CHAPTER 3 Face to face with the same old villainy March 13, 1871- March 20, 1871

Whether it took months or years didn't matter, the hunt was his new obsession. He often came very close to caravans camping along the highway. He'd watch and listen from the veil of night, remembering the quick language of the gypsies that still filled his nightmares. Each troupe seemed to have its own society, differing sometimes in its wickedness. The phantom was able to dismiss these groups from the one he tracked.

One day during the middle of March he came upon a fair that had been erected in a field a few hundred feet from the city of Hallein. He hid himself among the brambles of a thicket until night descended. Once the sun had set and the torches were lit he joined the group of onlookers filing thru a row of tents, arching their necks to see a successive row of freaks.

Some of those on display sat comfortably on dirty couches that were touted about and set up for a gothic effect. There were all the oddities one expected to see. The bearded woman, a shaven man tattooed from head to toe, a small girl labeled a living mermaid, and a set of conjoined twins. Interspersed among the oddities were a sword swallower, fire eater, and the standard contortionist.

Lying suggestively on a Persian rug was a woman with only one arm and leg. He noted queasily that the scarring on the nubs of her missing appendages suggested that they had been lopped off. Two painted midgets led the tour, spinning tails of magic and woe about each exhibit.

A man who must have weighed in excess of 700 lbs. had been carted out and set at the center of the caravan as the Piece De Resistance. The phantom gazed upon this man with pity. The barkers had adorned him with pieces of bread and meat on his folds of flesh, and the man greedily grabbed each piece shoving them in his mouth. He had the glazed eyes of an animal, long used to the abuse of its captures and sickeningly grateful for the opportunity to please. He knew that look personally, having worn it for many years. The man was a prisoner of not just the gypsies, but of his own body, and the only salvation he might ever find would be in the welcome arms of death.

The phantom lingered in the shadows outside the ring of wagons afterwards. When the tours were done, the crowd dispersed, and the Ursari had begun drinking themselves into a stupor, he steeled himself under the flaps of the tent that had been put in place around the large man. There was a stench of funk all around, and the only sound was the gurgling breath of the freak. He seemed to be sleeping, but as the phantom approached he opened his eyes wide.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"An angel; the angel of death." came a response from the shadows.

"Have you come to kill me?" he questioned excitedly.

"Do you wish for death?"

The man was silent for a moment before answering. "Yes….please."

"Then here, one last drink and you can fall into my arms forever." The phantom placed a vial into the fat man's hand. It held enough poison to kill half the encampment with its potency, but the phantom wasn't sure how much it would take to affect the large man. The fafreak looked at the glint on the small glass container only a moment before clumsily removing the stopper and pouring the contents down his throat with delectation.

"Will there be pain?" he inquired.

"Only an end to the pain; before you go, tell me your name."

"Giancarlo Maniverti." He said proudly. "I was not always as you see here. I was once a beautiful man, powerful and loved by women." He lied, but the phantom wasn't going to call him out on it.

"Of course, and you will be again. Be at peace Giancarlo."

"Thank you my friend." It took only a few more seconds for the fat man to close his eyes and the empty vial fell from his hands and disappeared in his folds of flesh. There was no sound of breath or life from him. The silence in the tent was restful as the angel withdrew into the night.

He was making his way back to the forests edge when he heard a squeal from a nearby thicket a few yards from the caravan, then a piteous whimper, and muffled sobbing amidst the ugly grunting of a man. The phantom's first instinct was to ignore the telltale signs of a rape in progress, but a fever of fury began to build in his gut. He turned towards the noises and soon came upon a man holding a young girl face down into the brush.

Her skirts had been ripped and her blood smeared bloomers had been tossed to the side. Not thinking of the outcome, the Phantom leaped forward brandishing the Punjab lasso and caught the man around the neck. He hoisted him off of the squirming child who immediately scrambled away. Seeing that she couldn't be more than 13 years old enraged him even further and he tightened his grip, hoping to snap the man's neck at any moment. But the young girl called out through her racking sobs.

"No, he's drunk. He's my papa. He's not bad, just when he's drunk." The phantom was disgusted. Was she actually pleading for the life of this fiend, and he was her father as well? He released the man who fell straight to the ground gasping loudly. He was trying to speak, but the lasso had nearly crushed his windpipe and inhalation was a struggle.

"Your daughter has saved your life monsieur, but you will not live if you do this again. Here is something to remind you that lasciviousness and incest are unforgiveable sins." The phantom unsheathed his sword and with one quick swipe separated the four fingers of the man's right hand just below the knuckles. The child screamed, but did not run to the aid of her father. She only remained sitting on the ground staring at the blood pouring from her father's hand. The man rolled onto his back, grimacing at the pain of his dismemberment.

"Your word monsieur?" he demanded. The man managed to nod his head vigorously. He addressed the girl one last time "You might want to cauterize that before he bleeds to death." She nodded as well and the phantom disappeared into the night.

He expected to be pursued so he ran for as long and as far as he could until daybreak. He found a collection of boulders and was able to secure himself among them to rest and hide for the day. No sounds of hunters reached his ears and he managed a few hours of uncomfortable sleep until night once again descended.

When he emerged from the rubble, he resumed his journey and never heard anything more of those encounters. He though often of Giancarlo, and in the fertile ground of his imagination he created for him a world where he was the powerful lover of women he'd boasted once being. He pictured them together, two arrogant and heroic musketeers parading about the countryside saving villages and melting the resolve of grateful damsels. The fantasy kept him company for many long nights, but the events had also strengthened his resolve to revenge himself on the gypsies who'd imprisoned him.

The poison he'd given the fat man had been intended for the Ursari he hunted. If he poisoned their water supply or wine, he could be done with the lot of them in one quick act. Any stragglers would be dispatched by his sword or pistol. Then he could join them with that same toxin, or maybe he'd acquire something special to kill himself. Either way he needed to find an apothecary to restore his supply before that fateful day.