This Tall Tale is an original, and requires a preface.
Way back in the day, a group of friends and I decided to write a story. It was a round-robin, unplanned story based around a theme developed by an old friend we’ll call Doc Celestine. The story was called Doctor Celestine’s Carnival of Souls, and it was about salvation. It was set in a magical circus, ran by an angel in human form, Dr. Celestine. The premise of the Carnival was pretty simple: a handful of normal, human folks who had lost their ways had, at various times, found their way to the Carnival, and discovered Dr. Celestine, the caretaker of lost souls. In return for a chance to earn their souls back, these people agreed to work for the Carnival, running various attractions. The Carnival magically traveled wherever and whenever it needed to, to find people who sought salvation, or needed a second chance, and so on. A customer who was in need of what the Carnival offered received a Golden Ticket at the main gates, and toured the special attractions, facing and surmounting various demons contained within the attractions, and either won or lost their souls back. Roughly. We never took it far enough to really define what was going on.
We had Dante Avatar, my husband’s character, who ran Dante’s Divine Gallery, a characature tent. Since all the characters were originally meant for roleplay in the White Wolf system, they were all supernatural. Dante was a Wraith. Dante showed you the goodness in yourself via his characature, and Dante’s Shadow — the Partner — showed you the evil. The Partner was the Carnival’s first and only villain. My character was the werewolf, Bloody Mary Black, who ran the Freak Show. It was your standard freak show, but the special freaks were kept in cages in the back of the tent, and named after tarot cards. They were facets of Mary’s soul, and stood in for whatever demon in life a given customer had to face and defeat. Violent Clay was a risen, played by none other than Violent Clay, heh. Violent Clay the character was the Carnival’s clown, and security, and embodied the force of wrath and vengeance and violence. He had a marvelous backstory involving an accidentally murdered girlfriend who traveled with the Clown in the form of the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth was where those who failed the tour went, some to suffer, and some to seek a far harsher form of salvation via suffering. Mr. James was an Entropy mage who ran the Games of Chance. You could bet him for anything — literally anything — from Fame to Grief to Beauty to, well, anything. We had other characters in the Carnival, but those were the main ones, belonging to the folks who did the bulk of the writing.
The Carnival of Souls can be found here, although sadly, entropy and arguments over plotline took their tolls, and no one writes in it anymore. I suggest starting in the archives. There’s some genuinely good writing in there.
The following Tall Tale was my first installment into our first over-arcing story, that of Aimee, the former beauty queen who lost not one, but two bets to Mr. James. Here’s Mr. James’ beginning to that story. My chapter is behind the fold. Enjoy.

The Horror of Wisconsin

I walk around her as she sits in her chair, her one eye red and puffy from weeping. She is a travesty of human form, and that pleases me. Mr. James delivered her to me yesterday, and explained the matter to me over brandy and fine cigars. Mr. James always has the finest cigars, which is a small part of the reason why I like his visits so.
I didn’t actually see the woman yesterday. I merely had Violent Clay pop her in a cage in the back of the tent, as she was screaming and howling and throwing such fits as even I have rarely seen. I figured a night in with real freaks might give her a little perspective.
Seems to have worked. She’s much more subdued today. Of course, a night with Devil, Moon, Star, and their like will do that.
She sits in the chair, and I walk around her. I haven’t seen what she looked like before the accident, so I can’t properly access the damage, but she looks gruesome. She is bald, save a few straggling strands of hair, possibly once blonde. Her scalp and face are runnled with shiny scars, nose melted, lips nearly gone and the remains twisted into a permanent, hideous sneer. Both ears are shriveled lumps at the sides of her head. A part of my mind wonders if they could be pierced. Earrings would be a lovely, disgusting irony. Her one eye is a watery blue in a burst of red veins, eyelid warped by a scar. I have her sitting before me in her underclothes, so I can access the full damage. It is not a pleasant sight, but I study her clinically. Her skin is all jagged scars and ropey burns. It has been rendered a pale white and raw red parody of zebra hide. She has a prosthetic left leg, just below the knee, just a steel-frame peg with a vaguely foot-shaped lump of beige plastic at the end. Her right foot has been replaced by another foot-shaped lump of beige plastic, and I’m wondering if I can get them into high heels. Her torso is a twisted root; breasts only withered bags on her chest. Her arms are long vines, left one limp and dead, that hand missing the pinky and ring finger. Her right arm, save burn damage, seems still usable.
“My, my, my.” I sigh, pulling a long, pungent draw off my cigar and exhaling. “Aren’t you just a mess?”
She glares murder at me through her eye, grinds her teeth, and remains silent.
I offer her a caftan. “Do you need a hand getting that on?” I ask pleasantly.
More murderous glaring as she stands shakily and thrusts herself into the caftan. While she’s doing that, I drag up a chair. We are in my trailer, so I fetch two cans of Pepsi from the small fridge, set them on the nearby table, get my ashtray, and seat myself on the backwards chair. “Have a seat, Aimee.” I say when she’s dressed. “We’re having a bit on an interview here.”
“Fuck you!” She snarls. Or, I’m sure she meant to snarl, but that must be hard to manage with that nasty dog-whistle of a voice.
“Uh, no thanks. Strictly AC, dear.” She continue to stand defiantly, if somewhat shakily.
I half-stand, and demonstrate what a snarl is supposed to sound like. “I said, sit down.” She jumps at my tone and sits promptly, eye wide.
I sit back down, my voice still wallowing around in the gravel of my throat. “You will kindly notice that Violent Clay is not here. That is because I don’t need him here. You will now dismiss thoughts of violence and defiance. This will be a nice, friendly interview, and you will cooperate. You lost your bet, little miss, and you belong to me for the next five years. Keep that fact firmly lodged in the upper levels of your shallow little mind, or I shall be forced to do something to remind you of it.”
She swallows hard, and nods, meek, now.
“Very well.” I say, pleasant again. “Pepsi?” I motion towards the sweating can of pop. She takes it with her right hand and I note a slight trembling as she hefts its minor weight. More work needed there, then. “Wonderful. Now, I can see the surface damage. It’s quite extensive, and grotesque, so I’ll be playing heavily on that in your act. What I need is an idea of how well you work physically. I see you can walk a bit. Is that the best you’ll be able to do, or will therapy improve on it? I understand learning to walk on two prosthetics is fairly difficult.” As I speak, I pull off my gloves and bandanna, shaking out my hair. I pull off my jacket and stretch. I’m tired from the show today, and my back aches from all the jumping around. Off with the damn boots, and my feet sigh with relief. Much better. I draw off the cigar, and look pointedly at her.
Looking down, ashamed it seems, she says quietly that her doctor has given her exercises to do, and she should improve some.
“Good!” I say, rubbing my hands together gleefully. “I’m thinking that we’ll do a bit of a parody of your pageant act for your show. What do you think?”
“No! I’m not going out there!”
“Of course you are. This is show business. You get out there and flaunt it, baby. You’re used to using your looks to entertain and get your way. You’re still doing that. It’s just different looks.” I grin nastily. By now, five years of flaunting her hamburger-like body in a swimsuit and heels while singing show tunes must seem like hell. I see the horror burgeoning in her eyes as she considers it. That’s good. That’s just what I want.
It’s all part of the plan.
I tap my cigar into the ashtray and contemplate the shallow terror before me. She has lost everything she had. It will be up to me to give her something to replace it. Me and my freaks.
I believe that we shall attempt to replace it with a human being.
I inform her that she will be rooming with Brenda, the Fat Lady, who was a nurse a lot of years ago, and I send her on her way. As she cripples out, I smile to myself. God knows I love a challenge.

We are sitting in the tent, my Freaks and I. In the rows of folding chairs where an audience would sit, to be precise. Popcorn has been passed around, and drinks. We are working on Aimee’s show – or we were.
Let me explain. We work together on these things. We’re all showmen here. Shit, some of these folks have been in the business since I was crapping my diapers. Bernard has been in various sideshows for almost fifteen years, now. So we have these little meetings all the time. We work on our various acts, we hang out, we play poker, we chat, we brainstorm. Sounds mundane, doesn’t it? Hey, for all the Carnival’s highfalutin ideals, part of our job is still to perform. We still have to entertain the folks who come to see the show. So two, three times a week, we get together and practice and socialize. We’re family. Speaking of which, those of the Freaks who have family bring them, and they help. It’s great fun.
Or it was, until Aimee burst into great, whooping tears, fell down on the stage, and proceeded to have one hellified temper tantrum.
Millie, the Bearded Lady, rushed up the steps to her side, and proceeded to lavish motherly sympathy on the spoiled little brat. She cuddled the girl, whispering mother-stuff like, “There, there, it’s all right, everything will be okay,” etc.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Bernard looks up at me and nods empathetically.
“She’s not really one of us.” He sighs. “She wasn’t born this way. Why’d she come here, anyway? Lots of people in accidents just move on.”
“Oh, she didn’t come here. She lost a bet with Mr. James.” I smile. “Twice.”
Bernard shudders. “Damn.”
“She was given to the Freak Show.” I look up as the tent flap opens and closes. Dr. Celestine stands in the shadows. He nods to me and I give a little wave, then look back up to the stage. “Is she quite done up there?” I call to Millie. “Cuz if she is, I’d like to get on with this. I want her show-ready by next week.” Millie begins to tutt-tutt me, and I wave her off. “Aimee, those are nice theatrics, but not the ones I want to see. Now quit your bawling and get up.”
Amongst much sniveling and whining, she blubbers out how horrible and wretched we all are, and what a monster I am, making her do this, and how we have no sympathy for everything she’s lost, yadda yadda yadda. A quick glance around shows varying degrees of affront and offense on the faces of Freaks and family. She squeaks whiningly on about her lost beauty and what all.
I grind my teeth, throw my hands in the air, and shout, “Christ, woman, shut the fuck up!” I wave my hands at the people in the tent. “Look around! What do you see?”
In the tent, the Freaks look up at her. A hushed silence greets Aimee’s gaze. They stand there, their twisted forms greeting her eye unsympathetically. The twins shake both their heads sadly. Bernard huffs. The Human Pin – Glory – pulls a few pins out of her nose and rolls her eyes. Martino takes a surreptitious drink and sighs heavily. Danny – the Tattooed Man – stretches his shoulders, making the spider webs on them dance.
“You’re all monsters!” She yells.
Irritated mutters.
“Since I’m the bitch,” I say mildly, “I’d like to point out that you’re the ugliest ‘monster’ in this tent.”
More crocodile tears.
There is clapping from behind us. We all turn to look strangely at Celestine, who is clapping at Aimee. “Oh! Sorry,” he says, as if startled. “I thought that was her show.” There is the barest hint of facetiousness in his tone. I grin wryly at him. “A lovely performance,” he directs at Aimee. “A bit hammy if I may offer such a critique, but I’m sure Mary will work with you on that.”
I stifle laughter, and plug a cigar in my mouth. I light it, puff thoughtfully in the quiet, and wait.
Aimee’s tears finally taper off. “Wonderful.” I say, and motion for someone to start her music again. “From the top, please.” I call to her. “Try to stay in rhythm if you can, this time. I think it would look better.”
She slowly, humiliated, totters to her plastic feet. Behind the scars and nerve damage, I think I can read an expression of profound embarrassment. It’s too much to hope that she’s embarrassed by her own actions. No, she’s just embarrassed to be up there in front of us, making a mockery of her former life. Well, perhaps the sequined bathing suit is a bit much. Perhaps just a plain black one. Chewing my nail thoughtfully, I look back towards Celestine, and he nods at me . . . approvingly?
I think so.

“Pay attention, sweetie,” the Fat Lady said. “you’re doing fine.”
And lo and behold, the high heels had fit. The earrings had gone in. The few strands of hair had been coaxed into ringlets. The white eye patch had been replaced with a black one; it had sequins. She wore a dazzling white swimsuit with blue pin stripping.
She was horrific.
We called her Beauty.
She hated me with a deep, intense passion that was evident in her every word and glance. She had made friends with Brenda, though. Her left arm had regained some use, and she was damn near graceful on her prosthetics. Her dance number was stilted, and she seemed like she’d fall with every step, but that was perfect.
Exploitation, you say?
You bet. And she knew it.
The way I figured it, she’d spent years being exploited for her looks. Wasn’t that what the pageant world was all about? The only difference now was what looks were being exploited.
Yeah, we were playing good cop, bad cop with her. I was the bad cop. The Freaks were the good cops. It was working wonderfully. The other day, I swear I heard her flirting with Bernard. It was play-flirting, of course; her heart wasn’t in it. But that was still okay. And Bernard, that sweetheart, would flirt with anything. It was good for her self-esteem.
She was warming up to the Freaks.

I have seen shattered souls walk out of the Carnival whole.
I have watched evil men seize redemption, and realize their own goodness.
I have seen the weak become strong, slaves set themselves free, and the lost find their way.
I have developed a theory.

Since coming to the Carnival, I’ve stopped believing that people are born ensouled. I’ve started believing, however, that we are born with the chance to earn one. Maybe you earn them a piece at a time, and that’s what Celestine has in those jars. I don’t know. All I know is that, according to my theory, I find myself in the process of building a soul for Aimee. I’m trying to fill it full of goldness and butterflies. I am searching for signs that it has taken root in her. I am searching for simple kindnesses, and a laugh. I am watching her make friends. I am waiting for the night she enjoys the show.
Because, when she does, I have something for her. A present.
A shiny gold ticket.
And I have a Cage with two jars and something else in it, waiting for her.

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