I've got friends, too: Max, Vince, Ruvi, JoJo. Don't underestimate them. Circus folk are tough."

"Let's see if there's a way out, or anything we can use as a weapon," Simon examined the bathroom. There were two stalls, one narrow, one wide enough for a wheelchair. Other than a cot in front of the stalls, it was a very ordinary bathroom. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could use as a weapon. Simon was disappointed that there were no cleaning or first aid supplies stored in the bathroom. Mixing ammonia and iodine, or ammonia and chlorine bleach, could make a very potent - though highly unstable - explosive.

Rollo pointed to the things on top of the cot. "A deck of cards, a crossword puzzle book, and a mechanical pencil. Guess they don't want us to get bored."

Simon shook his head. "Maybe my brain is still fogged from the gas, but I don't see any way to use these to break out."

Rollo nodded. He didn't tell the toymaker about his ace in the hole: the Cape. Simon would think he was crazy if he said A, Palm City had its own real life superhero, and B, they were friends.


{**} LPA:Little People of America. The late Billy Barty was one of the founding members.