We admonish to expect delays in the latest transcript of Port Evenus; sometimes it is difficult to get good reception high in the clouds. Our ship takes us east, where we shall endeavor to continue the tale at the earliest convenience!

Dr. Rhodius, part Two

  Hoell pulled the blackened tin from his coat. He looked at it a moment, trying to decide what he should be feeling. Then he passed it to Rhodius. The ringmaster didn't even open it, passed it behind him to the girl.
  Whitechapel's mouth opened and shut. "But. . . . But my faithfulness! My service!"
  Rhodius raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. . . ."
  "I watched over that box! I brought the boy here! I've toiled in this cesspool years for you! Surely I am owed my due?!"
  Rhodius remained unmoved by the tirade. He flicked an eyebrow, and then bent back over the cigar that had gone out. "You're quite right. Kelly, my dear, please give Mr. Whitechapel what he is owed."
  In a unified moment the Queen of Knives stepped forward and plunged a little penknife into Whitechapel's left breast. The only sound was grunted exhalation of breath as she stuck the knife in again and again, a pantomime of feral sex. She stopped, wiped the blade on his jacket with an expression of satisfaction dissonant to his look of confusion, and let what was left of Whitechapel drop to the dust.

In Which We Finally Meet the Ringmaster

   He stumbled out of the reptile tent and almost into the arms of Whitechapel Fred. Whitechapel grabbed him before he could break free. "You came! And here I thought you would double-cross me."
   Hoell shrugged out of his grasp. "My loyalties did start to drop when you sent your ghouls after me."
  "Yes, well, times are tough everywhere. Can't trust anyone. Especially you, my friend. Give me the box."
  "Maybe I lost it."
  "Now is not a good time to get tough with me, jazz man. You know what I am capable of."
  "I know." Hoell pulled out a grubby drawstring bag, unwrapped what looked to be a small shaving brush, bristles stiff and ancient. The handle was simple twine wound around the top. "I was prepared for that."
  Whitechapel blanched for a second, then his face split into an evil smile. He pulled a dirty .38 from his pocket, rested it beneath Hoell's chin. "I admire your lack of imagination. Fortunately we make our own hoodoo here. Give me the box."
  Hoell didn't move. "What good will it do you? You've let it rest this long. You're owed nothing."
  "Nonetheless. He will look with favor on his servants."
  "Be a stretch where you're concerned."
  Whitechapel jerked him closer, gouging the barrel into his throat. "You have no idea what he can do. You don't know what he's capable of! They say if you meet him at the crossroads, when the moon is high, he can give you the world!"
  "The world will always come with a price, Mr. Whitechapel. You should know that." From out the night strode a tall figure in a swallowtail coat. Beside him was the Asian girl from the diner, sans the glasses but still in the hat and peacoat. The tall man bent his face to light a cigar, match light flashing across his face like a flicker of the devil's lightning. Whitechapel let the gun drop to his side.
  "Dr. Rhodius!" he hailed. "I knew that you had come. I have brought what you desire."
  "Pray tell," the tall man said, focused on the cigar.
  "I have kept it safe in your absence, guarding it for your return! My servant has brought it tonight."
  "Your loyalty has been noted. Hand me the item, Mr. Whitechapel, and you may go."

Concerning What Happened Next

  The moon was a magnolia, petals reaching ever so slightly to the broken heart of the earth. The air was still heavy and ponderous, but Hoell could see neon lights hazing a skyline in the distance, swirling inward from the darkness toward 42nd. Points of light moved and blinked like xylophone notes, sounds never reaching the field. Somewhere out there blood rushed through the veins of the night.
  Hoell rubbed his face thoughtfully, fished a rugged cigarette from a pocket and lit it from the shadows of the Stetson. Threw the match carelessly, and exhaled to the sky.
  He heard the click and threw himself to the left before he even saw the switchblade fly. He came up in time to grab an arm as the knife dipped again, thrust it back toward the trailer. Pale African face, hair like a drowned pirate, the smell of the riverfront. It pushed Hoell away, whipped the knife in a slash waist high. "Give us, jazz man," it said tonelessly. The blade winked in the moonlight as the creature lunged. Hoell sidestepped, swung clasped hands in an uppercut that sent his assailant staggering back.
  Hoell backed up to a booth and pulled the ancient revolver from his coat, leveled it in time for the other to jump forward with a slash that grazed his hand, dropping the gun. The switchblade came up, plunged down. Hoell grabbed the knife arm with one hand, swung his right underneath into the ribs, two quick punches. He grabbed the thing by its decaying jacked and tossed it head first into the side of the booth. Wood cracked, a tangle of spindly legs and arms tried to right itself. Hoell didn't see his pistol, ran deeper into the Midway.
  Dodging a labyrinth of carousels, galleries, metal fences and attractions. He could hear his pursuer still, emotionless as a predator, but he had bought a few seconds time. He stopped short before the corrugated steps of another attraction, dramatically heralded the Deadly Jungle Python, Guaranteed The Largest Snake Ever Seen. Behind him was the Strong Man Tester. Hoell grabbed the hammer and ran up the steps.
  The tent was pitch dark, stank of bedding, sour water and reptile. Lexan walls waist high formed a walkway, separating unseen things making only whispered suggestion of movement, cold and alien presence. Hoell crept along to the main attraction, a pit sunken into the floor. He could barely see shape, just a dark draconian mass encompassing a small pool. It moved slightly, guttural scratch on gravel. It could smell him. He crouched in the darkness opposite, and waited.
  Footfalls, soft and steady, slithering along the walkway. Worn boots moved in front of his hiding place. Hoell tried not to betray a breath, could smell the decay of the waterfront even with the overbearing smell of reptile. He waited, let it move a few steps more. Suddenly Hoell leapt up, swung the wooden mallet with all his strength and a bestial war cry.
  The mallet struck square in the back, lateral force sending the creature over the lexan wall into the pool with a grotesque splash. In a second the snake had struck, coiling itself around in three quick circles. The zombie began the most unworldly keening, thrashing with the constrictor in the stagnant water of the pool. Hoell threw the mallet after him and fled.