Question Mark?
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The lights begin to dim, and the musty warmth of the theatre settles back into place. A single spotlight once again illuminates the portion of the stage upon which stands The Ringmaster, more joyous now than you have ever seen him before. And yet, there is something about him that worries you. And urgency. An an air of anticipation. He smiles, and begins to introduce the 2nd act.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls of all ages! I do so hope that you enjoyed or first act! I’m sure that my friend Professor Pythagoras did! In fact, here he is now!”
A secondary spotlight comes up, widening the illuminated portion of the stage and revealing a silver-maned gentleman, clad in dapper attire, specifically an old-fashioned suit adorned with a single red carnation. His face is long and slender, but not sickly, and he carries a mischievous air about him. In one hand he carries a long black cane with a needle-like tip, topped with a black, translucent globe. He smiles, obviously accustomed to public speaking, and greets the audience.
“Good evening comrades!” His accent is unidentifiable, somewhere between British and Russian. “I trust that you enjoyed my little performance? I’ve studied the creation and operation of these little fellows for years, practiced my ventriloquism, and versed myself in the theatrical arts, specifically for the entertainment of the common people. After all, we must all face, at some point, that our world is a horrifying place, and that there is no permanent escape from it, at least not one that does not result in one’s demise. As such, the diversions of art and entertainment are of the utmost importance to a productive and creative society, allowing imagination to flourish and providing a healthy escape from the horror of the modern world, and giving one something to ponder, to analyze. In fact, I can assure you that all of my work, at least symbolically, is one-hundred percent historically accur- MMPH!”
The Ringmaster quickly claps one hand over the professor's mouth.
“Oh, I do apologize, but the Professor is a bit tired tonight, especially after his performance. Aren’t you professor?”
The professor nods, apparently relieved, and perhaps a bit grateful.
“Just fine then, you may return to your dressing room if you wish. We still have much to discuss.”
The Ringmaster releases Pythagoras’ mouth, and allows him to return to the backstage area, behind a dusty and ancient curtain.
“Now, without any further ado, let me direct your attention to the center stage!”
The lights engage, and the stage is flooded with light, revealing the carnival-patterned backdrop and the massive set of trapeze apparatus that had been set up silently during the intermission. Safety equipment is practically non existent. From each corner of the stage platform come a set of slender figures, clad in extravagant blue and black clothes, in the style of medieval jesters, and wearing beautifully crafted masks, in the style of either the Greek mask of tragedy or that of comedy. They walk with a practiced yet oddly robotic gait, as if they were puppets as well.
“BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF THE TRAGICOMIC THEATRE TROUP!” bellows the Ringmaster as he leaps from the stage. “LET THEM ASTOUND YOU AND AMAZE YOU WITH THEIR ACROBATIC SKILL, AND SHOCK YOU WITH THEIR MARVELOUS SECRETS!”
The acrobats quickly assemble beneath the tightrope, and, standing upon each other’s hands, create a vast and complex tower of human forms. The fellow atop the tower quickly grasps hold of the thin wire and swings himself upward, dragging the tower with him. By the time they reach the zenith of their arch, they have dispersed across the wire, taking up various dramatic poses. Something about the fashion in which they move about rubs you the wrong way, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You watch in awe as they tumble across the ropes, swing from each other’s hands, and perform daring leaps of faith, sliding across the thin tightrope and leaping onto the next suspended platform. The lights swirl in kaleidoscopic patterns and the base of the stage fills with fog, as if representing some great cosmic abyss. The Ringmaster stands off to one side, producing intense and dramatic chords with the ancient piano.
As the acrobats tumble about in a marvelously dramatic and entertaining fashion, a small objects slips from one of their shoulders. A necklace, marked with a golden eye. Later another personal scrap, a wallet, containing a small photograph. How odd, you think, they really should have emptied their pockets before they began their tumbling. Someone could really be injured by those things. How careless. The picture looks familiar though, and the eye... You recognize the symbol, but... Oh. You wondered why they seemed so familiar, so odd...
You know these people. They are policemen and salespeople from the city. They are Omincorp agents and employees. Members of the Illuminati. Agents of Neutrality. You spoke to these fellows, drank with them; they were friends, or at least acquaintances. You realize the oddness now, about their movement, and the masks. It hits you, finally, but far too late. The masks acre connected to electrodes. hundreds of miniature electrodes affixed to their spines and the backs of their heads, pulling their strings. Making them dance like the puppets that they always have been. Of course, this realization came far too late.
The Ringmaster bounds on to the stage, clapping and echoing with laughter.
“Aren’t they just a scream, folks? Simply wonderful. Before they go though, they have one more little stunt to show you. Please welcome my lovely assistant, the traitor in your midst, and our official Guest of Honor: LADY ZAFARA!”
She steps from the shadows of the stage, walking forward gracefully, eagerly, her face stretched into a gruesome smile enforced by the crackling electrodes affixed to the back of her head.
END OF ACT 2
< Message edited by Question Mark? -- 2/19/2012 15:12:09 >
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