From my vantage point, I can still see at the front of the lengthy line of people waiting to get in is a fearsome entrance—an enormous devil’s mouth, complete with spiky teeth and a handlebar mustache. The red of the devil's face is a startling contrast to the black and white tent. The eyes are shining brightly in the otherwise dim interior of the expo, lit from within.
I see the cloaked figure ahead of me now circling around the tent, and I scurry to catch up, not realizing the sight had rooted me to the spot, gawking. I follow him to a side entrance guarded by two enormous guys in old-fashioned strongman outfits. They don’t spare either of us a glance and I shadow him, hot on his heels, thankful to not have to enter through that creepy ass devil’s mouth.
He leads me into what is clearly a special roped-off section. Instead of the tiered stand seating I can see around the perimeter of the tent, this area has tables and chairs set up on terraced levels. Eventually, we reach the bottom level, and he spins, robe flaring, holding out a hand to show me to the first table in front of the round stage.
I take the proffered seat, wondering who will sit in the other chair, if anyone. I look around the inside of the tent as the general admission seats quickly start filling. The lighting makes it hard to see anything beyond the seating area and the central stage, creating a feeling of being at the center of a vast nothingness.
The air is buzzing with excited conversation, and I feel a little awkward sitting in the forefront of the VIP section alone as my guide vanishes. Apparently, the whole VIP ticket actually was some type of exclusive thing. I just do not know how I got picked.
Maybe it’s because I spent so much damn money at the expo on my new clothes,I think to myself, smiling. I wonder who else is in this area, craning my head, trying to see behind me.
I’m startled to find a little person in front of me when I turn back around. She is stunning, with her ebony skin in contrast to her snow-white hair in victory rolls. Like a pinup girl in a black and white outfit, similar to the ladies who had taken my ticket.
She passes me a drink with a dazzling smile and a wink, then sets a plate of snacks on the table at my elbow.
“Oh, I didn’t order anything.”
“On the house darlin’,” she replies in a beautiful Southern accent. “Gluten-free, of course,” she throws over her shoulder as she saunters away.
Now this is just getting weird. I take a cautious sniff of my drink and wonder if it is actually a good idea to accept it. What if someone is trying to drug me? My mouth waters. The bourbon looks incredible and is a generous pour over two rocks, just how I like it.
I glance at the snacks she put down and my stomach rumbles. It’s like someone has read my mind or at least done a decent job stalking me. The plate is a delightful little charcuterie board with artfully arrayed meats and cheeses, nuts, pomegranate seeds, dried apricots, preserves, honey, and mustards.
I recognize my favorite gluten-free crackers and figure no one is likely to go to this much trouble just to drug me, in public no less. It makes the second protein bar in my bag seem very unappealing. I love charcuterie. Nothing beats making a meal out of snack foods.
Fuck it.
I decide to go with the adventure and go all in. I use the ‘Kentucky Chew’ to taste the unfamiliar bourbon. First, I pick up the rocks glass and swirl the amber liquid, then I delicately put my nose in the glass and inhale with my lips slightly parted. I smell vanilla and caramel notes, with a spicy black pepper undertone. I don’t immediately recognize it as anything I’ve had before.
I take a tentative sip into the middle of my palate, then chew it. The bourbon starts off with a surprising amount of heat up front and then mellows to the vanilla and caramel notes I smelled.
What I didn’t expect from the bouquet, or the world of bourbon, is a surprising fruity finish. It’s definitely an unusual tasting one, but absolutely delicious, with a smooth finish despite the heat upfront.
I lightly smack my lips, trying to puzzle out the fruity flavor at the end. Is it apple? Pomegranate? It’s hard to place. The lingering note is reminiscent of a cinnamon candy apple.
“Whew, that’s bottled in bond,” I mutter on a spicy exhale. I nibble my snacks, glancing around as the general admission seats fill and check out the VIP area behind me. A few other tables in this section are now seated with a wide variety of guests.
I see a few suits at one table, a gothic couple at another, and a giant mountain of a man in a three-piece suit of unrelieved black in the very back. I turn back around, surveying the stands closest to me, startled to see a man looking right at me.
Although, at this distance, I can’t make out the precise shade of his eyes, in my mind, I can picture them exactly. He looks disturbingly like my long-lost guardian angel everyone had insisted was an imaginary friend.
Without warning, the lights dim and anticipation of the upcoming entertainment swirls in my belly. I forget about the blond man reminiscent of my past in my excitement over the show. I can’t wait to see what’s in store just from the few interactions and performers I’ve seen so far.
The volume of the crowd drops with the lights, leaving everyone quietly buzzing with excitement. I steadily work through my charcuterie plate, savoring the burst of flavors on my tongue from the pomegranate seeds, then relishing the smokey meats and sharp cheeses. I dip a cracker in the honey, surprised when I pop it into my mouth to find it’s spicy.
I take another sip of my bourbon, enjoying how well it complements my snacky meal. When I see the same server pass by, I wave her over to ask for water. I’ll need to pace myself with as strong as this is.
Haunting music starts as the whole interior fades to black. The audience lets out a collective gasp as red spotlights come on along the edge of the circular stage, directing their swirling beams of light upwards.
We all look up, eyes searching for the start of the show. The spotlights fade away, save a single red one illuminating the figure dropping from the ceiling.
An oversized birdcage holds an impossibly contorted woman. The cage slowly lowers, eerie in the red light. As it makes its way down, the music swells. The cage sits in the center of the rotating stage, showcasing just how contorted the woman is–a mass of red and black and flesh.
I recognize the two men coming down the aisles as the huge guys who had been at the side door. They each spring up onto the stage and grasp opposite sides of the cage.
I feel the whole tent holding its collective breath, waiting to see what will happen. The strongmen lift the cage into the air, muscles straining as if they are trying to rip it apart.
Suddenly, long red silk swaths of fabric fall from the ceiling, hiding the performers. Pyrotechnics shoot up plumes of sparks around the edge of the stage and the strongmen fall to their sides. The cage mysteriously vanishes.
