Vaudeville

On October 11, 2106, Reginald Farris was sentenced to die.

One week later people flocked from all across Thomasia, to the capital city of Alvany, to watch him lose his head.

Under a bruised, ominous morning the makeshift platform leered. It had been built special just for the occasion. And then raised when the estimated turnout climbed too high, so those in the back could see.

And then raised again.

Again.

Farris was something of a legend and for the most part it was earned. Though sometimes the stories outgrew their reality and took on lives of their own. It wasn’t uncommon to hear about the time he’d taken forty armed bluecoats with a pocketknife, all while seated and smoking. Or the time he led his rebel organization, the Farisia, through twenty miles of woods just to flash their faces at the palace and strike fear in the heart of the King.

While there was no forty-man pocketknife massacre, there were stories just as impressive—these true.

As a teenager he devised a hand signal among his men, in case any of them were ever captured by the authorities and goaded into wearing a wire. Given the Capitol was chomping at the bit for his location, he figured it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, one of his lieutenants was picked up when the blackmarket arms dealer he connected with turned out to be a cop. He was hauled into the station and promptly given an ultimatum—the wire or the chair.

Feigning reluctance, he chose the wire.

At their next meetup he flashed the signal, and Reggie saw.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t so much as change his tone. He simply spoke on, as before. “I’m going to be meeting a man,” he said, “in the alley between Gordon’s and the old pharmacy. We’ll be exchanging information on some new tech.”

“When will this be, Sir?” the lieutenant pressed eagerly, knowing full-well every word said was a lie.

“Monday night. Nine sharp.”

On Monday, at nine sharp, bluecoats were staked all around the alley. They only emerged from their hiding places when a tall man in a raincoat and widebrim hat showed himself, drifting to meet what looked like another man. They charged the broad alley, shivs of rain now coming down. They leveled their rifles at the men, only to find two drunkard bums in costume, who claimed a stranger had commissioned their services, and paid a generous sum at that.

Before the knot of confusion could untangle, a flood of rebels materialized from every direction, jumping from rooftops and rising from dumpsters, emerging from nooks and manholes. Descending from the vast array of fire escapes overhead, combat boots clambering against the metal-grate steps.

The cobbled alley soon turned to a slaughterhouse.

Even the clouds seemed to shy back, as red slaked the ground and lashed the walls. Men were hacked to pieces in a wild frenzy, disassembled like dolls, shot apart and left gaping in wide-eyed terror at a sky they could no longer see.

There were curses aplenty. There were cries of defiance, but as the weight of the situation pressed in these were slowly stemmed off, replaced by cries for mercy, for backup. In the throes of a breakdown one young recruit cried for his mother.

The few who still had their vision looked to the alleymouth. It was as though a magnetic force drew their eyes—something compelling, irresistible. Past the ragged rebels dealing their ends, they found the culprit. Standing there, in the wide gait between buildings, was a young man. He wore a dark tweed suit, his coiffure neat and black. He kept his hands unseen, clasped behind him. And he watched from the stygian veil, his face a void.

He never had to lift a finger.

For many, he would be the last thing they would ever see. On this wretched night and other nights innumerable.

But on this night it was different.

On this night he was only seventeen years old.

Two months before his eighteenth birthday, the last of the mainline rebels dissolved. There was only the Farisia now. It had siphoned all other organizations down to nothing.

A middle-aged Farisian prospect took note, and asked him: “What ever became of the mainlines?”

He clasped his hands, elbows biting his desk. Behind his threaded fingers there was a boyish face and an oil-stain glare.

“We ate them,” he replied, simply. “They’re mine now.”

“Ate?” the prospect seemed to fret.

“They work for me. What did you think I meant?”

“Nevermind,” a sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Did you think I meant we were cannibals?”

"If you were,” the man laughed, “it wouldn't surprise me one bit."

By thirty, he sat in a cage at a maximum security facility.

Were he to die there he concluded he would have no regrets. And he was set to die that very morning. But he didn’t necessarily plan on it.

Outside his cell the bluecoat guards on duty were switching up. Bluecoats offered the best entertainment, especially the newer ones. They hadn’t the expertise to deal with a thing like him, so they would often scramble to compensate. Fight, flight, fawn. The works.

There was a lanky young man who would thump peanuts at him like he was an exhibition at the zoo. A kindly older woman who offered an ear if he wished to speak. (She seemed to genuinely care, though by nature he had his doubts.) A blusterous round vulgarian who relished knowing Reggie couldn’t reach his throat for the bars. He would slur him and curse him, drunkenly. Well over half the words Reggie conjectured he’d made up.

He took it all in stride, with the stoicism of a scholar. Never did he react. Never did he so much as blink. With one exception.

One fateful ‘changing of the guard’ saw the peanut-thumper leaving a bag of trailmix halfeaten on his desk. The young woman replacing him noticed it, while sipping her canteen. She reached for it, and Reggie finally spoke up.

“It has nuts,” he said.

She angled her face over. Hearing his voice felt alien, surreal.

“That stuff,” he elaborated. “It has nuts in it. If I recall, you’re allergic.”

She regarded him with a skeptical look. “They told me should you ever speak, to do the opposite of what you said.”

“Go ahead and die, then.”

He said nothing else. It seemed the palace had been so stringent in its fifteen-year campaign against him, the current batch of bluecoats saw him as the Devil incarnate.

The woman ate, if only because he’d told her not to.

And when minutes later she fell retching and gasping from her chair, he was left to watch. Finally he took a quartersize crumb of the chipping wall and flicked it, the trajectory just right to hit her emergency alert button. She was well-unconscious by then.

He never found out if she survived.

They blamed him, of course. And that strange instance was relegated to legend with all the others. It morphed, and grew. Look what this creature did. He got her through the bars. And if he can get her through the bars, he can get you.

His newest guard was a fresh face, young and freckled. She looked about twenty, tops. Her hair was wiry red and her eyes were afraid. They observed from a distance, not daring to lock with his.

“Not a word,” she was quick to preface. “I hope you understand. You’ve singlehandedly swayed half the island to do your bidding. I’ve read some of the reports and—yeah, I shouldn’t have to explain why I don’t want you talking to me. In fact, don’t even breathe in my direction.”

She hung only as close as she had to, and watched his feet.

“You’re scared?” he asked.

“Shut up!” she cried, face ripening to match her hair. “I will put you in solitary!”

“I’m already the only one in here.”

“Shussshhhh!”

Calmly, he complied.

“I’m not about to risk it,” she continued. “I-I’m not the most aware person. I try, but still. I get taken advantage of really easily.”

“This probably isn’t the best job for you, then.”

“Nooo!” she covered her ears, theatrically, “I can’t hear you!”

Every guard they sic on me is clinically insane, he lamented. Every. Single. One.

There was a brief stint of silence, till she glanced over and noticed his position. He sat crookedly in the corner, right shoulder crammed against the wall.

Minutes later, she brought him a pillow, tossing it through the bars. “You looked…uncomfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“NO!” hands to the ears. “SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!”

Around midmorning, a male guard came in to fetch him for transit. He was well-armed. In fact, he looked equipped enough to do battle with every rebel in the country.

The man noticed Reggie, perched in his cage. By then he had five pillows, two blankets, twelve books, and a steaming cup of coffee.

The freckly redhead was beaming.

“Oh, they’re here! They’re here! Whew,” she declared, “I’m kinda proud of myself. All this time alone with you and I haven’t been manipulated at all.”

The male guard, Mr. Ray, was not impressed.

“What is this?!” he exploded. “Did you give him half the prison?!”

“Eep! No, Sir, I—” she paled, and grasped, and answered, “He looked sad.”

As Mr. Ray dragged him away in cuffs—a dozen more guards in tow—Reggie grinned.

“I like her.”

The gruff bluecoat shot him a glare.

“Ah shuddup.”

He prodded him on.

The coterie of guards led him from the complex, and loaded him into the back of an armored transport truck. Several crowded in around him, guns in plain view. They wanted him to know he was trapped.

Mr. Ray sat closest, perhaps so he could taunt. He was Reggie’s least favorite kind—the kind that picked “fight”. He could tolerate fear and flattery, but mockery tended to wear thin. And this guy. This guy…

“Best enjoy that brain of yours while it still works,” Ray dogged, “Before the hour’s out, it’s gonna be laying in a bucket, with the rest of yer pretty little head.”

On the surface, Reggie was unconcerned at best. He held his unreadable scowl. His pleasant-if-anything poker face.

When Ray insisted on continuing, he figured up a way to silence him. "Have you ever heard of the Vampire of Düsseldorf?"

“What are you yammering on about?”

“It was the moniker of a serial killer from the early twentieth century,” Reggie replied. “Peter Kürten. When faced with the guillotine, some of his last words come to mind. ‘Tell me, after my head is chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.’”

“Ew!” Ray snapped. “How do you know that?! Do you just sit around memorizing this—”

"WE'RE HERE!!!" the driver called back, through the chainlink partition separating the cab from the haul.

Ray sighed, and nailed Reggie with another glare. “I’d tell ye to get a life, but, well…”

Reggie smiled genuinely then, for the first time in weeks. He made sure Ray saw it. Once he offloaded with the guards and was intercepted by the higher palace authority, Ray made a face.

“Ughhh,” he languished. “They get creepier every year.”

Reggie was guided up the steps of the platform, to the cacophony of over twenty-thousand spectators. The guillotine waited, at the edge of a manmade precipice. The view was like that from a rooftop.

Amusingly enough, there were concession stands lining the road to each side. People held everything from salted pretzels to mixed drinks. Children licked their cones of shaved ice. A couple smartalecks had set up lawn chairs and umbrellas. Vendors peddled their wares, calling out in tandem with the jeers and the slurs and the laughter.

Not many supporters of his dared show their faces.

He watched the animated crowds with dispassion, disinterest. He was lost in his own thoughts—unfazed by the effigies of him hanging from makeshift gallows, lit afire and left to shrivel in the sweltering midmorning sun. Posters that bore his likeness waved, the eyes X’d out, all sorts of graffiti employed to ugly him. Someone even drew cat ears on theirs. And lipstick. And blush. He didn’t know what they sought to accomplish, and odds were, neither did they.

The Devil horns made more sense. He supposed the rumors had gotten around. Of course they had. It was inevitable.

Anything propagated by the palace seemed to catch like wildfire, and grip the diehard Loyalists, which were still a noteworthy majority.

He watched. And he resolved. If they wanted a devil, he would give them one.

The bluecoats manhandled his arms, and with wrists still cuffed at his back he was dragged along, closer and closer to the serrated maw of death. The lunette was open and ready.

Before he could be pushed to his knees, a bearded bluecoat stepped forward holding a charcoal-gray blazer. He motioned to Reggie’s handlers. “Unlock his cuffs for a minute,” he ordered, “and have him put this on.”

“What, you afraid he’ll catch a cold?” one retorted.

“We need him to look presentable,” the bearded man said. “He’s a legend, after all. The more ‘larger than life’ he comes off, the more of a message it’ll send when we dispatch him.”

“It’ll take more than a jacket to make him look presentable.”

The scrappy handlers stepped aside nonetheless. They drew their pieces and leveled them at Reggie, as the jacket-bringer unlocked his cuffs. With at least five rifles and two revolvers aimed at him, Reggie slid the jacket on. He felt the plated knuckles hidden in the sleeves, and the gun holstered in the inner-pocket.

His hands were recuffed by the jacket-bringer. He made sure to play along and pretend they had locked.

He knelt, placing his neck in the lunette. There was no top piece. The guillotine was a barbaric rig. Even the blade was rusty and worn. Perhaps they had picked this one in the hopes it would be too dull to do the job. It would sever just enough to leave him wounded and dying.

The sadism wasn’t lost on him. And he didn’t appreciate it.

An orator was summoned to give the sendoff. He wore a three-piece suit and a tie of mulberry silk. A hush swept the crowds; and those who refused to quieten were scolded and shushed and threatened into submission.

“Sir Reginald Farris,” he began, when all had settled, “for ordering the assassination of this nation’s great King, His Majesty Frederick I, the murder of numberless others, at your own hand and by proxy, and all other measures of atrocity you’ve committed since assuming your role as puppetmaster of the rebellion—you are hereby given to death. Death and all that will surely follow. Son,” a pause, “I’m real glad I ain’t you.”

The orator regarded him like a soggy piece of trash, held at arm’s length.

“Have you any last words?”

“Have you?” Reggie asked.

“Ay. Your trickery won’t work this time,” the man scoffed. “You’re caught as a chick in the claws of an eagle.”

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

The crowd opined. “Lop his head off already!” “Feed his body to the pigs!” “Mount ’is mug in the palace john!”

Off to the side, Farris noticed two children, standing among the throngs. The boy looked maybe ten, the girl maybe five. Neither shared in the joy of their neighbors. The boy’s face was juicy with tears, and the girl watched with a somber catatonia. They were discrepancies in a sea of vulgar revelry. And there was a reason. But all in due time.

Farris waited.

The orator—Mister Van Dien—knelt low, till he was at eyelevel with the condemned. His true colors surfaced. He gifted him a cynical grin. “How does it feel to know in a minute or less, you’ll be seeing Hell?”

Farris waited.

There was a strange silence that swelled, along the thunderhead sky.

Meanwhile he pinpointed every face of significance among the revelers. Ray stood with them, near the front. The redhead girl too. They in their crisp uniforms; his seeming to hug his rotund body, and hers seeming to swallow her whole.

The déclic was pulled and the mouton dropped with all the vigorous lethargy expected. But in the seconds leading up Farris freed his hands. They retreated into his sleeves and emerged with metal plates at each fist. Then they deployed, and stopped the blade above him with a sharp clash. It halted maybe an inch from the nape of his neck.

And that was the cue.

“DEATH BEFORE SURRENDER!” the cry swelled with the thunderheads. And a strange, autumnal wind began to blow.

In a blink, every bluecoat on the platform lay shot, most dead, some dying. Despite the vantage points already being vetted for snipers by security, it seemed a few had weaseled their way in. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

As Farris stood to his feet, pushing the mouton up by his plated knuckles, a blotch of black was forming along the east. It swirled together, a sentient and chattering thing. It blotted the sun and hung over the city square. An abominable ceiling comprised of who knew what.

From the ground they looked like insects. And they were fast to attack, lighting into anything in uniform they could find. The bluecoats would be swarmed, mobbed by the tiny black creatures. They would eat them from beneath their uniforms, and still upright the uniforms would stand for a moment before crumbling to the ground. Some would force their ways in through the orifices of the face and fill their screaming prey, dispatching them from the inside-out.

Though a humble illusion, the scene left an initial impression as some precursor to the end. An apocalyptic tableau. A plague poured out upon the land.

The crowd scattered, trampling and clawing and shrieking as though the air itself was laced with poison, and had to be expelled from their lungs.

The orator stood docile and stunned at the platform precipice, bearing a useless witness to it all. He shrank in his suit; eyes wrought with a distillation of terror so pure and true you’d be pressed to find it replicated in the annals of history. Men and women bayed below, like fearstricken jackals in a pen. They fled and tumbled and turned vendor carts on their side. Tables were flipped to the ground, wares shattered. Aristocrats in tuxes and gowns ran as they likely never had before, faces wrung aghast. The fire from the effigies soon caught on the debris, and small pockets of flame began to crop up in the terrorized valley between buildings.

The road ran red, and it mixed with the collections of pooled rainwater from the day prior, and it frothed pink along the curbs, lapping like some ghastly aquaplane at the point of contact between ocean and earth.

The orator stood docile, until a rustle at his back—the light scuff of footsteps—stirred him. He pivoted to face the source, and there he found Reggie, all suited and smiling. Wireskinny, eyes deceptively polite.

He moved to back away, a quavering note sticking in his teeth. It was low and shapeless, a thrum of the damned.

He reversed himself toward the precipice, and the fifty foot drop it offered. Reggie followed, walking toward him at a leisurely pace.

“What was that about me seeing Hell?” he asked. “Usually my memory is spotless, but I’m having a bit of trouble recounting. Perhaps it’s because you never finished the thought...” His voice was sickly and timid. In context, it was a subtle mockery. “So feel free, Mister Van Dien. Finish it.”

“Yck—stay back!” Van Dien cried, his mind moving to bargain. “I was a patron of your father’s park! A key investor! Before he lost his mind and started sympathizing with the rebels, I was one of his best friends…in the world, yes, in the world…” The precipice was nearing. The drop. “You had a comfortable childhood because of me! I lent him millions!”

“Well, now I’m really calling my memory into question, because I don’t seem to remember you at all.” Reggie dropped the plates from each fist, and stood barehanded before him. “Maybe you’re just that forgettable.”

Van Dien stopped, his heels cusping the edge, hanging over. He glanced back and that quickly proved a mistake. All of a sudden the drop seemed twice as far.

He flitted his eyes back to Reggie.

“You see my hands. They’re empty,” Farris said. “So why do you look so afraid?”

Caught up in the throes of deliberation, Van Dien fidgeted and trembled and soon the fear overtook him, causing him to lose his balance. Whether intentional or not, he fell from the precipice, and landed in a screaming tangle. Limbs folding impossibly. A bloodied signature on the cobbles.

Reggie glimpsed him briefly, leaning himself over the edge. He put his hands in his pockets then and turned, continuing his leisurely stroll to the stairs.

***the man that got away***

People were running in every direction, like chickens freshly-beheaded. Those deranged enough to accidentally cross paths with Reggie found themselves reeling.

From a distance he was an idea, a blur. But. With that distance closed they got to see him, really see him, in all his uncanny splendor. Thirty was young enough for his vast oeuvre of accomplishments. But up close he looked even younger. He looked like a collegiate sophomore at oldest.

He descended the platform steps and walked casually through the fleeing crowd—to the alcove where Ray and the guard girl were hiding, behind the overturned tables of a trashed vendor stand.

He stopped in front of them, and pulled the gun from his jacket. The redhead girl lost her wits then, drawing her knees to her chin and shrinking behind them and whimpering past all control like a beaten pup. Ray could only blubber and push himself back by his heels. His eyes were enormous, pupils contracted and shivering.

“Ughk-uhhhhhaaa—”

Reggie put a bullet in the leftside of his head. It corkscrewed clean through, one temple to the other. The exit wound erupted, plastering a fine red mist onto the wall behind. Some of it even hit the mousy redhead. She made a strange and guttural noise; perhaps it was a scream caught crossways in her throat, swallowed down so not to draw attention.

But she had his attention, undivided.

He watched her for a moment, then smiled. “You might want to consider a new line of work,” he said, polite and soft-worded as before. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this.”

With that, he drifted on.

She spent the first twenty minutes of her second chance puking her guts out.

Past the mud-trampled corpses and the bleeding injured and the inflamed cordillera of rubble, Reggie saw the armored transport truck that had delivered him minutes before, idling. In the driver’s seat sat one of his spies, bluecoat uniform bright and spotless and convincing as any other. The actual driver lie dead on the ground, a bullethole between his eyes.

Reggie loaded into the open haul, where a couple spies and both children from earlier sat gathered. He seated himself among them, eyes peaceful, serene.

“I noticed a few familiar faces in the audience,” he addressed the kids. “You showed up to cheer me on?”

“To see you…off…” Felix, the lad, sniffled. “I thought…I thought…”

“Where’s your faith, my boy?” Reggie admonished, quietly. “Take a page from your sister. Not a tear to be found. You knew all along, didn’t you Nyce?”

She nodded, with conviction.

As the transport truck drove from the town square, a figure watched its departure. She stood atop the dome of the bank, the highest vantage around. Her clothes were baggy, black and gold spangled. Her skin was painted purest white. And her vampish makeup was skewed partly by a netted veil. She made sure the truck was untouched, siccing her insects on anyone who would dare pursue.

Sure enough it left the bounds of Alvany and headed into the wooded country. In the back the spies were conferring. Mainly on plans for how to celebrate their victory. Reggie was quick to interrupt.

“It’s not over,” he warned. “Frederick may be dead, but there’s still his wife and son. I heard she’s in hiding now. She’s probably not even in the country anymore. And if that’s true, the kid’s likely in hiding too.”

“So, you think the palace is empty?” the younger spy asked.

“Of royals, yes. But I’m sure there are plenty grunts in position to hold down the fort.” His smile faded. “It’s pathetic really. To fight and die defending an empty castle. In support of the leaders who abandoned you.”

Another spy piped up, when silence threatened. “We missed you Boss.” The others nodded in consensus, and every nod was genuine.

“I’ve missed myself,” Reggie jested. “A month I’ve been biding my time in that rathole. That’s a lot of hours to dedicate, even for a payoff like this...” his mind trailed, “When we get back, they better have a briefing ready. I wanna hit the ground running.”

“Jennifer Richards, reporting live from the Alvanian Square, where earlier today the execution of mass murderer Reginald Farris was halted by a rebel attack. Farris is said to have escaped the city, aboard a commandeered military vehicle. Sources claim he’s since switched over to a black Victoria. The Capitol requests that all citizens stay alert. Anyone with any information is encouraged to phone the tipline. Do not approach Farris on your own, as he is said to be armed and extremely dangerous.”

Eyewitness Accounts:

“Everything happened so fast, yanno. One minute they had his neck in the guillotine and the next, there were bodies everywhere. I counted forty, fifty… It was hard to tell who was moving, because everything felt like it was moving, yanno. And those forty or fifty. Those were just, yanno, in my field of vision.”

“The bugs…the bugs…”

“I saw a bluecoat pick him up in the transport truck. A bonafide kingsman. I never thought I’d see the day that monster had kingsmen on his payroll…”

“Before today, I’d only heard stories. I’d come to believe he wasn’t even real. And seeing him…he looked like a vampire. Like something not quite human. His skin was super pale, like paper. Like, dude needs some serious Vitamin D.”

“The bugs…the bugs…”

“He walked down the platform steps, and into the crowds. I actually came pretty close to him. He smelled like teakwood candles and stale cigarettes. He was nuthin terribly special. But I suppose if he was he’d be a pretty lousy assassin.”

“He can overthrow my kingdom any day.”

“GRANDMA EW WHAT THE—”

“The bodies, yanno, some were downright ventilated. There was sniper fire coming down from everywhere. You just heard popping from the rooftops. Pop, pop, pop. And, yanno, I was outta there, I wasn’t about to stand around and gawk at the people shooting at me…”

“Now back to Darren in the studio.”

“Thank you, Jennifer. Casualties from that catastrophe are said to stand at 327, for the time being. But accounting all the injuries, that number is expected to rise.”

Upon receiving word of the Alvany incident, the palace dispatched a squad of trained assassins to track down Farris and his brood. They came a hair’s breadth from sending Heidre Marcos, but then thought better of it. Too much carnage.

She was a last resort.

Instead they sent some middlegrade professionals, people with enough restraint about them not to raze the country.

The hit squad set up shop along the road leading to Vaudeville, a decades-old, abandoned theme park the rebels had claimed for their lair. The interior was too populated with Farisians for any self-respecting kingsman to enter. So they kept far enough out that any encounter would be manageable—maybe a sparse peppering of enemies at most.

The forestry to each side of the road was thick, thick enough that anything could lurk beneath the foliage unspotted. The assassins decided to use Farris’ own terrain against him, positioning themselves under several layers of branches. Whenever the Victoria he hijacked would pass, they’d open fire on it, blow out the tires, and even lob a grenade or two if necessary.

All was ready.

Their greatest adversity now was impatience.

“I thought he’d never shut up,” the elder spy complained of Van Dien.

“Yeah. I’ll admit I almost poked the bear,” Reggie acknowledged, from the backseat of his new Victoria. “You’re still not done? At this rate I’m poised to live a very full life up here.”

Laughter abounded.

The driver was the same bluecoat impersonator from the truck. The elder spy got the passenger seat. The younger spy had stayed with the truck, to dispose of it. (Which was just a fancy way of saying ‘light it on fire’.)

Felix and Nyce sat, to each side of their father.

Just when Nyce was about to say something, a loud popping noise cut her short.

One of the royal assassins spotted a black Victoria coming up the little dirt road around evening. He called out to his comrades and the hail of gunfire began. Soon metal and glass rippled like water, under the brunt of a thousand bullets. A grenade was tossed for good measure. It rolled under the sagging automobile before igniting.

A ball of fire consumed what was left of the mangled heap. The blast was so great it propelled the driver clean through the windshield and into the road. He was marred by a patchwork of cuts and burns, evidently dead. A gash in his stomach let on. And his unblinking eyes cemented the verdict.

Slowly the assassins emerged, reluctant to survey the damage.

Could it have possibly been that easy?

“Oh…man,” one groaned, having browsed the contents of the driver’s pockets. “There’s an ID,” he sighed. “This isn’t the name we were given.”

“W-what?” another piped in disbelief.

“The traitor driving Farris went by ‘John Hadley’. And he was middle-aged. This guy’s probably twenty-five, tops.”

“Maybe Farris swapped drivers. Seems like a stunt he’d pull.”

“There’s no one else in the car,” a third called over, having given the wreckage a thorough sifting.

“Would you be able to tell?”

“Yeah. Even with fire like that, there’s usually traces. I know what to look for.”

The first man hesitated, utterly speechless. Finally he yanked his cap off, lashed it against the dirt and swore.

“It was a decoy,” he seethed, when he’d managed to gather his composure. “He knew… I bet that kid we cooked was one of them, one of those rebel cultists. Majority of their outfit is under thirty. Bunch of psychotic upstarts with no real grasp of life or death or consequence.”

He looked to the dead falltime branches, amiably joining hands overhead.

“The country wasn’t like this forty years ago,” he shuddered, if only to himself.

“What was that?” Nyce inquired of the popping.

“Oh, probably just a gravel that got picked up in the tire,” Farris shrugged.

“What’s that up ahead?” Felix asked, having scoped a strange sight. In the middle of the road—like an island born amid an ocean of dirt—smoldered the remains to some kind of vehicle, with metal ribboned and twisted and charred. A few people had collected around the scene. Farris recognized them at once.

“Mr. Hadley,” he said. “I have a request for you. When we pass this group of gentlemen up here, lay on your horn, alright? And step on it.”

Mr. Hadley obeyed.

On their way past, he laid on the horn and gunned it. The royal assassins snapped to attention, some attempting to load the remainder of their ammo. A dwindled hail of gunfire ensued, but nothing so precise as to hit the right Victoria.

It was too far gone, whizzing, galloping.

Farris and his patrons careened merrily away.

________________

Author's Note: I copy/pasted the Kürten quote to avoid typos. (The sheer quantity of commas is distressing lol.) I was also lazy so...

Title: Vaudeville

Genre: General Fiction/Fantasy(?)

Age Range: 15+

Word Count: maybe >60,000 words (it’s not all the way finished)

Author Name: Owlie Costello (pen name)

Why: I have an unusual style that you’ll hopefully find fresh and engaging. (This story kind of subverts the “rebel equals good, royal equals bad” trope. The rebels are basically villains, though nuance is present. It’s a testimony to how easily hate can become blind and irrational, if left to fester.)

The Hook: The shadow of the father falls heavy on the son.

Synopsis: Hank was just a regular boy…until one day a brutal attack gives way to the revelation—he’s next in line for the throne of Thomasia, and people want him dead for it. Now that power has fallen to him, young Hank must navigate his new role with the help of his eccentric staff. But a vestige of his father’s reign still lingers, a vicious rebel organization known as the Farisia. And their leader is a force to be reckoned with...

Target Audience: 15-35(?)

Bio: I’m a relatively young, aspiring writer who’s not had the best luck getting discovered, but I’m hoping to change that. I’d say my biggest literary influences are Markus Zusak and Cormac McCarthy.

Experience: I’ve written since I was little.

Personality/Writing Style: I like fast-paced storytelling with odd characters, unexpected twists, and the occasional flair of philosophy.

Likes/Hobbies: Writing and singing