Doctor Banzai and the Circus of the Damned

Doctor Banzai and the Circus of the Damned

Dr. Hiroshima Bonsai, Master of Science and professor of Chemistry, Physics, Alchemy, Psychology, Para – Psychology, and about a dozen other things ending in “ology” reached around his assistant as he fucked her from behind and squeezed her breast. His strong, precise fingers found the dark tip of Yuki’s nipple and pinched it. Hard. The Japanese grad student, latest in a long string of grad student assistants, let out a squeak and sucked in a breath.

“Aaahhhh…” Yuki’s voice dropped three or four octaves from her usual register and her heavy accent reappeared. “That’s amazing…” She pressed her belly against the cool, flat surface of the work table she was bent over and arched her back while pushing her elbows down. The physical effect brought her chest up about six inches and allowed Hiroshima to better massage her B – Cup tits. He pressed his chest against her sweat – soaked back and bit at her neck before straightening up and kneading his fingers into her breasts.

She loved it when he grabbed her tits from behind. Loved it even more when he did so while fucking her. She threw her head back sending her long, shiny jet black hair cascading down her back, and stretched her neck. The smooth, sweat glistened skin at her throat was tight and hot and wet.

Not, Hiroshima thought as he slid his cock in and out of the grad student, as tight as this fucking pussy! He bit his bottom lip while he pushed deeper into Yuki’s heat. She was tighter than anyone else. At least, so far as he could remember.

“Fuck me harder, Dr. B,” Yuki moaned through short, shallow breaths. “Don’t stop! Give it all to me!” She pushed herself up higher on her toes, raising her ass up another inch or two and giving “Dr. B” a slightly straighter shot as he thrust himself into her over and over again. At just shy of five feet tall, Yuki was by far the smallest grad student he’d ever had. What she lacked in size she more than made up for in aptitudes both physical and mental. Not only was she a wonder to look at, and amazing to fuck, but she had an almost innate talent with even the most complex of scientific theory, often challenging Hiroshima’s own knowledge and skill during their work sessions.

Hiroshima let one hand slip off Yuki’s breast and rise to her neck where he stroked her flesh and found the pulse at her artery. Her heart was pounding in time with his own, which, in turn, was beating to the rhythm of his thrusting. He’d never felt so in tune with a girl before. And there had been many previous to Yuki.

Three a year, at least. Sometimes more if one had to leave early for some reason. A new grad student each semester, then another over the summer. All of them female. All of them beauties. Young, firm, supple and sexy, each one that came through his door seemed to outdo the last.

His colleagues, nowhere near being in his league, had issues finding a single grad student to take on in any given year, never mind a new one every few months. Good thing they didn’t know about Hiroshima’s waiting list.

Applications flowed in regularly, along with letters of recommendation from professors, school officials, even political figures of no minor import. Some came with head shots; others with panties; and still others with flash drives that contained amateur video. How word didn’t spread to his colleagues was beyond even his understanding. The only thing more unclear was how all the applicants heard about him. Any student he accepted was made to sign a dozen or more non – disclosure forms.

Hiroshima caught his reflection in the glass cabinet door and studied himself for a moment as he continued to pound Yuki’s tight Japanese pussy for all he was worth. What was it that brought the girls out in droves? His thick, blond hair, wavy and full and constantly appearing to be windblown even when the air was perfectly still? Chiseled jaw? Aquiline nose? Those piercing silver – blue eyes that seemed to glow under any light? Maybe it was simply the fact that he’d sculpted his six – foot tall body with five – hundred sit – ups every morning, followed by an equal number of push – ups, then breakfast.

Maybe the physical was only part of it. Hiroshima was in the top echelon of the scientific community. Having his name on a transcript or resume, let alone holding a letter of recommendation with his signature, and anyone would be able to basically write their own ticket. Still, he’d never had a male applicant.

“Dr. B,” Yuki hissed, catching his attention as she caught his hand at her breast. She lifted his hand to her mouth and shoved two of his fingers in deep enough that he was sure he could feel her tonsils. Whatever she said next was so heavily muffled that there was no way he could have hoped to understand it. The inside of her mouth was as hot and wet as her pussy and he let his fingers go limp as she sucked at them with great vigor.

Yuki Shimazawa was the first grad student to come from outside the country. She’d petitioned him for the past four years, sending in her first application at fifteen, before she was even out of high school. Her transcripts, marked with the logos of the most prestigious schools in Japan, had been amazing, as had the referral letters from her instructors and private tutors – many of whom Hiroshima recognized by name, if not by scholarly reputation. She was regularly top of her classes in all aspects of her studies from Science and Mathematics to the more esoteric studies of language and literature. There was, it seemed, nothing Yuki didn’t excel at. She was also his first Japanese assistant and now that he’d had an opportunity to work with her he wondered why he’d waited as long as he had to accept an assistant of Asian descent. There had been no shortage of Asian applicants, so that wasn’t the issue. It just always seemed that someone more qualified was in the pool.

Gently, so as not to offend the girl, Hiroshima slipped his fingers from her mouth and brought his hands around to her back. He pressed her shoulders down until her chest was flat against the surface of the table and grabbed her hips, now both pulling and pushing as he thrust into her. Yuki squeaked with each penetration and he felt her quiver and shake against him. She lifted one foot of the floor and onto the table, her leg stretched out along the sharp edge. Hiroshima followed the curve of her leg, from her round ass to her thigh, then down her calf to her ankle and foot. He felt himself grow impossibly harder inside Yuki as he remembered how it felt to have her tiny feet caress his cock. Her soles were impossible soft and supple, her toes incredibly dextrous. Only minutes ago, he’d had those toes in his mouth, sucking and licking them while pressing his thumbs into the nerve endings in her arch and heel.

Movement caught his attention.

Something out of the corner of his eye, somewhere just out of sight.

Reluctantly, he turned away from Yuki’s size five and focused his attention out the window that overlooked the street several stories below. He had no concern for being seen through the same window, the glass was heavily tinted and mirrored and it was impossible to see in, even in the dark of night if he’d left all the lights on. The windows were like the one – way mirrors the police use when “interviewing” suspects, only far better. Of his own design. Not only could they not be penetrated by the eye, but not even a shot from the most high – powered rifle would break them.

He liked fucking Yuki in front of the window.

Gently, from far away, the sound of music began to rise and fill the street. It was familiar, yet off. An organ grinder playing a tune known the world over. Children of all ages would be rushing out into the street to watch the parade as it made its way through the city streets.

The tune came in fits and starts, like some of the gears in the instrument of its origin had lost a few teeth. It was shrill, high pitched, and grated now and then as it played. Hiroshima heard the grinding, screeching rust in the harsh tones. Cold fingers stroked his nerves with each distorted and sibilant note.

Yuki began to move her ass to the tune and Hiroshima was fairly sure she could not hear the decay that was as clear as a bell to his ears. It was unconscious movement on her part, yet somehow, despite the chill that had found its way into his spine, Hiroshima found it incredibly hot. He pressed his hands into the meat of the girl’s ass and gave both cheeks a squeeze.

“Oh, God,” Yuki’s voice returned to its higher pitch as she cursed in Japanese. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” She brought her other leg up and matched the position of the first on the table. She was now in a wide open splits that gave Hiroshima even easier access to the hot pink space between her legs. She pushed against the window, her fingers splayed on the glass, and forced herself further down the length of Hiroshima’s shaft. “Don’t you fucking stop!” She was nearly shrieking at that point, but Hiroshima hardly noticed.

Physically, he was still fucking her, hard and fast. His hands kneaded her ass as he pushed hard against and into her. Mentally he had disconnected and moved beyond the events on the table for the moment.

He watched the street as the beginnings of the parade appeared from around the corner of the building across from him. It was an old building while his was relatively new. He had the entirety of the tenth through fifteenth floors cordoned off for his own use, with his offices, labs, personal apartments, and various experiments housed within. A private elevator accessed the floors and could only be accessed through a biometric security system. With each new assistant, he would update the system, removing the access of the previous while adding the current.

His floors were not even included on the manifest for the building, or in the regular elevators. For anyone else, there simply seemed to be an extremely long stretch between the ninth and tenth floors. The other tenants had no idea he was even there and even less that he owned the whole building.

The slowly growing chill raced up Hiroshima’s spine as he caught sight of the pair of elephants that led the procession. They were massive, maybe twice the size of an African bull elephant, and could barely walk side by side through the street. Their skin was grey, though not the natural grey that would usually be equated with such creatures. They were pallid and mottled with differing tones of greys and whites and blacks where blood had pooled under the skin and been unable to travel further. Bits of flesh sloughed off of them as they walked along, their heavy feet slamming into the pavement and rocking the cars unlucky enough to be parked along the parade route. Far above, shrieking and croaking out their desires, a grouping of a hundred or more crows, seagulls, and other scavengers and carrion eaters flew in tight circles. Every few seconds, one or more would break formation and dive, beaks open and ready, to grab onto the flesh and pull away what little they could.

The beasts’ eyes were white pools of blindness that wept black goo down the sides of their faces to trickle along the yellowed ivory tusks before dropping, in thick, slimy gobs, onto the ground. One raised its ropy trunk, full of holes that showed pinkish muscle, and trumpeted out a call which echoed off the buildings and increased in volume the further from the source it got. The window in front of Yuki rattled in its frame but the girl either didn’t notice or assumed it was vibration from the pounding her pussy was taking.

“Something’s coming,” Hiroshima muttered as he moved one hand from the girl’s ass and pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Me too,” Yuki cried out in Japanese. “I’m coming!” She thrust her ass up and lifted her hips off the table. Hiroshima shifted his footing and his hand returned to Yuki’s ass where it once again began to knead and massage her flesh.

Behind the reanimated elephant corpses came a long chain of what were once train cars. Some were cages containing all manner of creature great and small, dead and alive, while others were flat bed stages where men and women performed various stunts and tricks and feats.

A strong man, his muscles built up and bulging to the point where his skin was stretched to near splitting, hefted a car over his head again and again, the muscles on his arms growing with each successive lift until the veins popped through the skin like thick, blue – grey cables. Next to him, the sword swallower slipped blades into more than just her mouth. Some kind of contraption had been constructed for her. It sat on four wooden legs about twenty inches or so high and looked a little like a saddle, if saddles had twin blades attached to them. She wore nothing but a few glittering gold and silver bracelets at her wrists and ankles and hung suspended from an intricate metal construct with chains and rings and hooks that penetrated her flesh at her shoulders and hips and chest and back. Her skin was raw and red and stretched as she was repeatedly raised and lowered above the saddle by her two assistants, dwarves, one completely hairless and the other covered in thick black masses of coarse hair. Both of the little creatures were completely naked and sporting massive erections. Each time she was lowered onto the saddle, the twin blades would disappear into her, only to reappear, wet and glistening, when she was raised. A third blade, long and wavy, hung above her and vanished into her mouth while the blades below slipped from the twin sheaths of her cunt and asshole.

What followed was no less disturbing and no more disturbed.

Hiroshima glanced at the rapidly growing crowd and stared as they smiled and whooped and cheered on the procession. Fathers held sons and daughters on their shoulders, allowing them a better view of the parade. Mothers held the hands of younger children. None, young and old alike, appeared to be seeing what Hiroshima was seeing.

“Squeeze my ass,” Yuki yelled in Japanese. “Dig your fingers in! Harder! HARDER!”

Hiroshima obeyed, pressing his fingers into the meat of the girl’s butt cheeks until his knuckles went white from the effort.

“AAAAHHHHHHH...FUCK! YES!” Yuki shook her head, dark hair flying in all directions, as the beginnings of her orgasm took hold of her. She pushed harder against the window and brought her calves back. Her knees bent around Hiroshima’s hips and her toes curled then splayed out then curled again.

Nearly two dozen tiny cars followed the strange train along the streets. In each one was a clown, wearing brightly colored, but worn and tattered, clothing that hung loose on their narrow frames. Ghost white faces behind bright red noses and lips shone in the light cast from the sun above. It was reflected and amplified a thousand times over by the glass and steel that surrounded the street. They tossed handfuls of candy out of their little one – person cars and children rushed into the street, ignoring their parents’ demands to remain where they were, to collect the brightly wrapped items.

One boy, round of face and body with limp, dark hair in a bowl cut, unwrapped something soft and pink and shoved it into his mouth chewing quickly. A smile started across his fat lips as the sweet, sugary thing released its endorphins into his body. His pleasure was short lived.

By the fourth bite his expression had changed from one of pure joy to one of vague confusion.

By the fifth bite that same expression had become harsh and filled with disgust.

There was no sixth bite.

The boy spat the suddenly offensive wad from his mouth where it hit the ground with a heavy splat. He bent to inspect whatever it was just as Hiroshima squinted to see. Even though he and Yuki were well over a hundred feet above the street, he was able to see events as they unfolded as if he stood no further than a few inches away. One of the many wonders of modern science he had imbued upon himself over the past few years.

The boy shrieked and fell on his pudgy ass in his haste to get away from the thing that had only recently been in his mouth.

A finger, black and rotting and stinking with putrescence, sat in the street. Tiny bits of the pink, sticky candy still clung to it here and there where it lay in a tiny pool of saliva.

The boy vomited all over himself. His shirt and shorts became instantly soaked with vile yellowish / brownish filth.

“I’m coming…” Yuki wrapped her legs tighter around Hiroshima’s waist, her knees squeezing his hips, and, through and incredible feat of strength and flexibility, hoisted her torso off the table to press her back against his chest. Her arms were raised above her head, but quickly came down and her hands were in Hiroshima’s hair, fingers tangled in tight. Hiroshima’s own hands left Yuki’s ass and were once again at her chest, his fingers alternately massaging her tits and twisting her nipples.

Finally, the end of the procession came into view.

A dark, glistening funerary wagon pulled by six massive stallions, each one blacker than the blackest, darkest night appeared. Standing tall and proud atop the two – century old hearse was a single figure. A man, tall and thin, in a black tuxedo trimmed in red and a top hat that added another eighteen inches to his already impressive height. He leaned casually on a shining black walking stick. The silver skull topper was clasped in his long – fingered hand. Another half - dozen or so clowns in their little cars circled the horse drawn carriage and chanted something unintelligible over and over while they prostrated themselves awkwardly and thrust shining knives repeatedly into their own flesh. The tall, thin to the point of gaunt man was tapping his long, pointed nails against the skull in time with the grating music.

“FUCK!!!!” Yuki shook as her climax reached crescendo. She yanked on Hiroshima’s hair and her legs crushed his hips as she forced him deeper than should have been physically possible into her slick, hot pussy. Thick liquid pulsed around Hiroshima’s cock as he continued to thrust into her, somehow able to maintain his balance even through Yuki was rocking and gyrating against him. Her added weight meant almost nothing to him.

After a minute or so, the girl relaxed against Hiroshima and he lowered her back onto the polished surface of the table. He continued to move his hips, sliding slowly in and out of her as she settled back onto the worktable. Her legs loosened around him, and he gently slipped himself out of her with a gentle, wet sucking sound. His hand was around his shaft as soon as it was free of Yuki’s body and he gave it a couple of quick jerks before his own climax came and he spattered his initials in thick lines of semen onto the girl’s golden yellow ass.

“That was awesome,” Yuki mumbled sleepily, her head now resting on her folded arms, face turned to one side.

“No time,” Hiroshima hissed, his eyes still on the horse – drawn hearse as it slid past the building that held his space. “We have work to do, girl.”

“What?” Yuki slipped off the table and stood, naked, before Hiroshima, all pretense of enjoying the afterglow of incredible sex gone from her face. She was all business in an instant and padded across the room to collect her notebooks where they lay scattered across half a dozen desks.

“Trouble,” Hiroshima replied as the last of the clowns disappeared from view, taking the shrill organ grinder music with them. He turned from the window and stalked across the space, dodging desks and chairs with practiced ease. Yuki, arms loaded with books, hurried to catch up to him.

At the wall furthest from the window, Hiroshima pressed his hand to a flat screen about six inches tall. It lit up and hummed for a second or two before a soft, feminine voice welcomed him and a panel in the wall dropped into the floor and out of sight.

“Must be bad,” Yuki stepped through the newly formed space in the wall while Hiroshima glanced back over his shoulder. Four crows flapped and fluttered and landed on the window ledge. Their heads twitched from side to side as they studied their own reflections in the glass before they launched themselves, squawking and cawing, back into the air to continue their pursuit of the ambling meal of elephant flesh. One held the black, candy speckled finger in its beak.

“Yes,” Hiroshima followed Yuki through the doorway, watching the girl’s ass as it twitched and moved with each step she took. “It’s bad. Really bad. End of the world level bad.”

“Shit,” Yuki dropped the pile of books and papers onto a table and turned to face Hiroshima Bonsai. She watched him look at her for a few seconds, a smile twitching at his lips.

“Well,” he shrugged and strode across the space to place his hands on Yuki’s narrow, smooth shoulders. “At least we had a good fuck before it all comes crashing down.”

“A good fuck?” The girl rose on her toes and planted a kiss on Hiroshima’s lips – he still had to bend to accommodate her. “It was an epic fuck, and you know it.”

****

On the outer edge of the city the procession of cars and cages and performances that made up the Circus of the Damned came to a shuddering, jittering halt. Wheels creaked and squeaked while wood and metal groaned. Beasts, unhappy with being so violently jostled, voiced their contempt for their lot in life. A massive wall of stone and mortar and metal topped with shards of glass and thick, round metal spikes stood twenty or more feet tall. Faded by generations of sunny days and cracked and worn by years of rains and time, the wall stood sentry over its secret treasure. Hidden behind its twelve inch thickness was a vacant plot of land. More than a plot, it was easily the size of five city blocks. Little more than scrub grasses grew in the hard packed dirt with the occasional thin, leafless tree to offer a modicum of shade from the sun. The wall, while old and cracked and faded, was completely without sign of human presence. There was no graffiti covering its grey skin; no litter rested on or around it; nary a footprint could be seen in the dirt near its bottom edge. Only the tiniest tread of mice, rats, and other small rodents had disturbed the dust and dirt. Nothing bigger than a raccoon or fox dared approach the wall.

It had been this was way for longer than anyone in the city could remember. All that was known was that the land remained in the ownership of one family for many generations. A family whose name and identity had been lost to time.

The wall curved gently and smoothly around the land, ending at a sheer wall of the blackest granite. Smooth and polished by centuries, the granite shone under the afternoon sun. Millions of dollars’ worth of highly sought after material simply rested there, behind the wall. Beneath the granite, tunnels led deep into the earth, branching in dozens, if not hundreds, of possible directions. Some ended in nothing but flat, solid wall, while others would grow smaller and smaller, forcing any adventurous soul to crawl deeper and deeper into the ground before either becoming stuck, or surrendering and returning from whence they came. Still other tunnels ended in vast caverns, some more than a hundred feet across.

At the gate, locked and chained, the tall man in the black tuxedo, trimmed in red, stood. He leaned casually on his cane, his fingers still tapping on the polished metal skull beneath his palm while his free hand toyed with a key hung from a thin cord of black leather around his neck. Shaped like a spine, its top a flat skull with tiny ruby eyes and diamond chip teeth, the key was equally beautiful and disturbing. The craftsmanship required to tool such a thing, and the twisted creative genius behind its design, battled for supremacy.

Old, dull metal slipped gently between his sharp, pointed nails as he caressed the key as if caressing a lover. The metal glowed slightly under his touch, a trail of red gold light followed his finger each time he traced his nail along its pocked and pitted surface. After a minute or more of simply stroking the key, he released it from his grip and let it drop to his chest.

“Here we are again,” he intoned to those around and behind him as he turned to face the procession, his hand now at the brim of the hat that adorned his head. “Time to make ready.” He doffed the hat revealing smooth, black hair. He lowered the hat and held it out. Without a word, the strongman, his arms rippling under the rope – like veins that stood atop his skin, stepped forward and, on bended knee, accepted the hat as if it were a crown of royalty. He bowed his head, unable to look at the black satin item he now cradled in his massive hands. Hands that were capable of pressing coal into diamond now made not the slightest indentation in the smooth, shining article.

With a gentle nod the man in the tux once again took the key betwixt his fingers and lifted it reverently to his lips. The metal touched his mouth and started to glow that same red gold. It began at the point of contact and spread quickly until the entire construct was shining softly.

He raised it slowly from his lips, the leather cord slipping past his cheeks as he did, until he was able to lift it free and slide the loop over his head. The knotted end brushed his smooth, slicked down hair as it came free of the back of his neck. The key was raised and held aloft. Bright warmth from the afternoon sun struck the ruby eyes and diamond chip teeth until the skull glittered and sparkled.

A hush filled the air. Silence so thick and pure and full that even the air dared not move for fear of breaking it.

The man in the tuxedo turned and stepped up to the gate, the tip of his cane tapping on the hard ground beneath his feet, and slid the key into the heavy, aged lock at its center. At the touch of metal on metal, the lock began to warm and share the glow emanating from the key. The two came together as lovers, long separated yet still full of knowledge of the other’s body. With a slow, smooth twist of his wrist, the man in the tuxedo turned the key.

Long dormant tumblers cried out in protest for a beat, then began to shift under the gentle, yet persistent, pressure applied to the key. Clicks and clunks were heard as the lock was disengaged.

Behind the sharp dressed man holding the black cane a gentle round of applause started to fill the air as the gate, on rusted hinges, popped open. Removing the key from the lock, the man in the tuxedo slipped the leather string over his head. He released the key to let it drop against his chest where it bounced and twisted a couple of times before becoming still. His hand now free, he wrapped long, slender fingers around a thick, ancient metal bar and gave the gate a tug.

Despite years of rust and immobility, the gate swung open smoothly, making only the slightest sound as it did. The applause became cheers as the man in the tuxedo turned and collected his hat from the still kneeling pile of muscle. The strongman stood slowly, bowed at the waist, and stepped back to join the others. The sword swallower, freed from the hooks and chains and wearing a long, flowing robe of gold, placed a hand gently on his arm and gave him a wink. Flanking her on both sides, her dwarven assistants slowly caressed their still stiff cocks, smiling and laughing softly to themselves.

“Please,” the tuxedoed man gave a gentle bow as he placed the hat back atop his head. “There is much to be done in preparation.”

He stepped aside and, with a grand gesture of his arms, bade all those around and behind him enter.

After a century, the Circus of the Damned had come home.

****

Yuki stepped away from the monitor and rubbed at her eyes with the tips of her fingers. She stretched, her back and shoulders popping and releasing tense, tight muscles. The exertions of earlier had caught up to her and she knew she should have done a few yoga poses before starting back to work.

“Too late now,” she murmured as she let her glasses fall back onto the bridge of her nose. Dressed in a crisp, white lab coat, her long hair pulled back into a pony tail, she turned from the computer terminal and studied Hiroshima where he stood, his naked back to her, in front of the vault – like structure that filled over half the space. Its door was open and eerie, green tinged light glowed softly from within. Clouds of thick fog rolled out and across the floor to hide everything below Hiroshima’s knees.

“Yuki?” Dr. Bonsai glanced back over his shoulder, a stray lock of blond hair hung over one eye. “Progress?”

“Program ‘Banzai A – 13 – 26’ inputted and verified, Dr. B,” she gave a mock salute and smiled gently. “Just waiting for your passcode.”

“Excellent work,” he returned the smile, but not the salute. His eyes drank her in from the top of her head to the bottoms of her feet. She was still barefoot, the red polish on her toes glittered under the white lights of the lab. “You look delicious.”

Yuki’s cheeks reddened slightly and she absently tugged at the hem of the lab coat with one hand.

“I’ll see you when you get back,” she let the smile slip from her lips.

“Of course,” Hiroshima replied as he turned his attention from her to the small keypad next to the open door. He tapped in a sequence of numbers and letters with such speed that it seemed the pad had to struggle to keep up.

“Dr. B?” Yuki’s voice quivered slightly. It was not like her to be so…nervous?...afraid?...

“Yes, my dear.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

He stepped into the green light and turned to face the lab, and the Japanese girl who still stood by the computer work station. He wanted the last thing he saw to be something beautiful, didn’t want to focus on the ugliness that was sure to follow.

“Yuki?” He gave her a wink and his roguish smile appeared. “Would you mind?”

“Of course,” she stepped forward, crossing the lab to stand where he had stood when entering the code, and let her fingers slip inside the lab coat. Gently, she took hold of the heavy white material and gave it a pull, popping the snaps open in rapid succession to expose herself to Hiroshima. Her nipples were dark, hard little points at the summit of each of the small mounds of her breasts. Her chubby tummy, soft and smooth, glowed under the light while the tiny butterfly dangling in the open space of her belly button glistened. Below her waist, a dark patch of the blackest hair, trimmed into a tight triangle protected her most sacred of spots. She let the coat slip off her shoulders and stood, naked, before him.

Hiroshima’s eyes roved over every inch of her, taking mental picture after mental picture, and his penis responded to the sight of her by slowly expanding and beginning to rise.

“No time for that now,” he hissed angrily at his body. Yuki could sense the regret in his tone, feel that sense of underlying uncertainty that he hid every time he entered the D.N.A Recalibration Chamber ™. “Close the door, Yuki,” he winked at her. “And put some clothes on.”

Yuki only smiled and tapped the green button at the bottom of the keypad where, only moments before, Hiroshima had entered the complicated code that only he knew. Hydraulics hissed and the door swung closed with a heavy, final thud before the various wheels on the front began to spin and engage the assorted locking mechanisms. The monitor behind Yuki began to scroll through a series of numbers. They flashed across the screen faster than her eyes could follow and she watched it only long enough to verify that the program was, in fact, running as it should before collecting her discarded lab coat from the floor and stepping out of the lab and into a small lounge. She opened a small closet next to the full size refrigerator and collected her clothing from within. It was not something she normally wore, preferring the comfort of jeans over the stiff formality of trousers; the relaxed fit of a t – shirt over the sculpted design of a blouse and jacket, but she knew that the professional, black pant suit was the best choice for what was to come.

She dressed slowly and with great care, watching a small monitor built into the door that separated the lounge from the lab proper. She knew the time required for “Banzai A – 13 – 26” to run and was not concerned that she would be late. It was simply her habit to keep an eye on the monitor every time Dr. B went into the chamber.

She knew what was happening behind the heavy door, inside the cocoon of metal and plastic and wire. Hiroshima Bonsai was being disassembled base pair by base pair and rebuilt into someone else. Visually, she had no idea what something like that would look like, but she imagined it was not pleasant. All she could do was imagine. Images of Dr. B’s body being torn apart atom by atom, his mouth open in a silent, horrible scream.

She’d never been inside the D.N.A Recalibration Chamber ™, and any time she asked Dr. B about it, he’d change the subject. After a while, she simply stopped asking, assuming he’d tell her if he felt she needed to know. Did he even remember the process? Was he still himself?

Secretly, she had imagined herself going into the chamber. Not to completely rebuild herself. Just to tweak a few things here and there. Maybe correct her vision so she could be rid of her glasses. Smooth out some of the little rolls of fat on her belly when she sat. Little things. Scars that she didn’t want, tiny blemishes on her skin. Nothing as major as what Dr. B was going through behind the heavy door.

A green light came on above the chamber door and the metallic ping, like that of a microwave completing its cooking cycle, sounded through the small speaker under the monitor just as Yuki slipped her arms into the stiff jacket, and her feet into the polished leather shoes. Her mind had been wandering and the sound brought her back to reality.

The shoes had a small heel that added an inch or so to her height and she found them incredibly uncomfortable – not because she disliked the style, simply due to the fact that she wore them so infrequently they’d become stiff and hard. She bounced up and down in them a couple of times, lifting the heels up from the floor and letting them fall with a tapping click onto the polished surface in order to reacquaint herself with their fit and weight.

Collecting the lab coat and a clipboard off a small shelf next to the door, she stepped back into the lab, back straight and shoulders set, an air of confidence and strength about her. This was what was expected of an assistant, she thought as she approached the monitor on the workstation to verify that the program had completed its cycle.

On the screen the word “END” flashed, white on black, and she knew that the process had been successful before she heard the hissing of the door opening behind her. Yuki turned, straightening her lab coat and the jacket beneath it before adjusting her glasses and checking that her hair was tight and straight. Professionalism above all else, at a time like this, was of utmost importance to her. She knew that Dr. B had certain expectations of her, and she meant to meet, if not exceed every one of them. By the end of her posting as his assistant, her goal was to be asked to stay on permanently and she felt she was already making good ground on that possibility. She knew she wasn’t indispensable, at least, not yet, but the connection between her and Dr. B had grown stronger over the last few weeks.

Clouds of fog and mist fell from the chamber as the door swung slowly open. The green light from before was gone, and the interior of the chamber was now lit in a cool blue – white that made the mist look like snow in the air.

Where Hiroshima Bonsai had been only recently, there now stood a man of roughly equal height with short, dark hair cut close to the sides of his head and standing straight up in dangerous looking spikes on top. His eyes were dark to the point of being black. No white showed at all. While his body was very similar to Hiroshima’s, tight muscles under smooth skin, the coloring was completely different. Where Hiroshima had been pinkish and soft, this new figure was bronzed and hard.

Yuki cleared her throat in the awkward silence and the new man’s eyes, dark as midnight and hard as marble, locked onto her instantly. His focus was sharp; his gaze penetrating. The way his eyes felt on her twisted her up inside. She felt ice cold and had an immediate urge to turn and run. It was as if he was not only undressing her with his eyes, but dissecting her and inspecting each of her organs for size, weight and clarity as a jeweler would a diamond.

“You’re new,” he surmised after a moment or two. His voice was clear and crisp with the slightest trace of a European accent – Hiroshima himself had nearly no accent to speak of – that cut his words short.

“Yukiko Shimazawa,” she stated with false confidence and a formal bow. “Welcome, Doctor Banzai. If you’ll follow me, please. I have clothing prepared for you. Food has been arranged and a file is waiting for your review.”

****

With the setting of the sun the crowds around and outside the big top had grown and grown. It was to the point where there was barely room enough for anyone to move as the mass of people waited for the tent to be opened and the show to begin. For some, it had been only a few minutes while others had been waiting at the sealed entry flaps for two or three hours already.

The park had “officially” opened at 5:30 that evening to allow the ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages to enjoy the offerings. Candy corn, popcorn, hot dogs, burgers, cotton candy, doughnuts, and every other possible thing that was not even remotely nutritious or healthy was on sale. Some were giving away free samples at the various stands and booths, while others were walking through the crowded midway handing out bags of treats and taking “whatever you can afford” from the adults while the children screamed with excitement and glee. Games of chance, with garish lights and bright displays filled with stuffed toys, filled the area. Calls of “Hit the target, win a prize!” and “Win a bear for your girl!” combined with laughter, cheering, screaming and excitement.

As the sun faded and the lights came alive the world of the Circus of the Damned came into its own. Brightly colored banners waved and flapped and beckoned to the patrons. “Come,” they whispered in the fluttering winds. “See the exciting things that wait to be seen!” Animals from all corners of the globe, and some that looked as though they came from somewhere beyond, were on display. Feats of human strength and agility filled the stages that had been hastily erected for just such a purpose. Children screamed and cowered from “The Hideous Lizard Man” whose skin was greenish and scaly, long, forked tongue flicking from between his lips. Women swooned and creamed their panties at the sight of “The World’s Greatest Lover – A Man so Beautiful He Can Have ANY Woman with a Single Glance” and the men watched with awestruck glee and bulging trousers as “Pretzel Girl” folded her supple, naked body into impossible positions, all the while putting her assets on display. The strongman put on a show of bending two – inch thick rebar while the sword swallowing woman fucked herself with the blade of a twelve – inch dagger.

Through the middle of it all, Doctor Banzai strode confidently. He was now covered from neck to foot in black: black shirt with a button – down collar, black trousers, black socks and black leather shoes all under a flowing black lab coat that hung to his ankles and flapped like powerful wings as he walked. A white necktie, Windsor knotted, stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his ensemble.

His black eyes scanned the entire area, leaving no spot unseen, no illusion unbroken. Where the general public saw a bright red and white tent with rippling walls and fluttering, flapping banners, he saw filthy, decaying cloth barely held up by cracked and chipped wooden posts that were as likely to contain termites as actual wood. The whole thing was secured not by strong, metal cables held in place by sturdy spikes driven deep into the ground, but by tattered and frayed ropes, some no thicker than a piece of dental floss in places, tied to whatever could be easily located. He found a pair of what looked like highway barricades, cracked and crumbling, resting atop two of the ropes and acting as something of an anchor.

Children shoveled handfuls of popcorn that was actually living, writhing cockroaches and spiders into their mouths and chewed contentedly while their parents took huge bites of severed penises from all manner of species sandwiched between moldering buns and garnished with thick, unrecognizable substances.

Candy floss was doled out by happy, bouncing clowns who were neither happy nor bouncing and provided masses of tangled spider webs dripping with dark, fresh blood. Kids and adults alike took deep mouthfuls of the stuff, their lips and chins stained and running with thick, hot viscera.

Banzai stopped in his tracks when a girl who couldn’t have been more than six bumped into his leg. So engrossed was she in the balloon animal that was cradled in her arms that she failed to see the tall man in black.

“Sorry,” she mumbled though it was clear that this was only out of some form of ingrained habit than any actual apologetic feelings. She sucked at bloody fingers to get the last of the cotton candy web that was stuck there.

Banzai knelt in front of the girl and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up from the balloon and into his obsidian eyes. “No harm done, Sweetheart,” the man spoke smoothly and softly. The girl became instantly hypnotized by his gaze. “What do you have there?”

“Giraffe,” the girl stated proudly and held the bright blue and green creation up between them. In her hands, it was rubber and air twisted and shaped to look like an African giant.

“Where did you get it?” Banzai reached his free hand gently out to the twisted mess of intestines that the girl held tightly in her fist. It did vaguely resemble a giraffe, which is partly why the illusion worked. The guts looked fresh and under Doctor Banzai’s touch, they still felt slightly warm and moist. He applied some gentle pressure and the slimy tissue flexed and rippled. Not at all like a balloon filled with air. More like a ketchup packet from a fast food joint.

“Over there,” the girl pointed to a clown dressed in bright blue parachute pants and a white shirt that was several sizes too big. A massive blue pompadour stood atop his head and cast his face in shadow. He was rapidly pulling long, thin balloons in a rainbow of colors from a pouch at his hip before inflating them with a small, portable air tank which hung from his belt. He twisted and folded them into any shape imaginable. Dogs, cats, elephants, giraffes. He even constructed a VW Minibus out of six balloons before handing it to a woman who clearly thought time stopped in 1972. The speed and precision of his construction was mind boggling. People clapped and cheered and whooped with joy at each completed creation before tossing handfuls of coins or crumpled bills into a candy striped bucket at his feet.

When Banzai blinked, the illusion flickered. Instead of blue parachute pants and a white shirt, the clown wore nothing. The blue mass of hair was still present, but it was caked with mud and other things that Doctor Banzai did not want to think about. Where the balloon filled pouch had been was a gaping hole from which he pulled coil after coil of wet, bloody, glistening intestine. Once he had the required length in his hand, he gave the gut – tube a twist and ripped it away. Rather than inflating the tube with air, he slipped the open end over his throbbing erection, jerked it a couple of times, and then giggled maliciously as the tube filled and stretched as he gushed semen into it.

“Thank you, Sweetheart,” Banzai turned his gaze back to the girl, placed his hands gently at either side of her face and held her gaze. She squirmed a bit, obviously unsure how to react. “Throw your giraffe away,” Banzai soothed and the girl froze. Her unblinking eyes locked on the cold onyx in front of her. “You don’t want it anymore. Run. Find you mommy. Go home and never think of this place again.”

“Okay, Mister,” the girl replied in a monotone. She blinked and Banzai released her face. The girl stared at him for another few seconds before dropping the twisted filth in her hand and sprinting away.

“Mommy,” she called out as she ran. “Mommy! I want to go home!”

Knowing that the girl would be safe, Banzai strode purposefully toward the clown who continued to twist parts of himself into the rough estimation of animals and other things. He handed the gooey messes out to the parents and children who crowded around him before digging into the gaping wound at his side and hauling out yet another length of filthy intestine.

“What can Bubbles make for you?” he intoned over and over as each new face stepped up to place their order.

Doctor Banzai stepped to the front of the line and cut in front of a waiting teenage couple. They were maybe fourteen or fifteen, all smiles and promise. The girl, blonde and thin and cheerleadery, was four or five inches taller than the boy whose arm circled her waist.

“Hey,” the boy, skinny and sweaty, stepped forward as he spoke. His voice cracked. “Line’s that way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, but there was no real strength behind the move or the words. He was posturing for the girl on his arm. Banzai understood why. She was quite attractive, in a jail – bait sort of way, in her cut – off shorts and pink halter top. The young man had probably been over the moon when someone so clearly above his station agreed to the date. Banzai wondered what he’d done for her.

“Bubbles has to go now,” Banzai stated calmly to the waiting crowd, but his eyes never left the teenage boy who had tried to call him out. “No more balloon animals tonight.” The girl pouted dramatically, pushing her pink glossed bottom lip out and making sad, puppy eyes at the boy.

“Simon,” she whined. “You promised me a bunny. You know how much I love bunnies.”

“You heard her,” he glared daggers from behind his cracked, tape – repaired glasses. “Gotta get a bunny for my girl.”

Banzai flipped his coat open and shoved a hand into the hip pocket of his trousers. After a second he pulled out a neatly folded hundred dollar bill and held it out to the kid.

“Take her to the store and get her a stuffed bunny,” he waved the bill in front of their faces. “Bubbles is finished.” Banzai’s voice was laced with a harsh undertone that belayed any argument.

The cheerleader’s eyes lit up. “That sounds great!” She nearly came in her shorts. “I know exactly the one I want! Who needs a stupid balloon?”

“Fine,” Simon took the proffered bill and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “You’re lucky Karlee is here.”

Banzai turned away from the couple. They were already forgotten. Anyone else who had been waiting had moved on, either accepting Banzai at his word, or not wanting to watch him pound poor Simon into the ground. He glared at the clown in front of him. Bubbles seemed entirely unfazed and simply grinned a gap – toothed grin. “People are waiting,” he said as he pulled another fistful of intestine out of the hole in his side. “Got plenty more material to work with.”

Banzai let his coat fall open. Strapped across his body, held by a thick, leather cummerbund, were a dozen or so archaic surgical blades; long and sharp and glittering.

Bubbles let his gaze slip to the belt and the nasty looking blades held therein. The clown only laughed and stroked his still hard penis with something akin to fervor.

“You think that scares me?” He chuckled and raised his eyes to lock onto the obsidian orbs in Banzai’s head. “Saw worse this morning when I woke up. What you have there is like porno to me. It makes me hot and hard.”

“Oh,” the man in black shrugged. “Those aren’t for you.” One hand slipped behind his back and it was Doctor Banzai’s turn to smile. “I brought something special for you, Bubbles.”

****

The big top opened at about a quarter – past – eight and the press of waiting humanity flowed in through the gaping wide flaps. Each was held back by a single clown. They were made up exactly the same, built the same, and dressed the same. The image brought some symmetry to the performance. White faced, red nosed and bright haired, they ushered the crowd in. Giggles and smiles and oversized gloved hands patting the heads of children and adults alike as they passed.

Upon entering the tent all the adults turned to the left and began filling the seats to one side, while the children, no matter the age, moved to the right. Mothers and fathers released sons and daughters with nary a thought to the contrary. Even the most over – protective of the lot found themselves entirely unconcerned with the well – being of their children. Smiles and waves of wishes of “have fun” were shared as families parted. The only exception was babes in arms, of which there were very few, and children who were physically or mentally unable to make the independent move to the right. These, and only these, remained with their parents or guardians.

In less than fifteen minutes the tent was full to bursting. Children were pressed together so tight that a sardine would have found it uncomfortable. Benches built to hold a single row of spectators were two and three deep in some places. The bleacher – like stacks of seats creaked and groaned under the weight. Older siblings held their younger charges in laps while friends from school sat in tight groups. Girls and boys normally separated by that uncomfortable dislike that developed at age seven and vanished at age ten were pressed together and seemed completely uncaring about it. All eyes were locked on the vast ring in the middle of the tent. Lights suspended from cables high above cast a constantly shifting palette of color onto the straw covered dirt floor. The ring itself was a bright red striped with white, a match to the tent that contained it.

The tent was silent. Not a single voice was heard. Not a single sound of crunching on popcorn or slurping of that last little bit of soda trying to hide in the seam of a paper cup.

As one, all the lights in the tent spun and scanned the audience where they sat before pooling together in a single, blindingly bright spot at the exact center of the ring. A puff of smoke and a flash of orange light flared in the middle of the pool of light and, when the white smoke cleared, a tall man dressed in a formal black tuxedo, trimmed in red, stood. Upon his head, a black top hat stood and made him look even taller than his already impressive height. He raised his arms to his sides and took a deep bow. He was handsome, charismatic, powerful; everything a ring master should be. His eyes were bright and strong and he made sure to connect with every other pair of eyes in the place. A strong, hawk – like nose cast a gentle shadow over full, pink lips surrounded by a soft, black mustache that flowed together with the pointed goatee at his chin. He smiled, broad and bright, and his teeth gleamed white.

The crowd burst into excited cheering. Adults and children alike yelled and screamed and clapped until the palms of their hands and the backs of their throats were red and raw.

“Laaadieeeees and Gentllllllemen,” the man in the center of the ring boomed, his voice deep and loud and strong enough to carry to the very edges of the tent and beyond. “Boys and Girls! Children of all ages…”

Banzai stepped through the opening and stood just inside. Behind him, the bodies of the two clowns lay slumped on the ground, small trickles of blood dribbled from their noses and cheeks. He tuned out the voice of the man in the ring, taking an instant disinterest in everything being said. Instead, Banzai simply studied him, his head tilting first to the left, then the right as the illusion slowly faded and reasserted itself only to fade again.

The man in the tuxedo at the center of the ring wavered. His shape shifted and looked as though he were standing behind waves of heat. Nothing changed about the clothes he wore. The tux was still black and fresh and new, the hat atop his head still shone under the light. No longer, however, was he the handsome, roguish fellow the audience was watching with rapt attention. Flawless pink – white skin was replaced by bright red flesh marred with dozens of curling, swirling scars and still weeping wounds. Jaundiced eyes stared from sunken, black rimmed sockets. When he smiled, jabbed, blackened dagger – teeth filled his mouth and sliced into charcoal lips.

Banzai stepped further into the tent and did a quick scan of the seats. No one was moving. All eyes were locked on the figure in the ring. He was fairly certain that nobody was actually even blinking as they watched in wide – eyed pleasure the introduction and presentation unfolding before them.

The illusion reasserted itself and the red skin and sharp teeth that Banzai had caught the slightest glimpse of was replaced once more by the handsome, charismatic countenance of The Ring Master.

“…great feats of acrobatics and death defying…”

Movement behind The Ring Master caught Banzai’s attention and he shifted slightly to the left in order to better see past the tall man in the pool of light.

Clowns.

Ten. No, fifteen of them, all made – up in garish white paint streaked with pale lines of grey flesh and spattered with bright spots of fresh blood. Tattered and faded and worn costumes hung from their emaciated frames. Not a single one of them looked strong enough to stand, yet stand they did. And walk. And move.

They’d set themselves up in some kind of a bucket brigade though they were not bringing anything out from the back of the tent. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

The lead clown collected a child off the nearest bench. Its narrow, bone thin arms should not have had the strength required to lift the child. The boy didn’t even notice he was being moved. The clown turned and passed the child back to the next one in line who then did the same and so on until the child vanished from sight. A second, then a third, then a fourth child followed closely after. The clown bucket brigade was collecting the children one by one and taking them somewhere.

And no one even noticed.

Such was the power that The Ring Master had over his audience. Children were being stolen right out from under their parents’ noses, and no one made a move to stop it.

A scream. High pitched and loud filled the tent. It was shrill and filled with dread. It seemed, Doctor Banzai surmised, that once a person could no longer see or hear The Ring Master the spell was broken. More and more of the stolen children began to come out of whatever trance was upon them and were now reacting, as one, to the fact that they were no longer where they wanted to be. The screams fell into sobs, which only made the other children join in and the cacophony increased.

Through it all, The Ring Master continued his speech and the crowd remained still and silent.

****

At the end of the clown bucket brigade, deep in the heart of the granite cliff, a collection of cells waited. The metal bars that made up the doors were old and rusted and filthy. Stains covered the floors and they stank of metal and shit and vomit. Doors creaked and squealed when opened, and then repeated the same noises when closed. The heavy sound of metal against metal filled the air as the cells were shut, and locked. No words were shared between the clowns as they worked, hauling children, stuffing them into cells, closing and locking doors and weaving chains between the metal bars. Flakes of rust dropped and fluttered to the ground to be crushed and tramped into the dirt.

Children, eyes red and puffy from crying, sobbed and whimpered and begged to be released, to be allowed to go home. Some of the older ones tried in vain to calm those younger than themselves, while the pre – teens became belligerent and began shouting taunts and challenges at the silent droves of clowns. A line of a dozen or so of the unspeaking clowns patrolled in front of the cages and glowered menacingly at the children who refused to remain silent. They carried slimy, black shelled pies or dirty, stinking bottles with metal nozzles affixed to the tops of them. Dirt encrusted metal bands circled some of the bottles just below the nozzles holding dented and chipped Zippo lighters. The caps of the lighters were either open or missing entirely. Flickering, blueish flames glowed from the black, frayed wicks.

The door to the next cell was opened, its frame rattling and it creaked and screeched as it was pulled open. The clown who opened the door, his dead, unblinking eyes outlined by dry, flaking paint, stepped silently back and waited, as if for a signal or some kind of command. The final clown in the bucket brigade handed a kicking and screaming girl of twelve or thirteen to one of its companions. A dry, leathery hand clamped over the girl’s mouth while a thin, boney arm wrapped around her waist. It lifted her as though she had no weight.

The girl muttered and cursed behind the clown’s hand while she kicked hard at its legs and clawed at its arm with her long, glitter encrusted nails. Strips of flesh peeled away from the clown’s exposed skin leaving deep, black furrows in their wake. No blood appeared in the wounds. At least, no blood that was easily identified as such.

Slowly, the ditches in the back of the clown’s hand filled with a thick, brackish fluid that started bubbling and smoking as soon as it came into contact with the air. Greasy, grey smoke filled the girl’s nostrils and she coughed behind the hand that, despite the assault she’d given it, continued to cover her mouth and hold her head still. Her eyes were watering and she kicked and struggled harder against the clown’s grip until she managed to connect the heel of her riding boot with the top of her captor’s knee. A loud crack, followed by a soft pop, filled the air and the clown toppled over.

It landed, face down, in the dirt, the girl’s hips and legs trapped beneath it. The grip it had on the girl did not weaken and she remained a captive. The hand over her mouth came free and she sucked in a breath of relatively fresh air. Tiny flakes of dry, grey skin clung to her lips and she blew out puff after puff of air to try and dislodge them. There was no way she was going to lick her lips with that shit stuck there.

The clown, one hand now free to move, began clawing at the ground and dragging itself, and the girl, along the dirt floor. Sharp stones not only ripped tiny holes in the already threadbare costume it wore, but also jabbed and tore at the girl’s clothing and skin.

“Fucker!” She screamed and struggled harder. The fervor in her voice brought about another collection of wails and shrieks from the caged children. Some of the older kids cheered the girl on, yelling encouragement and praise before being struck by runny cream pies or sprayed with foul smelling carbonated gasoline from large glass bottles. Those unlucky enough to get the gas treatment screeched and clawed at their eyes with their fingers, trying to get as much of the offending liquid off of their faces as they could. The pied kids simply became silent as the runny, foul cream hardened into a seal of off – white goo over their mouths and formed hard lumps on their cheeks and foreheads and in their hair.

“Let me go, you piece of shit!” With a sharp twist the girl managed to get her head and shoulders around and she bit into the clown’s neck. Her teeth sank deep into the thing’s flesh, breaking the dry and cracking skin like it was little more than paper. That same thick, dark liquid rose to fill the new wounds. The girl wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting some of it in her mouth and on her face.

She pulled away, a chunk of the clown’s flesh wedged between her teeth, as soon as the disgusting liquid touched her lips, but it was too late. As soon as the stuff came into contact with the air it began to bubble and smoke. The girl shrieked when the stuff on her face started to do the same, burning and melting her soft, blemish free skin.

She writhed and kicked and screamed and fought and the clown let her go. She lay on the hard, dirty ground. Her hands covered her face and her legs came up to protect her chest as she curled into a tight little ball of screaming, quivering femininity.

After about half a minute she fell silent.

Two of the silent clowns stepped forward, breaking away from the others guarding the cages, and picked the girl up. One took hold of her feet and the other her shoulders. A loud sucking / tearing noise came from the girl’s face as her hands were peeled away. The skin on her cheeks and lips had melted and adhered to the palms of her hands which, in turn, melted and mixed with the tissues on her face.

Bright red masses of muscle and ligament over dull white bone appeared where the girl’s hands had been. One eye fell from its socket to hang about four inches down where it dangled and swayed with the gentle rocking movement caused by the clowns carrying her lifeless body. They dumped her into the waiting cell and, needlessly, closed and locked the door.

The other children were silent.

****

The moment the screams emanating from the back of the tent were silenced, Banzai knew it was time to act. He hooked the flowing tails of his ebony lab coat behind his legs like a gunfighter in the Wild West readying himself for a shootout. Lights from above shifted of their own accord and Banzai found himself in a spot of his own as he faced The Ring Master. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision and found the tall, thin man in the tuxedo staring at him, head cocked to one side.

Without even having to look, Doctor Banzai tickled his fingers gently across the leather cummerbund at his waist and found a pair of eighteenth – century, curved amputation knives. Each was easily fifteen inches in length, honed to a molecule thin edge and shining under the light. He clasped the handles and slipped them free of the straps holding them in place. The blades slipped fully into the light smoothly and silently, their deadly edges now clearly visible. The audience sucked in a breath as one and became deathly silent.

Banzai rolled his neck and shoulders, loosening them with an audible popping that echoed and carried through the silent tent. He pointed one of the blades at The Ring Master and instantly snapped into motion. He took two long strides before breaking into a sprint which carried him down the hard packed dirt aisle and right up to the barrier that separated the ring from the crowd. His long coat flared out behind him as he ran. He didn’t let the barricade deter him in the least and planted his lead foot, the sole of his gleaming leather shoe connecting and sticking instantly to the old, dry wood, and pushed himself into a leap that carried him easily half way across the space between himself and The Ring Master who remained standing in the middle of the ring. Banzai landed gently, bending his knees and sinking into a crouch as his feet touched the scattered straw and hard dirt. The trailing hem of his coat flapped and fluttered as it settled against his calves and brushed gingerly at the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Ring Master lowered his arms and glared at Banzai as he rose from his crouched position, arms held out to his sides, loose and ready for whatever was needed, be it attack or defense. “You’re ruining my show!”

Doctor Banzai gave no answer to The Ring Master’s entreaty. The other man fumed and dug a hand into one of the pockets inside his tuxedo jacket. From deep within the lining he pulled a miniature version of his skull topped cane. He muttered something in a long dead language and the cane began to quiver and glow before expanding back to its full length before Banzai’s eyes.

The audience, thinking this all part of the show, cheered and whooped at this feat of magic breaking their earlier stunned silence at Banzai’s appearance. Their applause filled the space and echoed off the rotting posts. The wooden poles shook under the assault. Dust fell from high above.

The Ring Master lunged forward and swung the newly formed cane in a wide arc, holding the metal skull as if it were the hilt of some great sword, aiming to take Banzai off his feet. Doctor Banzai, however, was fully prepared for this and simply raised one of his own arms to block the blow.

What The Ring Master thought was going to be a simple parry turned into far more as the perfectly honed blade in Banzai’s hand passed smoothly through the shaft of the cane and sliced it in two. The bottom end of the cane flew off into the crowd where it struck a woman in the head, knocking her back into the lap of the man behind her. A roar of disapproval went up. The entire place was so enthralled by The Ring Master’s illusion that they instantly saw Banzai as the antagonist in this story.

“Oh, do shut up,” Banzai muttered as he dodged to the left to avoid a second lunge from The Ring Master who now seemed intent on simply running him through with what was left of the cane.

Behind The Ring Master, the clowns continued to collect the children from their seats as if nothing had changed. From Banzai’s limited vantage point, and judging only by the amount of empty space in the seats, it looked like they’d collected somewhere in the neighborhood of forty or fifty children so far, whisking them away to some unknown, probably horrible, fate. They vanished into thick, inky darkness behind the tent. Banzai craned his neck slightly to try and see beyond the darkness, but could only just make out the entrance to a vase network of tunnels and caves and catacombs that honeycombed the granite wall.

Doctor Banzai thrust out with one of his blades, forcing The Ring Master to step back or risk being himself run through by the glittering, sharp implement. Much to Banzai’s surprise, The Ring Master was fast and light on his feet. Then he remembered the glimpse he’d seen of the man’s true form.

“Devil,” he spat. “I’ll send you back to Hell!”

Before Banzai had a chance to follow through on his threat, The Ring Master raised his hands above his head and bellowed out a short string of what may have been words but were entirely unrecognizable as such. The crowd, thinking he was about to rally against his black clad attacker, cheered and rose to stand in their rapt excitement.

That was the moment the ground began to shake.

The already weakened posts and frayed ropes holding up the tent creaked and moaned and groaned as the earth beneath them shook and rocked. The walls of the tent flapped and fluttered, popping loose of the rusty metal hooks which held them to the awning and roof top above.

A deep, vibrating bellow emanated from Banzai’s left and he turned just in time to see the wall on that side of the tent pierced by a giant, yellowing elephant’s tusk. A heartbeat later and the side of the tent was torn free as one of the two massive elephants Hiroshima had seen leading the circus parade crashed into the tent, trampling and throwing the bleachers out of its way as it came. Its eyes, no longer the milky white of death, glowed a horrible red. The stink of death and the sickly sweet smell of rot and decay followed the creature like a cloud as it crashed through the fabric and wood that made up the big top.

For those closest to that side of the tent, the illusion was instantly and horrifically broken beneath the crushing weight of the massive animal. Those that were not instantly crushed broke into a panic but had nowhere to go and simply died knowing that they were being trampled. Bones snapped and popped, broken hunks of wood were hurled into the air to come crashing down. Sharp edges of wood skewered bodies and they burst like bags of red paint, spattering the elephant’s decayed and bloated belly and those in the crowd who were still, miraculously, entranced by The Ring Master’s illusory lies.

“Well, shit,” Banzai mumbled as the desiccated, rotting elephant stepped easily over the barricade of the ring and into the open space. Its feet were wet with blood. Thick rivers of red dripped down its massive legs to soak into, and then pool on, the ground beneath it. Small cracks appeared in the hard – packed dirt where it stood. From one tusk hung the still moving torso of a man, his lower body amputated at the waist, guts spilling out to trail behind him. His eyes were wide and his mouth was snapping open and closed like a fish out of water. One arm flailed uselessly around while the other groped around and tried in vain to hold his insides in place.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Banzai whispered as he cocked his arm back and raised one of the wicked, curved surgical implements. With a snap of his shoulder and elbow he threw it across the ring. If flipped, end over end, slicing through the still air and whistling loudly as it went. It penetrated the squirming, half – man’s skull with barely a sound, bisecting it diagonally from left temple to right jaw and killing him instantly and ending his suffering.

The elephant shook its massive head, ears like Swiss cheese flopped against its skull, and the half – man slipped off its dead, rotting tusk. It flew a few feet before landing in a heap on the ground and sliding across the ring leaving a bright red trail of gore in its wake.

Free of the encumbrance, the elephant rose up onto its hind legs and bellowed. The sound rocked the entire tent and sent ripples through the fabric all around. People cheered.

The Ring Master, taking full advantage of the chaotic distraction the elephant’s arrival caused, turned and dashed out of the ring to disappear into the darkness beyond the cave entrance, his footfalls growing quiet as he sunk deeper into the tunnels.

Doctor Banzai made to follow The Ring Master, but no sooner did he take a step in that direction then the newly arrived elephant thundered across the ring and blocked his approach. It turned to face him, lowering tusks that were easily fifteen feet long. Bone showed where the thing’s lips and mouth had rotted and fallen away. Deep, black wells circled the glowing red eyes that were now locked onto the man in black standing before it. Shiny, wet streaks, like tear lines, dribbled from its eyes and left glistening trails down the dry, rotting tissue.

Banzai froze and considered his options. He moved his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and loosened the tie at his neck before opening the top button of the shirt. The fingers of his now empty hand twitched and he let them move, seemingly of their own accord, to the leather belt and find a new weapon. A third blade, matching the first two in size and design, materialized in his hand and he gave it a gentle spin, testing the weight in his grip.

He took a step to the right. The elephant beast in front of him followed his progress with a twitch of its head and a flap of its massive ears. The pointed, bloody tip of one tusk scraped the ground and dug a furrow in the brownish dirt under the scattered, and gore soaked straw. The crowd hissed in anticipation.

He repeated the process with a step to the left and found the same result, a second furrow appeared just beside the first as the elephant’s other tusk hit the ground and was dragged along. There was going to be no way around the creature. It was far too big to get past and, while Doctor Banzai was certain he would be able to easily outmaneuver the thing, he was not entirely confident that, once past or around it, he could out pace its massive legs and long strides.

A quick glance over his shoulder verified that retreat was also not an option. The narrow walkway along which he had entered was not nearly wide enough for the elephant should it race after him. Images of catatonic, insensate men, women and children being trampled and smashed into bloody piles of shattered bone and shredded tissues flashed momentarily behind his eyes.

That left only one option. He turned to face the beast and, after flexing his knees a couple of times, exploded into a full out run directly at it. The elephant did not even pause to consider this, its brain likely unable to process what was happening, and simply rushed forward, heavy, padded feet slamming into the ground and raising clouds of dust and straw and blood with each thundering step.

The space between Banzai and the elephant vanished in seconds, the beast taking one powerful stride for every three of his. Banzai dropped to the ground, falling back and kicking his feet out in front of him, to slide rapidly between the elephant’s massive front legs. The end of the thing’s trunk, filthy with grease and gore, slipped over his chest and across his face, leaving a black and red mess in its wake. He raised both his arms quickly and forcefully and plunged the blades into the elephant’s exposed belly up to the handles. The beast did not stop. Banzai didn’t either. The blades sliced through the thing’s thick skin without his even having to put any effort into it. The creature made a strange keening noise as gore dropped out of the newly opened cavity of its body. Organs half eaten by decay and maggots dropped out in a flood of viscous, black putrescence. It fell equally on the ground and on the man beneath the creature, soaking into Banzai’s clothes and hair and coating his exposed skin in less than a second. He sucked a breath between his teeth. The elephant smelled far worse on the inside than it had on the outside. The heavy stink of rot dropped down from above and coated his clothes, his hair, his skin to the point where Banzai was sure he’d never feel clean again.

Something heavy and wet hit him on the shoulder and one arm was jerked free of the elephant, but it didn’t matter. The creature was nothing more than an emptied shell as it stumbled and toppled over, slamming hard into the ground and sliding the last few inches into the barricade. The rotten, crumbling wood exploded into splinters and flew in all directions. Doctor Banzai rose slowly to his feet. Blood and filth dripped from him to land in the slowly expanding pool at his feet. He still held the twin blades, small chunks of flesh and tissue clinging to them in places, and was himself turning to gaze at the creature. He gave the blades a few shakes, dislodging the mess that clung to them.

The crowd screamed and cheered and hollered. No longer, it seemed, did they consider Banzai to be the enemy. He’d somehow proven himself worthy of their praise by first outmaneuvering, then killing the giant, undead elephant.

“Well?” Banzai spoke directly to the crowd. He lowered his arms, his hands now at just about waist level, but did not look relaxed in any way. The audience stared at him silently for a few beats then, slowly at first, one by one they started to come out of the strange mass hypnosis The Ring Master had placed them under. People began to fidget. Children called out to parents. Mothers wailed and begged and cried when their offspring could not be found.

Banzai turned and strode across the ring, dripping fat droplets of gore as he went. With one sleeve, he wiped his face clean of the black and red and grey mess that had fallen from the elephant as he’d eviscerated it. At the opposite edge, he glanced back at the panicked, frantic crowd before vanishing into the depths of darkness within the wall of shining black granite. If anyone noticed his departure, they did nothing to stop him.

****

Flickering, guttering fire light from torches placed at roughly equal intervals along the carved, polished granite walls inside the tunnel cast dancing shadows across Doctor Banzai’s eyes. Each turn he approached was blind; each step could be his last as he moved down the tunnel and deeper into the heart of the cliff. He still held the twin blades, his arms slightly out to his sides, and caught the occasional flicker of light off the polished metal. Most of the mess from the elephant had, by that point, fallen from the blades – their infinitely smooth, polished surface refusing to allow the bloody, sticky mess to gain much of a hold.

The place was a maze of twists and turns and tunnels and hallways. He was instantly disoriented as he took his first few steps into the catacombs. There was no way to tell which way the clowns had been going when moving the children; no chance of knowing which tunnel The Ring Master had gone down; and no telling what manner of beast may be waiting for him around the next turn, or the next, or the next.

Banzai blinked rapidly a few times then stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. The flickering light was playing havoc on his vision, and he knew that to put all his trust solely into the one sense would be suicide. He slowed his breathing and let his arms settle to his sides, the blades held out and slightly down, tips pointed at the smooth, hard stone beneath his feet.

He heard the crackling of the flames in the torches surrounding him, concentrated on it and locked it into his mind, then blocked it out. In much the same manner as a sound mixer can first isolate, then remove sounds from recordings, Banzai first identified then ignored things as he heard them. The fire, its hisses and cracks and pops, was a distraction to be promptly removed.

In silence again, he expanded the range of his hearing, plunging himself deeper into the catacombs as his ears picked up even the slightest hint of sound. A footfall. Hard leather sole on flat rock. Liquid splashing against stone. Metal creaking and screeching as it was moved and manipulated. Sniffling and crying. Voices whispering in hushed tones. Laughter; high pitched and maniacal, followed by a scream.

Banzai’s eyes snapped open and his gaze shifted instantly in the direction from which this new sound came. Knowing where it was made it easier for him to focus on tracking it.

“No!” A boy’s voice, maybe ten or eleven, followed by the sound of denim and rubber scraping against metal and stone. “Please!” He begged and cried and sniffed, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. “Mommy? MOMMY!!!!! HELP ME!!!!!” All thoughts of the demonic Ring Master were gone.

Banzai bent into a crouch and set his twin blades on the ground by his feet before shrugging his shoulders and letting the sticky, wet, black lab coat fall to the ground behind him. It pooled itself into a puddle of darkness, brushing gently against his heels as it settled. Unencumbered by the coat, the filthy elephant gore had been slowly congealing for the past few minutes making movement slow and difficult, he collected the amputation knives and broke into a run before rising to his full height. He let the momentum of his run push him up.

He pumped his arms, blades held upright and pointed forward, and legs as hard as he could and the distance between himself and the begging, whining child diminished rapidly. He made no sound, light and soft on his feet as he moved, not that it would have mattered. As he neared a wide mouthed cavern he was able to hear the combined whimpering and sobbing of dozens of children.

Slowing immediately, be pressed himself to the wall to one side of the entry, shadows and his own dark clothing working in tandem to mask his presence. He peered around the sharp, black edge of wall and into the cavernous space beyond.

There had to be fifty feet from floor to ceiling, and nearly double that from wall to wall. The space was near perfectly round and Banzai was sure there was nothing natural about either its shape or its presence inside the cliff. It, like the passage he’d just traversed, was lit by flickering torches. Unlike the tunnel, these torches had not been affixed to the walls by metal bands, but stood atop pillars roughly four feet in height and placed, one about every six feet, around the outer edge of the vast cavern. The walls had been polished to a shine of such intensity that no other source of lighting was needed. Somehow, beyond rational understanding, the black granite walls and ceiling not only reflected the fire light, but amplified it to the point where the room appeared to be in a state of perpetual overcast daylight. The vast space was empty and wide open with the exception of a pyramid shaped stack of tall, narrow wooden boxes.

Between each of the pillars, carved into the walls, was a single cubbyhole roughly two feet high and four feet across. Drab, old, rust covered bars covered the fronts of each of these spaces. Chains, shiny and new, were looped through the bars and attached, by large padlocks, to metal rings plunged into the rock walls. Tiny hands and fingers poked between the bars of a number of these cage doors and Banzai was forced to hold his breath.

The children from the circus tent, dozens of them, were being held prisoner. It was from one of these makeshift cages that the whining and sobbing of the young boy he had detected was coming from. He was roughly thirty feet from the entrance, and Banzai’s position, and had pushed himself as far as he could to the back of the rocky hole he’d been secured in. Standing before the cage door was a single clown, tall and thin and wearing a bright yellow and red costume that hung from its gaunt frame like a blanket. In one thin, grey hand it held a heavy looking glass bottle, about eighteen inches tall and maybe six inches across, with a shiny silver colored nozzle and trigger mechanism on top of it. A thin metallic band circled the bottle below the nozzle but from where he stood Banzai could not make out its purpose.

The clown with the bottle bent slowly forward, a malicious smile split its face as it looked into the open space at the cowering child. The boy shrieked and pissed himself, a dark, wet stain appearing at the front of his pants.

The boy’s display of terror did nothing to placate the clown and it pressed its white and red painted face against the bars, letting a slug – like, slimy tongue loll from the side of its mouth. Trails of shiny drool rolled over its chin and fell in heavy drops both into the cage and onto the floor at it feet. It curled its cracked and flaking clown’s lips into a rictus grin that tore the flesh of its cheeks with a horribly loud, echoing sound that reminded Banzai of Styrofoam being broken and rubbed together. It was high pitched and sent shivers up and down his spine.

The clown bent slightly, its face not leaving the bars, and set the bottle onto the floor. Yellowish liquid sloshed around inside the container and Banzai caught a glimpse of an old, gold colored lighter burning slowly away below the nozzle. Free of the bottle, the clown’s hand rose slowly to its face. The empty hand turned to display the open palm, the dry, cracking back, the palm again, to the boy in the hole. The clown splayed the fingers of the hand, giggling and chuckling through the rictus grin and jammed them into its mouth. The fingers took hold of its lower jaw, clamping those grey, leathery fingers over brown, brittle teeth and pulling down.

Skin tore with a sound that was probably closest to a phone book being ripped in half. It started as a small ripping, popping sound, then grew until there was nothing else. The clown released its grip on its teeth when the lower jaw reached the limit of the bone’s ability to move and it let the bottom half of its face hang loose. It shook its head from side to side, nodded rapidly up and down, letting the hanging, flopping jaw swing back and forth and snap open and shut. The disgusting, glistening slug tongue flopped about behind the bottom teeth. The clown made a high pitched, guttural noise that could have been laughter, though without the aid of a working mouth it was impossible to tell.

Inside the cage, the child screamed louder. He begged and cried and pleaded and called out for “Mommy,” “Daddy,” “Anyone!”

The clown returned its grip to the bottle and began to shake it up before pressing a thumb against the trigger mechanism behind the nozzle. It gave the thing a little squeeze, just enough to let a single shot of fizzy gas escape and spatter into the cage where it struck the boy’s leg. As luck would have it, the flame on the lighter happened to flicker out at exactly that moment. The rigorous shaking of the bottle had been the cause. The clown’s eyes grew wide and he started to whimper dramatically, clearly disappointed that the petrol hadn’t caught the flame. After maybe half a minute of this sulking act, the clown’s manic laughter returned and he sparked the ignitor on the lighter, striking the flint.

Once again, flame appeared in the small metal cage atop the lighter.

Once again, the boy screamed.

The clown emitted that same horrid guttural noise and jammed the nozzle that topped the bottle between the rusty bars of the cage.

The boy pressed himself back against the wall of the cage, his eyes clamped shut and his hands coming up to protect his face. Muffled screams came from behind his fat palms.

****

Doctor Banzai had seen enough. He stepped quickly around the corner and into the mouth of the cavern. The second he stepped into place he let fly with one of the curved blades, hurling it with all his strength at the clown with the seltzer – bottle – flame – thrower. The laser honed, curved blade shredded the air before finding a home in the back of the clown’s neck. The tip of the antique surgical tool buried itself so deeply into the clown’s rotten flesh that it pierced the front of its throat. Since the clown had already yanked its lower jaw down, the blade struck the bone and became securely imbedded in place. The clown teetered for a moment before falling forward and crashing into the metal bars sending a cloud of rust flakes flying into the air to fall, like brown snow, gently to the ground.

Inside the cage, the boy spread his fingers apart and peered out between them through one eye. The seltzer bottle had fallen in with him and he reached for it slowly. When the clown did nothing, he snatched it up, shook it in much the same way he’d seen the clown do, then turned the nozzle around and squeezed the trigger with all the strength his fat fingers could muster. A thick stream pale yellow gasoline exploded from the nozzle and sprayed over the flickering lighter where it caught and burst into a stream of orange and yellow flame. The clown caught fire instantly and cheers and screams went up all around the space as the other captive children either saw or heard or smelled what was happening.

Thick, heavy black and grey smoke rose from the rapidly burning clown. With it came the stink of rotten flesh being first roasted, then charred, then burnt to crispy, blackened ash and charcoal. The boy was screaming and laughing and crying all at once as he squeezed down on the trigger until the bottle was emptied. Still, he refused to release the pressure and continued to depress the small lever and shake the bottle violently, trying to get every last drop of gasoline out.

Whether or not the torched clown had been carrying a key that would have opened the locks and allowed Banzai to free the children was something that would forever remain a mystery. Had there been a key, by the time the boy in the cage had finished with the clown it would have been melted and become a permanent part of the clown’s body.

Deciding for the moment to put the children form his mind, Banzai strode across the cavern, directly through the middle of the room. His goal, the opening at the opposite side that led to…something else. As he walked, standing tall and holding his head high, he released another of the amputation knives from the leather cummerbund. All around him he heard voices calling out: “Mister, wait!” “Help me!” “I want to go home.” “Where’s my mommy?” “Don’t leave me!” He had no choice but to block them out as he moved across the space, skirting the towering pyramid and giving it only a passing glance. Time, he thought, is of the essence.

****

Beyond the rounded dungeon cavern, with its tiny prisoners in their tiny cells, Doctor Banzai found a second, shorter tunnel. It was more of a hallway than a tunnel and he could clearly see the opposite end of it. This one was not lit, but that seemed unimportant as enough light was cast both from behind and in front of him.

Shadows moved about in the space ahead and he was able to detect not only motion but sound. While the chamber was somehow able to absorb a bulk of the sounds being made within its space, the odd noise would still escape and meet his ears. Crunching, grinding sounds came and went. What may have been wood cracking and breaking. A dull blade being used to cut through meat and bone.

Banzai moved quickly and cautiously along the short tunnel and peered into the next chamber. What he saw was horrible. He cringed. Bile and what little was left of the meal he’d eaten while reviewing the file Hiroshima had left with the Shimazawa girl rose into his esophagus and he choked it back down with great force of will. In order to keep from hyperventilating he had to bend forward, hands on his knees, and take slow, steady breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth, repeat.

The stench emanating from the room made the breathing exercise difficult. Decay and rot and ancient death filled Banzai’s nostrils with each intake of breath. He ground his teeth; squeezed his eyes shut, and forced himself to power through it.

After a minute or so of this he felt his calm and strength return. He hefted the twin blades, adjusting his grip on the smooth, wooden handles, and did a quick check of his remaining supply. Two remained.

Another deep breath and Banzai turned to face the chamber of horrors.

Inside the chamber, lit by a massive fire in a pit in the middle of the octagonal space, were roughly a dozen clowns, faded, tatty wigs over peeling, flaking make – up on equally peeling and flaking skin. They were thin and studded with pointy bone protrusions barely concealed by the dry, leathery skin that still clung to the decayed and wasted muscle tissue beneath it. Their costumes were in equally bad shape. Torn, faded, and hanging loose enough to drag on the ground or have to be bundled and twisted around gaunt waists. Some were held up by what may have been rope, while others simply allowed their clothing to fall away with their flesh. Dull, yellowed bone showed in places on most, if not all of the creatures.

Despite their obvious physical deterioration, the clowns were able to walk around and seemed almost intelligent. They grunted some form of communication between them, and each seemed to have some kind of job or duty to carry out.

Around the room, tables stood here and there. Once highly polished metal, they were filthy and rusting. Legs had bent and re – bent until the tables stood at canted angles. In the case of one table, furthest to Banzai’s left, two of the original legs were completely missing and had been replaced by human legs – the flesh long ago dried to a husk and fallen away. The heads of metal screws or nails glittered at the joints at knee and ankle and where the top of the thigh bone had been attached to the table.

Fresh, thick blood trickled and dribbled off the tables to run across the floor, in shallow, carved furrows that led from the tables, along the floor, and into some form of reservoir close to the burning fire in the pit. Brown stains on the tables showed through the fresh red in places where previous amounts of blood had dried.

Standing next to each table was a single clown. In his thin, desiccated hand each held a long, nasty looking knife, the blades chipped and bent and rusted with age and use and neglect. They used the knives with amazing skill as they carved bits of flesh from the naked, bleeding, crying children on their tables. A tiny morsel of thigh; the thin filet of arm; a thick, red chunk of fatty flank, all cut with care and precision that would have made the most experienced butcher envious.

As the children on the tables succumbed to the wounds and blood loss and pain, they were collected by a clown wearing nothing but a long, thick leather apron, slick and soaked with blood and gore. It would drape the bodies over its shoulder and then dump it unceremoniously into a heap in a corner of the room. Old, dusty bones were covered with fresh, dripping corpses.

Once the pieces were removed, they would be collected by another clown, this one wearing a ridiculously tall chef’s had upon the thick wig if curly rainbow hair that rested on his head. He carried these morsels on a tray which he placed on a small table constructed of two saw horses and a slab of thick, dark wood. Blood and other fluids dripped off the tray to pool on the wood and soak into the grain, giving the slab its dark hue. Other clowns would come forward and pick the choicest of cuts. Selection made, they would return to their place around the fire and skewer the bit of fresh, dripping tissue on the end of long, twin tined forks before thrusting them into the fire to sizzle and cook.

The stink in the room was horrible and Banzai had to breathe through his mouth to avoid as much of the offensive air as possible. Between the metallic tang of the fresh blood, the charring and cooking of flesh, and the stink of decay and rot emanating both from the walking clown corpses and the heaps of discarded, unwanted child parts it was impossible to take a breath without smelling something. As it was, he could still taste the filth on his tongue and in his throat.

Doctor Banzai stepped more fully into the space, his blades ready to bite and tear and rend the flesh and bone and tissue of the undead clowns. If needs be, he’d rip them apart with his bare hands. His foot hit something hard and heavy and a barely audible clinking sound rose up. Glancing quickly to the floor, he discovered maybe a half – dozen of the gasoline filled seltzer bottles. Some contained more of the carbonated petrol than others. He looked back into the room. None of the clowns had taken notice of his arrival.

Carefully, so as not to make even the slightest sound, he slipped one of the two amputation knives back into the leather loops at his waist. Weapon secure, he bent and picked up one of the bottles, about three – quarters still full of pale, yellowish liquid. He swirled the stuff around a couple of times, watching the tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide rise from the bottom to pop and vanish at the surface of the gas.

In a single stride, he was in the room and running toward the first of the metal tables, and the clown with the carving knife who stood at it. As he ran, he hurled the glass bottle into the fire where it vanished from sight. The glass exploded on a rock somewhere in the fire pit, and the flames instantly rose and expanded. A wave of heat hit Banzai’s back and he heard loud, guttural screams from the clowns who had been too close to the fire. These were not the pained screams of a human voice, but the wild, animal screams of lower beasts. The clowns caught fire and, rather than fall to the ground, they began to run wildly about the room. Flames licked at their tattered, greasy clothing, ate the fibers that made up the once brightly colored wigs that topped their heads. Their skin cracked and popped and bubbled as what little moisture remained in their bodies came to an instant boil. Eyes exploded and sent boiling trails of filth down melting greasepaint and charring skin. Dry lips curled and split and revealed sharpened teeth carved to deadly looking points.

Doctor Banzai was on the first clown before it even knew what was happening.

He hooked the curved blade of the amputation knife around the clown’s neck and, with a quick, powerful jerk of his arm decapitated the clown. Tiny sprays of blood began to squirt fitfully from the newly opened arteries at the clown’s neck as it groped blindly with both hands trying to find its head. The head fell forward and struck the metal table with a hollow sounding thud before rolling off the edge and striking the floor where it made much the same sound. Banzai moved past the clown as the body toppled to the ground, gave the head a quick kick in the general direction of the blazing conflagration in the middle of the room, and then moved on to the next clown and repeated the process.

The flaming clowns continued to run wildly around the room, striking walls and toppling tables. They stumbled into each other, into the carving clowns that Banzai had yet to reach, and into the bloody, stinking heaps of discarded, tiny bodies.

As Doctor Banzai finished off another of the clowns at the tables he caught sight once again of the clown in the oversized chef’s hat. Somehow, it hadn’t been fully engulfed by the fire when the gas filled bottle had exploded. It was charred and burnt here and there and tiny, glowing embers floated to the floor from a slowly burning spot on top of the idiotic hat, but somehow it had managed to escape the brunt of the fire. It stumbled and shambled across the floor, heading for the entrance to the cavern and, likely, escape.

Banzai sprinted around the room, intent on cutting off the clown’s escape before it had a chance to make good on it.

Burning pain hit him and he stumbled. He was on his knees and slammed into the floor before he knew what was happening, calf on fire and hot liquid pain coursing down the back of his leg.

“FUCK!” He dropped the amputation knife and let it clatter to the granite floor as he came to a stop. Quickly, he spun on his knees and dropped to his ass, grabbing at his calf and trying to staunch the bleeding. The handle of one of the carving knives, and a few inches of stained and rusted steel, poked out of Banzai’s calf just below the knee. Blood drooled around the blade and dripped slowly down the back of his leg. “Mother Fucker,” he grabbed the handle and clamped his teeth shut, grinding his molars together as he jerked the knife free. “Aaaarrrrr…” he tossed the knife aside and grasped a sleeve, wrapping his fingers tight into the weave and pulling. The seam at his shoulder split and the threads popped free.

A moan came from somewhere close by. In his haste to get the rusty, filthy, disease ridden blade out of his flesh Banzai had neglected to look for the source of it. Off to his left, under the table, was a clown, its face bloody and peeling free of the slowly rotting bone beneath it. One eye was hidden behind a flap of loose skin, while the other glared at him with a vehemence he would never have thought possible. Its legs were crushed under a pile of rock. Banzai could not recall when any rock had fallen from the wall or ceiling, yet clearly it had happened. Maybe when the bottle exploded?

The clown reached and clawed at the air, the sharp tips of its fingers mere inches from Banzai’s shin. Quickly, he wrapped the torn sleeve around his leg, not caring that it was just as filthy and disgusting as the rest of his shirt, and tied it tight enough to hurt. He closed his eyes, ground his teeth together, and pulled the knot yet tighter.

Bleeding calf now staunched, Banzai pulled one of the two remaining amputation knives from the leather at his waist. He rose slowly, getting his knees under him, and swung the blade in a graceful arc. The inner edge, sharp and smooth, sliced the clown’s hand off at the wrist.

“Ass hole,” Banzai muttered to the thing as he rose slowly to his feet. He tested putting weight on the injured leg, found that he could do so fairly well, and gave the clown a sharp, hard kick in the face. Its head snapped back on its neck and Banzai heard a satisfying snapping sound as the vertebrae between head and spine popped and separated.

He heard harsh, shrill cackling laughter and spun in time to see the back of the clown he’d been after as it disappeared into the short tunnel leading back to the dungeon. He started quickly after it, limping slightly on his injured leg. When he reached the entry to the passage, he stopped and leaned against the wall, catching his breath. The air in the chamber had become heavy with smoke and the stink of burning corpses and he coughed a couple of times to clear his airways.

At his feet a mostly empty seltzer bottle rolled and clattered on the floor.

More of the shrill laughter rushed down the tunnel and slammed into Banzai’s ears. It was less of a cackle and more of a maniacally, joy filled laugh of victory.

“The bottles,” he cursed and slapped his palm against the wall. There had been five or six of them at least when he’d arrived. Now, only a single one remained. He raised his eyes slowly and looked down the short passage. The clown in the chef’s hat stood just inside the large, round cavern and looked back. In its arms were cradled the missing bottles. It looked directly into Banzai’s eyes; met his stare without fear. Its lips twitched and that same insane laughter rose from somewhere deep within its chest to explode out through its horrendously grinning mouth. “No…” Banzai’s voice barely made a sound.

The clown opened one arm and let about half the bottles drop to the ground where the clattered against the granite. One of them shattered, an explosion of glass and pressurized petroleum, while another landed upside down and the nozzle simple popped off. It held one of the bottles up, over its head and, with a tooth flashing smile, depressed the trigger mechanism, letting fly the carbonated gasoline held within. Within seconds the bottle was drained and the clown dripped foul smelling liquid. Banzai cringed. He could smell the fuel from where he stood.

He stumbled, pushing himself off the wall and broke into a loping run, his injured leg out straight to one side and wheeling around as he ran. His arms stretched out in front of him, hands clasping at nothing as he drew nearer to the unmoving clown.

Tiny orange sparks appeared from the empty bottle in the clown’s hand. The immediately recognizable sound of metal on flint as it spun the tiny wheel that would ignite the Zippo lighter affixed to the bottle.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Banzai stretched and reached out for the clown.

The tips of his fingers brushed against wet, stinking cloth.

The Zippo came to life.

A fist of heat slammed into Banzai’s chest and knocked him on his ass as the clown burst into flame. The gasoline covering its body, and the rapidly expanding pool of it on the floor, exploded into bright orange. Banzai pushed himself back as the flames licked at his trouser legs, kicking and rolling to insure that he, too, did not catch fire.

The clown ran forward, into the cavernous dungeon.

Children’s voices rose in horrible, screeching, wailing screams that echoed off the walls and shook the granite floor.

Banzai forced himself to his feet and stumbled against the side wall of the tunnel. He moved along it, skirting the flame but feeling the intense heat against his face and bare arm. He raised a hand to protect his face and eyes from the heat.

The clown threw itself against the pyramid stacked boxes with an incredible whooping laugh. Wood shattered and glass flew in every direction as the dozens and dozens of petrol filled seltzer bottles exploded violently. The blast sent shockwaves through the cavern and Doctor Banzai was thrown back. He flew six or seven feet back along the hall before hitting the ground and sliding another few inches.

The room filled with a loud whoosh as all the available oxygen was sucked into the conflagration. The screams of the children in the caged cubbyholes carved into the walls rose in a high pitched, terror filled cacophony before being forever silenced.

****

With a soft hiss the door to the D.N.A. Recalibration Chamber ™ swung open. Blue – white light filled the space and made the thick clouds of fog look like freshly banked snow at dusk. The air inside the chamber was crisp with electricity and it popped and fizzled.

Hiroshima Bonsai stood, naked and pale, in the chamber and suppressed a shiver. He felt cold. Ice coated his skin and sunk into his flesh. He exhaled a puff of white steam and wrapped his arms around himself. The cold was winning and he began to shake violently before falling to his knees on the hard metal floor of the chamber. Waves of ice water coursed up and down his spine. He wanted to scream but his lungs refused to contract even as his throat refused to open.

The episode lasted no more than a minute and Hiroshima regained his strength and rose. He brushed at his knees, knocking away non – existent particles of dust.

Steady once more, he took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his chest and pushing his shoulders back as he did. He picked up a hint of perfume; peach blossoms and vanilla with a hint of lilac and his eyes rose and found the five – foot Japanese girl in a short, plaid skirt under a loose fitting lab coat. Her long, dark hair was loose around her shoulders. The arm from her glasses was visible at her chest, poking out of the single pocket on the coat and acting as a clip for the rest of her glasses, hidden within.

The girl cleared her throat: “Dr. Hiroshima Bonsai,” she bowed formally. “I am Yukio Shimazawa…”

“Fuck, Yuki,” Hiroshima rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore finger and pressed his eyes shut. “I know who you are.”

“Oh,” she turned and set the clipboard she’d been holding onto the workstation behind her. The monitor continued to flash the “END” message at her, black on white. “Well. That’s good then. I can skip the formalities and just ask you what the fuck happened out there,” she collected a second, longer lab coat from the stool next to her and stepped forward, holding it out for Hiroshima. He stepped gingerly out of the chamber and accepted her offering, slipping it on and buttoning it with quick, practiced movements of his hands and fingers.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you debrief when I…he…” Hiroshima paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “It’s protocol, Yuki. You know that. You helped me write it.”

“I know,” her lip quivered. Her eyes looked red and puffy. “He refused to talk to me.”

Hiroshima was speechless. Debrief was standard protocol. Never before had he refused to complete one. “Okay,” he put his hands gently on Yuki’s shoulders. “Tell me what happened.”

“He…you…” she stopped and took a breath. “Doctor Banzai, okay, stormed into the lab covered in blood and dirt and stinking like he’d rolled around in a pile of dead animals for a few hours. He refused to talk to me. Ripped off his clothes and doused them in lighter fluid then dropped a match onto the heap,” she looked away from Hiroshima. “I lost track of him when I ran to get a fire extinguisher. Found him later. He was in here inputting something into the work station, dripping wet. Guess he showered while I tried to keep the place from burning down,” her eyes returned to his and she smiled.

“Okay,” Hiroshima squeezed Yuki’s shoulders. He knew there was more, but didn’t prompt her. She’d tell him anyway.

“I asked him about the debrief,” she sighed, deep and heavy. “I feel so fucking stupid. Can’t believe I fell for it.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. It was wet. “He told me to wait for him in the lounge. Said he’d be there in a minute, just had to finish entering some data,” tears started to leak from Yuki’s dark eyes and made pale tracks down her golden skin. “Bastard locked me out and got into the chamber. By the time I broke the passcode, it was too late and there you were. I recognized you as soon as the door opened, but didn’t know if you were, you know, you.” She didn’t mention the strange episode of shivering. It had happened in the past, though not to the same extent, and remained an unspoken thing between them. Something about the reversion process.

“It’s okay, Yuki,” Hiroshima caught a tear on the tip of his finger and brought it to his lips. “It’s not your fault. You did everything according to protocol.”

“So,” she locked her eyes on his once again. “What happened?”

“I…” Hiroshima stopped. He searched through his mind but could find nothing to tell the girl. The entire time was a blank. Last thing he remembered was getting into the chamber. “I don’t know. I think Banzai wiped my memory,” he paused and considered. “Or hid it from me, at any rate. All I can tell you for sure is it must have been something terrible.”

“I’ll get the hypnotic regression ready,” Yuki nodded.

“Not now,” Hiroshima maintained his grip on Yuki’s shoulders. “It can wait a couple of hours.” His eyes moved fully over her. He drank her in, every inch, from her naked feet to the tiny bulge at her belly. Her tits were perky, the nipples hard and clear under the white material. She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Tell me what you did while I was gone.”

“Uh…okay…” She paused and shifted her weight from foot to foot. The floor was suddenly very cold under her naked soles and she wanted to get out of the lab. She swallowed: “Well, I finished those reports from yesterday and filed them. Ate a salad when what I really wanted was pizza. Got your lesson notes ready for next week,” she paused, thinking. “Prepared some slides for you to look at, I think I may have discovered a new virus. Watched hentai videos online and touched myself inappropriately. Cleaned up the lab a bit,” she shrugged. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Can you provide some more detail on one of those points?” Hiroshima let one hand slip off Yuki’s shoulder and down to her waist. “Tell me more about this inappropriate touching.”

“I’m not wearing any underwear,” she whispered and gave her hips a twitch. “Maybe I could demonstrate for you.”

“Hmmm…” Hiroshima felt his penis begin to stir, the tip brushed against the inside of his lab coat and sent a wave of pleasure through his body. “Sounds like an excellent idea, Miss Shimazawa. From a purely scientific stand point, of course.”

“Of course,” Yuki giggled and spun away from Hiroshima, the hem of her skirt rising enough to give him a single, enticing look at her soft, round ass.

WARNING:

The preceding story contains scenes of Graphic Violence – Including violence against Children, Nudity, Graphic Depictions of Sexuality, and Foul Language. It should not have been read by anyone under the age of eighteen.

Extreme discretion is advised!