Author's Note: Between Real Life attacking and ff dot net going down, this one was like pulling teeth, but here it is. Thanks as always for the follows, favorites, and especially for the reviews. I really needed the boost your kind word gave me. Enjoy.
Chapter Thirteen: Send in the Clowns
The Mauser's traveling show included five fulltime clowns, one of which was a reluctant Shiro Yoki, but as Performance Director, the details of Roy's disguise were left to Merrill Mauser. After that evening's show, with his head once again bowed under a battered felt hat, Roy was escorted through the sparsely peopled lot to the rear of the big top. Just inside behind a stiff canvas curtain he was greeted by a grinning Merrill seated at a long, lamp-lit counter holding a wide assortment of makeup and accessories.
"Welcome to Clown Alley," Mauser said cheerily, sweeping his hand in a graceful, welcoming flourish.
The dimly lit cloth enclosed space was not large, but it contained a startling variety of neatly arranged and wildly colourful costumes and props. The long table at which Mauser was seated dominated the room; a closer look revealed it to be a wide, sturdy plank supported by wooden crates. Rickety folding chairs were arranged at the counter before a mismatched collection of mirrors, spotted and cloudy with age. The counter itself was crowded with makeup and applicators of every conceivable type. Tubes and tins; patties and powers; sponges, brushes, powder puffs, and cotton balls – everything the up-and-coming clown about town might require to prepare for their grand entrance to the big top. Red, white, and black appeared to dominate the selection of greasepaints, but every other colour of the rainbow was also presented in many and varied cosmetic media.
Merrill motioned for Roy to take the seat by the counter facing his. The two men sat knee to knee in the lamplight, and Roy noted in passing how loosely the other man's slacks hung on his legs.
"Before we can start on your face, we'll have to get your hair out of the way," Mauser said briskly, getting right down to business. He handed Roy a light beige bit of cloth, much like a very short nylon stocking. "This will do the trick, and will keep your hair under control if we decide to include a wig in your disguise."
Roy noted the twinkle of amusement in Merrill's eye as he pulled on the tight nylon cap and tucked loose hair neatly underneath. The ringmaster's twin was clearly enjoying this. When Roy's task was complete, the other man nodded his approval.
"Now for the face," Merrill said, examining Roy's features with a critical eye. "We don't want anything too complicated. It has to be easy to apply, with maximum coverage. The design should be simple enough that you can do it yourself, but should still be eye-catching." He leaned back, eyes narrowed. "Smile for me."
Roy did so.
"Give me a frown," Mauser instructed.
Roy complied.
"Now a pout."
Roy pouted.
"Oh, those brooding, bedroom eyes," Merrill sighed, his grin teasing. "A tramp, definitely."
If the man was hoping to get a rise out of the Führer, he was in for a disappointment. Roy grinned, amused.
"You're not the first person to suggest that," he confided.
Merrill returned the smile, delighted.
"I knew it!" he said. "You may not be aware of this, but a clown's appearance is designed to reveal their secret persona in a distinct and remarkable style. I will now attempt to coax your inner tramp out into the open. Shall we begin?"
Roy nodded his consent, intrigued by the process, and oddly excited.
"The main staple of professional clown makeup is greasepaint," Mauser explained. "White, red, and black are the basic foundation, and we build on that depending on the clown's personal preference." He reached for an open tin of white makeup and a small, triangular sponge. "We'll start with the white. It will cover your face entirely, including your eyebrows; you'll find it makes quite an effective mask."
Using the sponge, Merrill carefully smoothed the greasy substance over the plains and valleys of Roy's face from chin to hairline, including his eyelids, then traced along the curve of his jaw, with a final swipe over his upper lip. Putting the sponge aside, he selected a small cotton swab to wipe excess paint from around Roy's eyes, dabbing here and there to clean up the lines. When Mauser leaned back to examine his handiwork, Roy turned to the mirror, curious.
But for his bottom lip and a small round spot defining the tip of his nose, his face was completely white; a blank, featureless page. He lifted a hand reflexively.
"Don't touch it," Mauser cautioned. "It will smudge until it's set with powder; that of course comes last."
Roy turned back to face the other man, hands folded firmly in his lap. Merrill pushed the white paint aside and pulled another tin closer, along with a flat, soft bristled brush with a pointed tip. Popping the tin's lid revealed gleaming black paint, into which the brush was neatly dabbed.
"I'll draw your features boldly in black, as befits a tramp of your lofty standing," Merrill stated.
He proceeded to sketch thin eyebrows above Roy's actual brows. That was followed by a careful tracing around Roy's eyes, the brush stroking low onto his cheeks from the centre point of his lower lids. Mauser cocked his head to one side, examining his work critically, then trimmed a black outline all the way around Roy's face.
"Almost there," he murmured, reaching for a small tube of bright red, which he used to coat Roy's lower lip.
Merrill ran a calculating finger along the row of colourful grease pencils, finally choosing a brilliant azure to paint the tip of Roy's nose. He then picked up a powder puff and patted it into a pot of finely ground charcoal.
"No tramp would be complete without his charming five o'clock shadow," Mauser mused as he lightly powdered Roy's chin and cheeks, pausing after a few moments to examine his work. "That's just right," he said. "Now, the finishing touch." He used a large puff to liberally dust a light, translucent powder over his subject's face. "There. That will set the greasepaint without dulling the colour." The makeup artist sat back, satisfied.
Roy turned once again to the mirror, marveling at the transformation reflected in clouded glass.
As a child, and even to some extent as an adult, clowns tended to creep Roy out. It was likely due to the fact that even for an acknowledged master in the art of understanding human nature, it was very difficult to gauge just what was going on behind that painted façade. The subtle shades of meaning written in facial expressions were muted behind a colourful mask.
And mask it was, despite its thin, flexible venire, because Roy now realized that it could also hide so much more.
The whiteface alone had been enough to effectively obscure Roy's features, but now, with a few simple embellishments, the familiar characteristics of his face were changed to a surprising degree.
The black outlining his eyes made them appear larger, and cleverly changed their distinctive shape. Thin black brows arched high in mock surprise, drawing the eye and lengthening Roy's face. Matching spikes pointed down below his eyes to change the contour of his cheeks, as the bright red, exaggerated pout of his bottom lip shortened his jaw. The artful dusting of black powder over cheeks and chin further obscured his features. Even the simple blue circle did its part, changing the natural shape of Roy's nose. He was quite sure that if Madam Christmas were to step into the tent at that moment, even she would be hard pressed to recognize him.
Merrill sat quietly, waiting for Roy's assessment.
"You sir, are an artist," Roy said with great sincerity.
Mauser's blue eyes sparkled with pleasure at the compliment. "And you sir, are too kind," he responded with a slight bow of his head. "Now for the hair. Please fetch down the orange crate from the top of that wardrobe, if you don't mind." A pointing finger indicated the desired box.
Roy did as he was bid, placing the crate on the counter beside the other man. Merrill pulled it instead into his lap and began to rummage through the contents – a multicolored jumble of wigs. He pulled out one after the other, discarding them on the counter, until finally settling on a thick shock of bright blue curls.
"This one I think," he said softly, handing it over to Roy, who tugged it on over the nylon cap. "Yes, and that old felt hat will fit nicely on top."
The hat was snugged on. Roy once again examined his reflection, and had to admit that the hat was a nice touch.
"Please do help yourself to a costume from the second rack over there," Merrill instructed, pointing the direction once again. "I suggest anything patched and baggy."
Supervised by Merrill, Roy selected loose, baggy brown pants that fell to just above his ankles; a faded shirt, yellow with large blue polka dots; and a shabby brown jacket patched in bright red at the elbows. Mismatched socks, one orange, one purple, and overlarge scuffed brown shoes completed Roy's outfit.
Roy was giving his bright red suspenders a final adjustment when Matthew Mauser swept aside the canvas partition to enter the dressing area. He gave the Führer's outlandish attire a quick once over before granting his approval with a short nod.
"What do you think?" Merrill asked his brother.
"It will do," Matthew said.
Merrill gawked, outraged. "What do you mean, 'It will do'? It will more than do! He's perfect! We haven't had a convincing tramp in two years!"
"He's not here to perform, Merry," Matthew said with a frown. "This is just camouflage to make his stay with us more comfortable."
Merrill's face fell and he glanced at Roy, dejected.
Roy cleared his throat. "Well, I wouldn't be averse to joining your performers in the ring," he started slowly. "As an amateur, however, I feel I might just be in the way."
Merrill perked up as Matthew's frown deepened.
"Nonsense!" Merrill chirped happily. "You mentioned that you juggle. I'm sure that we can spin that into an act!"
Roy noted Matthew's scowl. "I really wouldn't mind, as long as you think it's safe," he told him. "Having a clown on the lot who doesn't perform might look suspicious, but having someone recognize me in the ring would be much worse."
Under Merrill's hopeful gaze Matthew examined Roy's disguise again, this time more carefully. Then his stern demeanor eased.
"As disguises go, this one is nearly perfect," he said at last. "Especially since I'm sure no one would expect to find the high and mighty Führer of Amestris in such absurd attire performing slapstick routines in a road show. So if you want to give clowning a try, I won't stop you. I think you could actually get away with working the audience on the come-in, but we won't tempt fate any further than we already are," Matthew said with a grim smile.
"Maybe we could use him in the clown stop between the second and third acts." Merrill was all excitement. "And of course he can join the knockabout. We can come up with something firm tomorrow, but I have plenty of ideas!"
The indulgent smile Matthew gave his brother as Merrill listed his plans was pleased, and proud, and tender. Roy recognized it immediately. It was the same smile that graced Edward's features when the topic of conversation was Alphonse. Of these two men, born at essentially the same time, the eldest was obviously Matthew.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to return to Murata-san's bandwagon." Roy was finally able to break into Merrill's enthusiastic monologue. "She has offered me the use of the second bed in her infirmary, and it appears I will have a very busy day tomorrow."
The ringmaster turned to Roy, relaxed for the first time since Roy had met him. "Yes, by all means," he said. "Can you find your way, or would you like me to lead you?"
"No, I'll be fine," Roy assured the two brothers as he turned to leave. "Goodnight gentlemen."
The short walk back through the circus grounds was uneventful. No one gave the artfully disguised Führer a second glance, and Roy relished his anonymity. It had been quite some time since he had been able to step alone into the public eye without fear of being recognized, and then confronted by admirers and critics alike. Celebrity was just another price he paid to fulfill the promises he had made to atone for his crimes, and one of the least unpleasant, but it was nice to have this peaceful interlude to stroll about without care. He was reminded of his academy days, on leave with Maes, carefree as they wandered about Central, well before his life had been weighed down with extraordinary obligation. So many years later he found it hard to believe that he had ever been so free.
Roy entered Murata's bandwagon as quietly as he could so as not to disturb the Nihonese woman or her patient at that late hour. He need not have bothered. Edward was sitting up in his bed, and Murata was seated cross-legged on the other. The lighting had been dimmed to a single lantern on Edward's nightstand, and the room's two occupants peered expectantly at their visitor standing just beyond reach of its faint glow.
Murata without her makeup and costume was revealed to be an attractive woman a few years order than Roy himself. Her face was scrubbed clean, and Roy made a mental note to ask her how she had removed the greasepaint so thoroughly. Her long dark hair was caught back in an ebony tail and draped carelessly over her shoulder. A pale pink dressing gown wrapped her slender frame.
"Come in so that we can see you, Führer Mustang," Murata said, encouraging Roy closer with a beckoning hand.
Roy braced himself and stepped further into the room. The reaction was immediate.
The alkahestris' hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my," she said softly. "You have been transformed."
Edward's eyes were round with surprise as well, mouth frozen agape on some forgotten and probably impertinent remark. Then his eyelids slid to half mast over molten, glittering gold, and his lips tiled to an admiring grin. Roy was surprised at the younger man's reaction; he had expected laughter and some good, old fashioned mockery. He had even looked forward to the teasing banter that would result, and the mutual exchange of innocuous insults.
But this was far more intriguing.
Edward finally found his voice. "Leave it to you, Mustang, to try for the absurd and still end up sexy as hell."
"You do look remarkably good," Murata agreed.
"Why thank you Murata-san, Edward," Roy purred. "I can't take credit for the creative aspects however. The charm of my disguise is due entirely to Merrill's artistic talent. Why are you both still awake? I hope I haven't interrupted a private conversation."
"No, not at all. We waited up to see what form your disguise would take," the Nihonese woman admitted.
"Ah," Roy said, pleased. "I'm glad I did not disappoint."
"Like you ever could," Edward said, and the low timbre of his voice drew Roy to him like a moth to flame.
The Nihonese alkahestris glanced between the two men as the disguised Führer moved closer, mild amusement in her eyes. She slipped off the bed and turned to face Roy, hands on hips.
"He is not to do anything that might place undue strain on his healing injury," she said, no nonsense. "We have an early rise tomorrow, and I need my rest, so I must insist that you keep the noise to a minimum."
Edward instantly flushed a deep red. "Oneesan! What are you . . ."
"I will do my best to stay quiet," Roy promised. "And as for doing him harm, I would sooner injure myself."
Murata accepted Roy's statement with a nod, and turned to the door between the two beds. "I bid you both good night then," she said primly, with just the hint of a smile.
"Just a moment," Roy stopped her. "I wasn't told how to remove this makeup, and I suspect that soap and water won't be enough."
"Quite true," Murata confirmed.
Stepping around Roy she moved to one long side counter and opened a lower cabinet, reaching inside to remove a large ceramic whiskey jug, a wash basin, an ornate table mirror, and a mound of cotton cloths. Placing the items on the counter, Murata then fetched a heavy pitcher, a bar of soap, and a towel, and set them beside the first assortment of cleaning materials.
"Greasepaint is made to last on the skin, even through an energetic performance. It must stay in place even if the performer is sweating heavily," the woman said. She gave the ceramic jug an affectionate pat. "This is mineral oil. Pour it on a clean, soft cloth to moisten it, then gently wipe your face to remove the makeup. Move to a clean portion of the cloth after each wipe to avoid smearing the makeup back onto your face. Change cloths as necessary." Murata gave the water pitcher a pat next. "When you are done, clean the oil from your face with soap and water. Nothing could be simpler."
"I could always help," Ed volunteered.
Murata rounded on him with a glower. "You will stay in that bed." She then turned back to Roy and wagged a finger. "Remember; nothing too strenuous. Nothing too loud."
Roy bowed as the woman moved past him to open the door to her bedroom, casting one last warning glance at Edward. Then she slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
The two men looked at each other.
"Well," Edward started. Then he stalled on what to say next.
"Well," Roy confirmed, gliding over to the bedside. "It appears we have . . . permission."
"'Nothing too strenuous' isn't exactly permission," Edward pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest.
"It's close enough." And it was much too tempting for Roy not to take advantage of the opportunity.
Roy leaned in slowly, giving Ed time to tell him no, to protest that the infirmary was too public, the walls were too thin, his leg was too sore, something. Ed didn't say a word. Encouraged, Roy brushed his painted lips across Ed's, lingering before he flicked out his tongue and traced the bowed line of Ed's mouth, nudging teasingly until lips parted for him. Roy loved this seduction, as fresh and enjoyable as a first time. He was immediately lost in Ed's taste, in the sounds he made and the way he leaned into Roy's touch.
Pulling back, Roy moved to brush parted lips lightly over that vulnerable place just behind Edward's ear, warm breath teasing sensitive flesh. His tongue flicked out again, tracing a lingering path down his lover's throat with only the lightest scrape of teeth. He felt Edward's shiver through their only contact, Roy's mouth against Edward's skin, felt him jerk, felt the hitched moan of his breath as Roy opened his mouth wider and bit down, lightly, lips caressing as he pulled slowly away.
"You taste good," he purred, voice low.
"You're a bastard," Edward countered, voice husky. "Starting something like this when you know we can't properly finish it."
Roy leaned in and nuzzled under the blond's ear. "We'll see about that," he breathed. "Just leave it to me."
Edward's attention shifted to the closed door between the two beds, calculation in his eyes, a small frown dipping his brows. Then his consideration returned to Roy, to Roy's smoldering gaze from paint shadowed lids, to Roy's roguish smile on vividly tinted lips.
"Alright," Ed managed with some reluctance, breaths already quickened.
Roy wasted no time, shifting closer to taste the hollow of Ed's throat. His lips on Edward's smooth skin made Roy shiver, but it was nothing compared to the reaction he got, a low rumble of need as Edward's head tipped back, throat bared in invitation.
Edward did, indeed, leave it to Roy, much to both men's satisfaction. Using hands and lips, teeth and tongue, Roy was pushed to surpass the limits of his creativity. He only hoped that Murata would forgive the few sounds he managed to wring past Edward's white knuckle grip on his self control.
When all was said and done, the Tramp tried not to grin when Edward reached for him unconsciously. Roy couldn't help but feel tremendously smug as he moved away.
"I'd better clean up," he said. "I wouldn't want to stain Murata-san's pillow covers with clown paint."
"Stain the ones in this bed," Ed said, shifting over to make room for Roy to lie down. "You can transmute the greasepaint out tomorrow. I want to touch you."
"I need to get this makeup off. And I'll sleep over there," Roy pointed to the other bed. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't want to sleep. I want to . . . touch you."
It was tempting, but . . . "Too strenuous. You need to rest." Roy said in a no nonsense, end of story tone.
Edward huffed. "Then just sleep with me," he said. "You won't hurt me."
"We'll be in the same room."
"I want to be in the same bed," Edward said. "Sleep with me."
It was a simple enough request and Roy found he couldn't refuse. "Alright. I'll just get cleaned up."
Edward smiled, content, as Roy turned to the task of removing his makeup. When he was done, Edward was fast asleep.
~0~
Roy Mustang was not at his best first thing in the morning. Particularly not first thing in the very early morning. A glance at the clock by the bed told him he was awake well before sunrise, but the fact that he had to check the time by peaking over a half ravelled blond plait told him that while it might be far too early to be getting out of bed, he was at least starting the day off right.
Smiling, he relaxed to savour the moment, listening to the quiet tick of the clock timing Ed's steady breaths. This tranquil warmth was something that had been missing from his life for many years. He could have had lovers when he wanted them, but the heavy demands of his position left him little time to indulge, even if he had been inclined toward meaningless, convenient trysts. More and more for Ed however, he found he wanted to make time.
Though he was reluctant to move, Roy eased out of the bed in the predawn light and made use once again of the soap and water for a quick wash, vowing to locate the nearest shower at his earliest convenience. Gathering his discarded clothing he quickly dressed, then lit a small lamp and placed it on the long side counter by a mirror where he discovered that Murata was already up and about. Neatly arranged by the looking glass he found all that he required to repaint his face. Pulling up a chair, he set about restoring his disguise.
Roy soon found out that it wasn't as easy as it looked. The skill with which Merrill had applied the makeup the night before was obviously gained from long practice. It took the Führer nearly twice as long to get it right. But finally the job was done, and Roy was free to leave the confines of his refuge, safely in the light of day.
The cheerful sound of the steam calliope was evidence enough that someone else was up and about, but Roy saw no one on the midway. The latrine was easy enough to find behind the long line of circus bandwagons. Roy quickly did what he had to, then stepped back out into the bright morning sunrise to be met by Merrill, seated astride a sturdy grey pony, legs dangling loose just above the ground. It was a sight so bizarre, Roy had to blink. Twice.
"A gracious good morning to you, my fine Tramp," Mauser said, grinning from ear to ear at Roy's reaction. "I trust you slept well?"
"Very well, thank you," Roy responded as he stared at the circus manager and his mount. The plump little animal examined Roy as well, then shook its shaggy mane and snorted. Apparently Roy passed inspection.
"Are you ready to begin your crash course in clowning?" Merrill asked, eyes bright with anticipation.
"I am," Roy confirmed.
"Breakfast first. Step right this way to the cook shack," Merrill said, reining his mount in the direction of the big top. "Your new colleagues eagerly await your arrival."
"I can't help but notice your unconventional mode of locomotion," Roy ventured as he moved to walk beside Mauser.
"As well you should. This is a circus after all. People expect the absurd and outrageous. No, they demand it!" Merrill declared. "I am a man driven to satisfy that demand!"
"If you don't mind my asking, how did you lose the use of your legs?" Roy asked quietly.
Merrill shot him an appraising, though amused glance. "It usually takes new acquaintances much longer to notice my infirmity," he said, unoffended, "or perhaps they just require more time to work up the nerve to ask about it. You are indeed a bold and clever tramp."
Roy waited, hoping for an account.
"It was an accident in the ring." Merrill tilted his face to the sky. "Five years ago. I injured my spine. Life goes on."
It appeared that that was all Mauser was inclined to say on the matter, and Roy accepted the man's short and simple explanation. He turned his attention instead to his surroundings.
This was the first good look at the Mausers' traveling show Roy had had in broad daylight. It was immediately obvious that this was no two-bit dog and pony operation, and if there was any lingering doubt, the steam calliope stationed by the tent's main entrance was proof positive.
Bright red embellished with polished brass fittings, the show wagon bearing the Mauser Brothers' massive pipe organ was huge. Designed to be pulled by a team of horses, the carriage was twenty feet long, eight feet wide, and stood twelve feet high with the gleaming brass chimney jutting three feet higher. The plate steel boiler, glazed jet black, was visible through the scroll patterned openings in the side panels, as were the brass pipes arranged in two rows along the wagon's centre. Roy stepped closer to peek inside at the musician. Clever fingers dancing over burnished brass keys, she punctuated her musical phrasing with a flourish and a cheeky sideward wink at Roy.
Mauser had noted Roy's interest. "We could hook a dynamo up to the boiler and use it to generate electrical power, but then Matt would probably want to invest in a steam carousel too, and I think we're big enough as we are." Merrill grinned up at the clear blue sky. "For now."
The cook shack was a tent, but Roy was willing to forgive the misnomer if the food was even half as good as it smelled. Brushing back the canvas flap, Merrill rode straight inside, Roy following behind. A few heads turned to note their entrance, then returned to their breakfast. No one gave them a second glance.
The pair approached the serving bench. A tall, dark skinned man observed them, piercing blue eyes lingering on Roy. Without acknowledging Merrill's cheerful greeting, he efficiently dished out a hearty breakfast to each of them much like the one Roy had enjoyed the morning of his arrival, just twenty-four hours before. Roy thanked him with a short nod. The man made no response.
"That's Ishapore, our Hindustani strongman. He's very . . . stoic." Merrill nudged his pony toward a long table where an assortment of circus personnel were enthusiastically chowing down.
Roy glanced back at Merrill's 'strongman'. That particular title brought to Roy's mind someone who resembled Alex Armstrong or Sig Curtis: a towering mass of bulging, vein-shot muscle that strained and ripped through unfortunate clothing at every opportunity. Ishapore was as far from that image as humanly possible. Though very tall, the dark skinned man was also pencil thin. His bald head was small and perfectly round, with huge ears lying snug against his head, large sky-blue eyes, and a short flat nose. Perched on his long spindly neck, it looked very much like a polished mahogany ball cap topping a flimsy flag pole. His clothes hung from his lanky frame, baggy and loose. Over all, he looked more like an animated scarecrow than a circus strongman, an emaciated refugee from some famine plagued locality.
Idle chatter at the long rough-hewn table petered out as Roy and Merrill approached, all eyes examining the new arrivals, lingering on Roy curiously. The assembled troop certainly knew who he was. Roy hoped that they could get past his lofty position and relate to him naturally. Not only would it be easier for Roy to blend in, it would also make his stay more comfortable both for himself as well as his hosts. How they would work together for the duration of Roy's stay largely depend on these next few minutes.
"Good morning, all," Merrill greeted them cheerfully. "Allow me to introduce the latest addition to our company: the Tramp."
"At your service," Roy said quietly.
"Tramp, huh?" A large, chubby clown with winged out red hair frowned under his garishly painted smile, then slid over to make room for Roy. "Have a seat, then, Trampy. I'm Bossy. But you can call me Mr. Bossy, 'cause I'm your new boss."
"Pleased to meet you," Roy said, unfazed as he sat beside the bigger man.
Bossy proceeded to introduce the other diners. "This here's Lock," he said, indicating the scraggly, balding clown beside him with a swat to the arm. "Next to him is Stock," a clown with spiked up yellow hair raised a hand, "and over there's Big Bertha," a snicker ran around the table as an immensely overweight woman wearing a frilly pink dressing gown fluttered her eyelashes at Roy and blushed. "She's in the sideshow."
"Charmed," Roy said with a grin.
The boss clown continued, pointing across the table at a slender, elderly man with a beard that dipped below the table. "That there's Spider Webley, also a sideshow act. An' beside him, that's Barrel." A short, green haired clown gave a self-conscious wave.
Merrill manoeuvred his pony around to the back of the bench on the side opposite Roy. Unfastening a belt that Roy hadn't noticed, then helped by Barrel and Webley, he levered himself gracefully from the saddle to sit between them. A pat to his small pony's flank sent it sauntering out of the tent. With a contented sigh the ringmaster's twin began to eat, leaving Bossy to finish the introductions.
"Down the end there," Bossy pointed towards a striking young woman with a mass of short, curly brown hair and solemn grey eyes, "that's Nikita, our trick rider." That designation earned Bossy a grey-eyed scowl. "Beside her's Glock, our resident Picture Gallery, also a sideshow attraction." A rather bleary eyed middle aged man lifted a heavily tattooed arm in greeting as he continued to trowel up his breakfast. "You've met Heckler and Koch," both men nodded at the Tramp, "and our Gorilla man, Darius," the big man raised a hand. "Beside him's his partner, Heinkel, the Lion man. They're part of our menagerie." The tall, muscular man with the bushy blond mustache and silver rimmed glasses waved a casual hand at Roy as well. "I'm sure you'll get to meet the rest of the company as the day goes on," Bossy predicted. "There're kind of a lot of us."
"Fifty-three and counting," Merrill said, eyes sparkling. "You make us fifty-four strong."
"I'm pleased to meet everyone," Roy said. "Thank you for welcoming me into you company."
A ripple of friendly acknowledgment rose and settled, and then everyone tucked into their breakfast, Roy included. As he had discovered the day before, the simple fare was tasty and filling. The circus folks were somewhat more subdued now, though the quiet was not uncomfortable. Roy pretended not to notice as the other diners stole covert glances at him as they ate. Soon enough his plate was empty and he pushed it aside. The Tramp leaned an elbow on the table and pulled his cup of uncommonly good coffee closer.
"So," Big Bertha started timidly, "I hear you'd like to give clowning a try."
"That's true," Roy said.
Bossy took control of the conversation once again. "Being in a circus isn't just about performing," he said. "Every one of us has other duties, too. Ishapore doesn't just lie around on a bed of nails all day; he's our cook. Nikita is our Boss Hostler. Murata's our medic. Everyone pitches in, because there's a lot of stuff to do around here. The horseshit doesn't shovel itself, ya know."
"I don't want any special treatment," Roy said. "As long as I can keep a low profile, I'm happy to help in any way I can."
"Even with setup and break down?" Glock piped up, surprised.
"Of course." Roy assured him.
"It's hard work. Newbies always get the crappiest jobs," the tattooed man warned. "They gotta learn how a circus works from the ground up."
"Perfectly understandable," Roy granted.
"How about cleaning the grounds after a show?" Stock wanted to know. "Would you pitch in with that?"
"Of course," Roy said again.
"You sure? The patrons leave a lot of garbage around. Takes a long time, and after a show you'll be pretty tired," the yellow-haired clown cautioned.
"I'm sure we all will," Roy observed. "An extra pair of hands will make the job quicker and easier for everyone, wouldn't you agree?"
That statement was mulled over as Ishapore appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and proceeded to refill cups.
"How about shoveling horse shit?" Bossy asked sweetly. "You up for that, Trampy?"
"Certainly," Roy said, sipping his coffee. "Considering what I do for a living, I'm something of an expert."
There was a short, incredulous silence. Then the entire table burst out laughing.
Including Ishapore, which surprised the rest of the company to abrupt silence. The strongman looked Roy over intently as he hooted his strange laugh. Then he placed a large, nearly skeletal hand on Roy's shoulder.
"You laugh at yourself," he intoned in strangely accented Amestrian. "To know humility is to approach the divine Truth."
Without his legendary control, Roy's jaw would have dropped to shatter on the floor. Was the Hindustani man referring to the One, the All, the ultimate Truth?
The dark man saved Roy the need to make some sort of a reply. "It has touched you." A statement, not a question. "Yes, you know the Truth." His polished head bobbed once, and then the man turned to walk back behind the serving counter followed by every eye in the room.
Then those eyes turned to Roy, questioning. He made no other comment than to raise an eyebrow and sip his coffee.
Nikita, the trick rider, broke the heavy silence that had settled into the cook shack, slapping her palms on the table to push herself up. "Well, if we are finished pondering the philosophical ramblings of our cook, I will take my leave," she said, her accent thickly Drachmann. "I have a new routine to practice."
Merrill's head snapped up, forkful of scrambled egg halfway to his chin. "Not by yourself," he said firmly.
"Of course not," Nikita said, standing up. "Esinti will be with me of course."
"Esinti doesn't count. You know the rules; no one practices alone." The set of Merrill's jaw was firm.
The Drachmann scowled. "Don't visit your insecurities on me," she growled. "I could ride before I could walk, and Esinti would never do me harm."
"Accidents happen. The rule stands. Why must we always argue about this?" Merrill griped.
"Because your rule is unreasonable!" the woman snapped. "I do not need a babysitter to watch over me while I am practicing!"
Bossy elbowed Roy in the ribs none too gently.
"Now's your chance, Trampy," he said loudly. "Lady in distress. Give her a hand."
Roy ignored him, already standing up as well. "Would you object to an interested bystander?" Roy asked the scowling young woman. "I'd like to come with you if that's alright."
"Suit yourself, Tramp." The horsewoman stepped free of the bench and strode out of the cook shack without a backward glance.
Roy followed her, his own stride an easy match for the irritated Drachmann. She shot an annoyed glance his way as she headed for the large paddock at the rear of the big top.
Much like an army, a circus required a lot of horsepower to get from one venue to the next, and the large enclosure held a veritable herd of draft horses. Roustabouts were topping up the water troughs and forking fresh cut hay into the pen as Roy and Nikita approached. The horses were good naturedly shouldering each other for position, a shifting mosaic of black, bay, chestnut, and roan. Their large, compact, bodies; broad, deep chests; and short, well feathers legs identified them as Black Forest Rhenisch – a common Amestrian breed. Most standing at least sixteen hands tall, these gentle giants made the Mauser Brother's Circus possible.
With index finger curled to thumb, the Drachmann woman shrilled a whistle. One black horse, much smaller and more graceful of build, broke ranks from its fellows and cantered toward the waiting humans.
"Andalusian," Roy breathed. "A Carthusian, if I'm not mistaken."
Nikita's head snapped around to stare at the Tramp. "You know horses," she said, surprised.
"My father was a cavalry man; it's in my blood," Roy explained. "A passion I discovered when I joined the military."
"To my people, horses are more than just tools or possessions," Nikita said quietly as she ran her hand gently down Esinti's long, elegant neck. "They are our brothers and sisters, our partners in survival. It is much the same here, in this circus. The horses are the legs, the strength. The people are the hands, wielding the tools. Together we are one will." The woman frowned. "What Esinti and I share isn't some simple trick," she spat.
"I suppose we all have to suffer the ignorant. We can't beat sense into all of them, though I know of one person who thinks it worth the effort to try." Roy thought of Edward with a small grin. "Roy Mustang, Führer of Amestris," he said, offering his hand, "but here, I'm just a Tramp."
The woman eyed the offered hand for a moment, then took it in a firm grip. "Nikita Makarov, proud Kossak. But here, I am just a 'trick rider'." Her lip curled.
Makarov opened the gate to let Esinti out, and then led the way to the big top, horse and Tramp following. The giant tent loomed over the grounds, and Roy examined it curiously as he stepped in through the arched front opening.
The gigantic marquee of cotton canvas was supported by twin center poles. They were separated by a large circular ring of sturdy wooden construction measuring forty feet in diameter, the focus of attention for this travelling equestrian show. A tightrope apparatus was rigged high above the ring between two small platforms attached to the main poles, narrow rope ladders dangling for access. Three blocks of bleachers, ten levels high, were ordered around three sides of the central ring for the audience's viewing convenience. Colourful canvas was draped to screen the remaining quarter of the big top, a backstage area where the circus acts prepared for their entrance. The entire fabric structure was stabilized under tension by numerous guy ropes attached to ground stakes hammered deep into the soft surface of the meadow outside of the giant tent.
Nikita stepped into the circular stage followed closely by Esinti. Roy stayed back, out of the way, as the lively animal trotted friskily around inside the ring.
Prized for their prowess as war horses, the Andalusians were valued for their strength and agility as well as their noble carriage. Esinti was a prime example. The breed had long been nicknamed the Horse of Kings, and the beautiful jet black stallion certainly lived up to that standard with a sprightly step and regal bearing fit for any monarch. Watching as Nikita put her steed effortlessly through his routines, Roy recalled that according to legend, the first Andalusian was summoned into the world by Zephyr, the spirit of the west wind. Esinti in motion was the wind personified, paces smoothly cadenced and harmonious, responding to his mistress with equally keen intelligence and sensitivity.
And the spirited horse was matched in prowess by his mistress. The Kossak woman rode as if she and her mount were a single being. Roy had heard of the people who inhabited the endless steppes of eastern Drachma, known for their incredible skill as horsemen. The myth of the half man, half horse creatures known as centaurs originated with these nomadic tribesman. Watching spellbound as she vaulted astride Esinti's bare back to bound upright, he stood enchanted, watching her graceful, acrobatic dance unfold upon the unbridled, galloping stallion. Roy understood why Merrill feared for the woman's safety, and at the same time, he did not. She and Esinti were amazingly, breathtakingly one.
A small, red rubber ball dropped into the sawdust by Roy's overlarge shoes. He looked behind to see a young girl, no more than twelve of thirteen years old, looking him over very carefully. A small brown and white terrier sat politely at her feet.
"You the newbie clown?" the girl asked.
"Yes I am," Roy confirmed, taking in the girl's snow white pigtails and chocolate brown eyes. "I'm . . . Tramp."
"Hello Tramp," the girl responded, unsmiling. "My name's Tula." She gestured to the dog. "Her name's Roofus."
Roy had to grin at that. "Hello Tula. Hello Roofus."
Roofus wagged her tail. Tula did not return Roy's smile. "Abbi told me you could juggle. I'm supposed to help."
"Thank you Tula. I would appreciate all the help you can offer," Roy confided. "It's been a long time since I've juggled; I'm sure to be out of practise."
The girl took a few steps closer and reached into a pocket in her baggy smock to pull out two more red balls. She tossed them to Roy, who caught them one handed as he bent to pick up the one on the ground.
"Let's see what you got," Tula said, crossing her arms.
After a few false starts the Tramp finally regained the knack, and soon found an easy rhythm as he worked his way through the few tricks he recalled. He had learned this particular skill as a child, taught by one of his many sisters, an employee of Madam Christmas. It appeared to be like riding a bicycle – an ability you never really forgot.
With Roofus lounging casually by her feet, Tula watched her charge with a critical eye, offering suggestions now and again. Then, without warning, she upped the ante by tossing Roy another ball. He deftly caught it and smoothly put it into play with the others. The four red balls arced high into the air, and Roy's confidence increased.
Tula threw Roy another ball, and then another, Roy tossing the balls higher to accommodate the new additions.
"Can you walk around while doing that?" the girl wanted to know.
Roy demonstrated that he could, strolling the length of the bleachers and then back with no mishap.
"You're pretty good," Tula granted, "but you need a hook; something to make this more interesting." Reaching into her smock once again, she pulled out a yellow ball.
Roofus took immediate notice. She was instantly on her feet, legs stiff, her full and rapt attention on the ball.
Roy had a bad feeling about this.
"Don't let Roofus get the yellow ball, and don't drop any of the red ones," the girl instructed, deadpan.
Then she threw Roy the yellow ball.
Roofus rocketed after the ball, leaping at Roy's hand just as the ball dropped into it. Roy flung it up into the high looping queue, almost losing his rhythm completely as he turned his body back on to the little dog to shield the balls. Roofus was having none of that. She bound around in front of Roy, sitting stiffly as she tracked the yellow ball on its way back to Roy's hands. Roy held out a foot, hoping to block the terrier's assault, wagging his oversized shoe in warning. To no avail. The little dog used Roy's leg as a launch pad to leap for her ball, and only a quickly raised elbow kept the yellow ball safe. Roy turned once again, and the dog charged to Roy's front, but this time Roy was ready. As the yellow ball dropped toward his hand, the Tramp stepped forward so he could catch it at his back, then flipped it upward to safety once again.
Roofus shot the Tramp a look of such utter contempt that Roy had to laugh out loud. That only made the little terrier more determined. She ran behind Roy as the ball once again descended, but darted to the front when Roy didn't step forward, leaping at the ball just too late. With a huff, Roofus sat a Roy's feet and watched pensively as her ball spun high in the air. Roy stepped back, away from the little dog, ready to defend his balls, either rubber or flesh depending on just how frustrated the dog might be. Roofus just sat and watched her ball rise and fall, rise and fall.
Just when the Tramp thought that the dog had given up, Roofus leaped towards him and grabbed a pant leg. Shaking it vigorously, the terrier pulled back with surprising strength. Caught off guard, Roy came very close to dropping everything, only just managing to keep the balls airborne. Balanced on one wobbling foot, he tried to shove the dog away with the other.
Roy had played right into the dog's evil little paws. As soon as Roy's knee came up, Roofus used it once again as a spring board, bouncing from the raised leg to Roy's shoulder, and then straight up to snatch her yellow ball right out of the air. She then ran full tilt out the back of the tent.
"That's your blow off!" Tula shouted at him. "Pocket the balls as you chase after her! Can't leave 'em in the ring!"
Roy did as he was told, shoving the balls one by one into the pockets of his baggy pants as he charged out of the tent. Roofus sat waiting just out of sight in the backstage area, yellow ball at her feet, tail wagging furiously, surrounded by five more small dogs of indeterminate breed.
Roy slammed on his brakes and looked at the little cry of hounds. They looked back, tongues lolling, tails whipping air. Tula trotted up behind the Tramp, chewing at a fingernail.
"That was pretty funny," she said, face expressionless. "I think you have a winner there. You'll need to practice getting the balls out of your pockets and into play. I'll lone Roofus out for your routine. She's a good girl." Tula glanced at the terrier and her lips twitched slightly upward for a moment, then fell back into their flat affect.
"Thank you, Tula," Roy said, solemnly. "And thank you as well, Roofus."
The girl looked up at him and shrugged. "You're welcome. Go practice in the big tent so Kita isn't riding alone."
Roy took that advice, walking out into the main tent as he pulled two balls out of his pockets, tossing them idly aloft. Without a word from Tula, Roofus ambled sedately behind him with her yellow ball clamped in her jaws. The Tramp wondered if the little dog's overzealous attempts to retrieve it earlier were just part of an act, and if she would willingly hand over the ball now.
Turning to sit on his heels, Roy held out a hand to the pup. "Give me the ball, Roofus."
Roofus sat, head cocked saucily. The ball remained where it was.
With a sigh, Roy settled back to sit in the sawdust, crossing his legs. "I knew this wasn't going to be that easy," he told the dog, tone friendly. "Still, I had hoped that when Tula told me you were a good girl, it was true."
Roofus cocked her head the other way.
"I'm sure you can be a nice, obedient girl," Roy continued in the same easy tone. "I just think you have more fun being a brat. But we're partners now, and we should try to maintain a good working relationship."
Roofus lifted a leg to scratch vigorously behind her jaw. Roy waited for her to be done.
"So what do you say, Roofus?" Roy held out his hand again. "Won't you please give me your ball?"
Roofus thought it over for a moment, then very graciously dropped the slobbery yellow sphere into the Tramp's palm.
"Thank you, Roofus," Roy said, holding out the back of his other hand for the terrier to sniff, and then scratching her behind her pert button ears.
Tramp and terrier spent the next hour practicing together. Roy started their routine simply juggling the red balls, strolling along in front of the ranked belchers, Roofus a few feet behind. The man sedately ran through his repertoire of tricks, the dog casually accompanying him – until the yellow ball made its appearance. Then the show was all Roofus. And she knew it. As Roy became craftier at shielding the ball, the lengths to which the dog went to retrieve her treasure became epic. They practiced the short routine until Roy was confident that they could perform it flawlessly. The little dog made a fine partner; she was intelligent and intuitive, with a great sense of humor. She was indeed a good girl.
Roy was chasing Roofus into the backstage area for the fourth time when he found that Tula and her canine tribe had been replaced by Bossy and the other clowns Roy had met at the breakfast table that morning, with the addition of one more. It took Roy a moment to recognized Lieutenant Yoki as the new addition. His sad clown makeup and green cotton candy hair were an excellent disguise, and Roy had to admit that it suited the man's character. The older man's right hand appeared to have developed a nervous twitch, likely from repressing the urge to salute his disguised Führer.
"Say there, Trampy," Bossy drawled around the toothpick wedged between his teeth. "It you're done playing kiddy games, maybe you'd like to go a round with the big boys."
Roy bent to give Roofus an appreciative pat, then sauntered over to the cluster of comics, hands in pockets.
"What do you have in mind?" the Tramp asked.
"Merrill suggested that we use you in the roustabout mid-show," Bossy said, hands on chubby hips. "It can get kinda rough. Think you can handle it?"
"I guess we'll find out," Roy said mildly.
The big clown looked Roy over without expression; then he lip-shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He made a fist rocking signal to Lock, who scampered away, out of sight in the cluttered staging area. Moments later the raucous stutter of an engine in urgent need of repair slaughtered the quiet of the morning, and then something that loosely resembled a miniature panel truck hove into view. After a few deafening backfires, the contraption's motor settled into a somewhat more stable rhythm. When it slid to smoke-farting stop in front of him, Roy stood amazed that such a vehicle could function, let alone move. He slowly circled around to examine it.
With a wheelbase about the size of a standard issue military cot, the truck was a patchwork of jury rigged parts. The frame seemed to be composed of a number of welded signposts, topped with a wooden tabletop to serve as a platform. The long sides and roof were loosely enclosed by rough wooden planks that left wide gaps out of which even the largest clown might lean. The rear was completely uncovered, with a curved metal handle bolted to each side. The motor was fully exposed, and appeared to be strapped to the frame with a number of frayed ropes and multicolored scarves. All of this sat on four mismatched wagon wheels of various sizes that lifted the platform level with Roy's waist. Lock sat on a bale of hay – the driver's seat - clutching a barrel ring steering wheel in one hand and a narrow barber pole stick shift in the other, revving the palsied engine with a maniacal grin.
"The object of the game is to get all of us," Bossy gestured to himself and the other clowns, "into that," he said, jerking a thumb toward the small truck, "while it's moving. And just so you know, it moves pretty fast."
Roy looked at the truck again. The scrawny, balding driver took up fully half of the passenger area.
With a shout of "Go!" from Bossy, Lock gunned the engine and threw the clownwagon into gear. It lurched forward into the main tent, and the chase was on.
The five clowns scrambled after the little truck as it shot into the centre ring to trace a path around its edge. Roy barely had time to notice with relief that Nikita and Esinti had vacated the area as he brought up the rear, gaining ground on Yoki just ahead of him. Congratulating himself on quickly mastering the difficult task of running all out in oversized shoes, the Tramp passed the older man with little effort and was closing in on Bossy when Yoki grabbed the back of Roy's coat and pulled back to spring ahead of him.
Up ahead Stock had already clambered aboard the truck, but was almost immediately dragged off by Barrel, who climbed nimbly over his fallen colleague's body to take his place. Stock jumped back up and managed to catch hold of one of the long handles framing the rear opening to pull himself back into the truck. Yoki had meanwhile pulled the same trick on Bossy as he had on Roy, grabbing hold of his coattails and using the bigger man's momentum to slingshot ahead of him. Closing on the truck just as Stock was pulling himself up, Yoki grabbed at the other clown's pants and pulled them halfway down, exposing polka dotted boxers and a fetching plumber's crack to all and sundry. Reaching to pull his pants up, Stock lost his grip on the handle and slipped off the rear of the truck. He just managed to catch the back bumper as he fell. Pants around his ankles, the clownwagon dragged him around the ring without pause; Yoki took the opportunity to use his sprawled body as a ramp to board the truck. Two pairs of hands reached out and jerked Stock into the vehicle as the Tramp drew close.
Roy darted past Bossy and made a grab for a long handle, but missed as the Boss clown booted him in the ass on the fly, causing the Tramp to stumble. Then Bossy was ahead, grabbing for the truck's rear bumper. He vaulted onto the platform, slotting himself in among his colleagues like a gaily painted puzzle piece.
Roy raced up to the clownmobile and finally managed to seize a rear handle. Pulling himself up to stand on the back bumper, the Tramp swung to take hold of the handle on the opposite side as well, pleased that he had been able to carry out his task in spite of the frankly hostile behaviour of the experienced clowns.
His sense of accomplishment didn't last long. As the last man aboard, it didn't appear that there was even an inch of space left for him in the truck. He was wondering where he might wedge himself in amongst the other kitschy passengers, when a scuffed, floppy shoe was planted flat in the centre of his chest.
"Tell ya what, Trampy," Bossy shouted over his shoe into Roy's face with a leer, garish green tie flapping in the wind. "Shit's about to get real."
Roy clung for dear life to the bars on either side of the rear frame, the big clown's oversized shoe pushed firmly to his chest. The Tramp could do nothing but glare at the bigger clown.
"Tuck and roll backward for as many turns as you can." Roy read the glee in Bossy's voice. "When you stop, get up and run like hell, because we'll be coming up right behind you."
Then he pistoned his leg to launch Roy off the back of the truck.
The Tramp was far too pissed to tuck or roll. He soared through the air and landed flat on his ass, sliding to plough a wide furrow in the thick pad of sawdust. Scrambling to his feet, Roy glanced behind as the little truck chugged around the far side of the ring to head straight for him at an alarming rate of speed.
He ran.
Roy had already discovered that running in big floppy shoes presented an interesting challenge, more so now that a miniature truck stuffed with clowns was bearing down on him.
"Say there Trampy!" Bossy's voice rang loud and clear over the stuttering roar of the little truck's palsied engine. "'S'at all ya got? I've seen ol' ladies run faster. Been lounging around behind a desk too long's my guess. Cripes, you don't get a move on, you're gonna end up with a butt-load of fender!"
The Tramp wasn't sure what offended him more: that the big clown was clearly enjoying every minute of this, or that the clownwagon didn't even have fenders.
And yes, Roy was a politician, but he was by no means a simple desk jockey. He was a soldier; always had been, always would be. The Flame Alchemist had endured far more in his career than this ignorant clown could possibly comprehend. Furthermore, he had just spent a week long forced march through the mountains and was in better physical condition than he had been in quite some time. And as a matter of personal principle, he wasn't even marginally inclined to put up with a bully. This painted buffoon hadn't the slightest idea who the fuck he was dealing with.
The little truck was hot on his heels. Roy threw himself flat to the ground, arms stretched above his head, and the wagon passed neatly over him. Then he immediately sprang up to launch himself at the back of the truck and again managed to catch hold of one sidebar. This time however, instead of swinging to grasp the other, he grabbed Bossy's oversized tie and yanked it as hard as he could. Caught off guard, the other man flew from the vehicle with a whoop, tucking to somersault for an impressive number of forward rolls. Roy pulled himself into the other man's efficiently vacated space as the rest of the car's passengers roared with laughter.
The truck rounded the ring and closed on the Boss clown as he sprang up and started to run. For a heavyset man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. Stock honked the horn as Bossy sprinted ahead, the stunted vehicle thundering up to within inches of the fleeing clown's backside, but just when it appeared that he was going to be hit, the big clown dodged aside. Stock leaned out as the truck rocketed past, bopping his colleague with a foam rubber bat. Bossy spun in a graceful pirouette before falling hard on his ass. Then he leaped back to his feet and rushed the truck.
"Here!" Barrell shouted, thrusting an old straw broom into Roy's hands. "Use this to keep him off!"
He didn't have to explain the concept. Remarkable, Bossy had caught up quickly and was reaching for the rear bumper. The vengeful Tramp smacked at clutching hands with the straw end of the broom, then jabbed it at the chubby man to keep him at bay while doing his best not to be thrown from the wildly veering vehicle himself. Barrel leaned far out over Roy, Yoki dragging back on his coattails to keep him from falling out of the truck, giving the boss clown long blasts from a fire extinguisher, riming his face and hair. Stock wedged himself beside the Tramp, swinging his foam bat at Bossy's head with great accuracy any time the pursuing clown came into range. And all the while Lock continued to swerve the little truck erratically around the ring, alternately honking the horn and clanging a large brass bell.
After the second circuit, Bossy was struggling to keep up, and Stock gave the back of the driver's hay bale seat a solid kick. Lock floored it out of the ring into the backstage area of the big top, where he slammed on the brakes, skidding sideways to a stop. Bossy charged out of the main tent right behind them, stopping just inside. He bent over, head hanging, hands on his knees, and gasped for breath.
Lock shut down the engine as the other clowns untangled themselves from the little truck's platform. Roy jumped from the back opening and walked over to the panting Boss clown, not sure how the other would respond to the way the routine had gone down, but ready for anything.
Then Tula raced in. Running up to Bossy, she began to slap him on the back.
"Abbi!" she shouted. "That was really funny! You were so cool!"
"Tula-girl," Bossy wheezed. "Give me a sec."
The girl stood at the big clown's side, hand still on his back as he struggled to catch his breath. He glanced up at Roy, a sparkle in his eyes.
"You gotta be tough . . . to be a clown . . . and I guess . . . you're tough enough," Bossy said between gulps of air. "Can't say . . . I'm really surprised."
Roy waited for the Boss clown to get his breathing under control. He finally did, and straightened to look the Tramp square in the eye.
"For a hotshot desk jockey, you're all right." Bossy stuck out his hand, still panting. "Before I was stuck with ya. Now I'm pleased to meet ya."
Roy took the offered hand in a firm grip. "Likewise."
The rest of the crew gathered around to give the Tramp congratulatory handshakes and friendly shoulder slaps, obviously pleased that Roy had survived his initiation. As a matter of fact, Roy was pleased about that, too.
"The advise – that's the show's act schedule - will be posted on the back door of the red wagon in about an hour." The Boss clown gave the Tramp a friendly grin. "Check it out. Tonight's your big debut."