“Hey, hey, hey! Come on down to the Popcorn Palace!” a barker calls from the food stand. He’s dressed in an orange-and-white striped suit. A wide-brimmed straw hat sits stiffly on his head as he motions us closer with a black cane. “You’ve heard of the store that lets you stuff your own bear to take home as a souvenir, haven’t you? Well, we’ve got the next best thing! Come on in and check it out!”
Quinn looks up at me, a question written in her eyes. “I thought this was a popcorn-eating contest.”
“It is. We just won’t be the ones trying to eat it.” Ice Pick heads for the stand, completely forgetting he was just competing for the fair maiden’s hand. She’s but a memory as the prospect of a kill looms so large.
For once in my life, I’m having the opposite problem. I’ve found something that holds my interest far more easily than murder. Not that these fabricated murders do much for me anyway.
I place my hand on the small of Quinn’s back and urge her forward. She takes a few tentative steps before coming to a halt.
“Deciding we aren’t so comfortable with murder after all?” I ask. “We could go back to the?—”
She shakes her head and clears her throat, trying to hide the sudden fear on her face. She does a poor job, though. Trepidation is the prevailing emotion flicking through her eyes. “No, it’s not the killing. It’s that...” She shakes her head again, and her smile is more convincing this time. “It’s nothing.”
I lock this away in my head for later because it’s definitely not nothing. It’s something, and I plan to find out more.
Behind the popcorn stand is a small red tent. The barker leads the three of us inside, and we take a seat on creaky wooden benches in front of a small arena. Sawdust coats the asphalt, and the tent shields us from the spring sunshine. It’s not nearly as grand as the main circus tent, but it’s big enough for the smallcrowd that gathered for the demonstration. Grim and Rose sit in the shadows, along with two random men.
As the barker begins setting up for the show, the houselights dim. The low lighting allows me to study the unfamiliar men more closely. I recognize neither of them, though I don’t exactly make a habit of memorizing serial killers the way Jim, King, and Cat do. One is tall and thin, with a ruddy complexion and reddish hair.
The other is built more similarly to me. He’s tall, bulked out, and a deep scar runs down his cheek. Tattoos darken his arms, matching his dark hair and eyes. Bright grays speckle the short sideburns at his jaws. Deep crow’s feet crease the sides of the eyes, which would fit with Desmond’s current age. He also looks mean.
Psh, I’m meaner.
The barker finishes setting up two machines in the center of the arena. Each is a large glass box filled with buttered kernels of popped corn. Thick hoses protrude from the sides and connect to two special chairs positioned between them. Two red Cattle are led to the chairs and strapped down.
“Welcome to the popcorn-eating contest,” the barker yells toward the crowd, though I use the term lightly. This is more like a gathering. “This is an elimination event. In each round, you’ll guess which Cattle will choke first...literally!”
He pauses to give us a chance to laugh. When we don’t, he pushes ahead.
“We’ll tell you a little about the Cattle, and two of you will step up and start the machine behind the one you think will die first. The loser is eliminated, and the winner moves to the next round. Which two of you will go first?”
Quinn’s hand shoots into the air, but I pull it down. “Wait and see what the gimmick is,” I whisper.
“Gimmick?”
As the barker brings down the two men I don’t recognize, I explain to Quinn that Jim sometimes sets up little traps and loopholes in the games. If you want a leg up on the competition, you don’t want to go first. She nods, then turns back to the game, genuinely interested in the murder that’s about to take place.
The barker positions the men behind the Cattle. The red-suited bloke on the left thrashes against his restraints and tries to turn his head as a mask is lowered over his face. The Cattle on the right just starts crying.
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Quinn whispers. “He’s done something bad, though, right?”
“Aye, that he has. He’s wearing a red jumpsuit, which means he’s sexually violated someone. If you want to know their crimes and pick your victim personally, Jim has a book of them.”
“Just knowing they deserve what’s coming is enough for me,” Ice Pick chimes beside her. “Course, they could do nothing and I’d still cut ’em up if the mood hit me right.”
Quinn’s eyes light up. “Oh, then I’m afraid it would never work between us after all,” she says with a pout I almost believe. “I prefer killers who are a bit pickier about their victims.”
She means it as a way to brush him off politely, but she’s politely brushing me off as well. I’m not like Jim and the rest of the crew. In this way, I’m more like Ice Pick than I care to admit.
“Did you mean that?” I whisper. “About preferring killers who choose their victims carefully?”
“Honestly? I don’t know,” she says with a wrinkle of her nose. “There’s still some honor in it then, you know? But I’m trying to let him down easy.”
I nod my head and try to focus on the event.
The workers have managed to get the rowdy Cattle’s mask over his face. The barker warns them to stay very still as a blade in the mask whips across their lips to cut the stitches away. The Cattle on the left stays very still, yet both chins swim in afountain of blood seconds later. At least their pained screams are silenced as the hoses are screwed into place inside their mouths.
The barker pats the side of one of the popcorn machines. “These devices are primed to pump popcorn into their mouths at a rate of about five kernels per second. Once activated, the machines won’t stop until the Cattle do.” He steps forward and taps the wrist strap on one of the chairs. “When the heart stops beating, a light will flash above his chair, and the machine will cut off, declaring our winner.”
