Superman Don't Come Around Here No More Part Four No sign of that promised concession. Standing now outside the circus tent in which he witnessed quite the display of organized human endeavor, the boy wonders how the crowd could have dispersed so quickly -- not a soul in sight. He does hear a faint laughing, but it's hard to pinpoint the source. Surveying the landscape, the carnival seems to have taken on a sinister feel. In the light of the waning afternoon shadows are stretching deep, yawning over the proceeding, boxing out paths of escape, making a play for the boy's deepest fears... giant puppets looming on the horizon. Moving past long-dormant rides with paint fading beyond distinction, bleeding into despair, chipped off the old block. Trying to home in on that laughter. Wondering why he doesn't make a beeline in the opposite direction. Morbid curiosity getting the better of him. Sure enough, all roads and intentions lead to the Fun House, standing in ominous seclusion at the end of Desolation Row -- a particularly broken-down collection of hawkers' booths and misdirected neon signs. All coming to life now that the boy nears his destination. Yeah, it's that ol' ship captain again, awake at the switch, pulling the lever and swinging on over to the Fun House gate entrance, Tarzan-style. Quite the showman. -- Step right up. Take a tour of our little house of fun. Hey there little shaver, you don't want to miss this opportunity. Who knows when you might get back. We have a special today. All children and sailors on shore leave get in half price. I'm sure you qualify for one of these distinctions. Right this way... Boy this guy's creepy. The boy wonders how he got this job. Was he schooled? What kind of career path would lead one to this stage? But the boy also finds the man oddly fascinating. As if he knows the man's intentions are good. This sudden bit of good will now overriding all those motherly stranger warnings. Purchasing his cut-rate ticket and stepping now past the threshold of the Fun House... Inside, the darkness surrounds. The boy stands motionless waiting for some sign, any indication of direction, a light in the distance. And sure enough he gets all three. A far off beam of light casting a path right from his toes to the unknown. Wadd'ya going to do? Follow and hope for the best. The boy senses a change in the temperature. He's walking outdoors now, or so it seems. And before he can reach down to feel the ground a horse goes riding past him, with an American Indian riding bareback. Or is it Native American? Can't quite remember all those terms he learned in school. The horse and rider seem to be in hot pursuit. A buffalo in front and a posse of ten gallon desperados on their collective tails. Blood in all of their eyes. Leaving the boy in the dust. Heading deeper into the Fun House. Or whatever this place has become. Coming upon an old man sitting beside a fire. Is this who we think it is? Sure, why not? He knows the terrain. -- Better keep moving along there little shaver. This ain't no place for a boy to get caught... might just lose your head. Putting a serious scare in the boy. Remembering all the news stories of disappearances in the region of town he last remembers moving through, before he happened upon all this circus craziness. Oh well, if you gotta go, you'd better keep going. He continues his journey -- through battle fields and courtroom dramas, past plot-hatching hand wringers and warehouses containing crated artworks... he finds himself presiding as master of ceremonies over a walnut parade and witnessing various politically and personally motivated assassinations. Quite a ride. A whistle sounds and the floor opens. The boy finds himself falling at great speed for what seems to be many minutes. Swirls of images fly past, billboards of the diabolical, making the boy sick to his stomach. He is blacking out, losing consciousness, waiting for the end... drawing now very near. Hitting bottom. Waking. In the back seat of a city bus. Breathing normally. Looking out the window, recognizing every detail. The ticket held between his fingers triggers a raised eyebrow. But little more. Stepping off two blocks from his home, the boy imagines the dinner waiting in the oven for him. And the lecture he'll have to endure before he can sink his teeth in. Running late. He skirts past a man who appears to be a vagrant, with unkempt hair and clothes and overgrown beard, muttering to himself in riddles. Catching the boy's passing eyes. -- Hey there little shaver. ~ ~ ~ Return to Folded Narratives Questions? Comments? Send them to Daily_Editor@hotmail.com. Copyright 2001-2008 © Belowthefold.net