Mazgal's Stupendous Spectacle

[RPS & Po]

See THIS THREAD (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=53146#post53146)if interested in joining

Even in Radasanth, a city renowned for a cornucopia of species and races, Po draws attention. The diametric of a common object, a hand, in an uncommonly large size drew stares as Po “walks” down the street on his four fingers, allowing the thumb to hang free. Accustom to the attention, Po keeps a healthy pace through the city. However, his passage has not gone unnoticed. Stories of a four foot hand circulate, spread by children and old men with nothing more pressing to do than tell stories. These stories soon reached the ears of Mazgal the Magnificent.

Mazgal was not necessarily that magnificent, but when you are the ringmaster of a struggling circus style act, you have to do something to make yourself feel better. The stories of a strange aberration walking about the city on four fingers sounded to Mazgal like the knock of opportunity. He immediately dispatched his associates, mostly clowns, animal tamers, midgets, acrobats and the like, to find the hand and offer him a hefty sum to perform for the circus.

It is one of the female acrobats named Zalita, an eight limbed creature with a ring of eyes, no head, and no particular forward facing orientation that finds Po hanging by his thumb, literally, from a tree in a park in Radasanth. She approaches curiously eying the collection of metacarpals. At the moment, Po has migrated his face to his palm, covering his eyes with the pads of his fingers for a brief nap and Zalita speaks to the back of his hand.

“Excuse me…are you the hand that everyone is talking about?”

Roused from his nap, Po migrates his face upward under his thumb before settling before Zalita. His blurred eyes struggle to comprehend the sight before him while his mind, which, is an odd thing for a hand to have, tries to wrap itself around the question.

“Me-no-what-who-a hand yes I am, but talking about me is everyone and are what you are?”

Even fully awake, Po has always lacked a proper grasp of the common tongue. Nearly asleep, he makes even less sense. Zalita spins slowly in a circle, checking Po out with each of her many eyes as she processes and responds, remarkably understanding Po’s rambling speech.

“Me, oh, well, I’m a…well, actually, to be perfectly honest, I am not too sure what I am. I am not all that bright and I tend to forget things like that. But I can do neat tricks!”

Zalita finds it appropriate to demonstrate at this point, exploding to an impressive height before executing an enthralling series of flips, spins, and twists, limbs arcing through the eye in a strangely mesmerizing pattern. She lands as effortlessly as she left and continues talking as if it were nothing.

“And yes, people have been talking about you. My boss, Mazgal the Magnificent, wants to talk to you about a business proposition. At least, that is what everyone told me to say. I don’t really know what it means. Do you know what it means?”

Po takes an immediate liking to the simple creature before him. While he has never been to keen on business, he does not have anything else to do and finds Zalita’s presence to be pleasing. More interested in her than Mazgal, he agrees and follows Zalita to the traveling offices of the Mazgal’s Stupendous Spectacle. The offices are house in the largest of a number of trailers pulled by a variety of pack animals parked in a ring outside the city. A gaudy bit of signage proclaims the title of the traveling show and Po is immediately very unimpressed.

Mazgal’s Stupendous Spectacle? Terrible is a name.

Knowing that business usually requires some type of discussion, Po lightly taps Zalita on the shoulder before she approaches the door of the trailer, indicating she should stop for a moment.

Po plants all five fingers into the dirt and springs into the air, flattening and pulling his fingers together while airborne.

PAPER!

The pose is held for only an instant before Po spreads his fingers for a spread eagle landing, but a shimmering column behind him indicates a successful summon of the creature Paper. With a much greater knowledge base and a bit of ego to be fed, Paper prides himself on his mastery of a number of languages, common among them. He takes a moment to orient himself to the situation before speaking.

“Mazgal’s Stupendous Spectacle. Sounds atrocious. Let me guess Po, this disreputable circus desires to put you on display and you are going to ask me to carry out the negotiations?”

Zalita is a bit awed by the whole process of Paper’s sudden appearance and simultaneously struggles to understand precisely what the smooth talking scroll has said.

“Disreputable…what does that mean?”

Po shoots Paper a glare before responding, first to Zalita.

“No thing means. Paper talks words bigger than good. Sense not always.”

Po pauses for a moment, carefully constructing his next sentence. While his speech was not always correct, he liked to rub it in to Paper a bit that he COULD be adept with the language with a bit of effort.

“Paper, your conclusion is correct and your tact is reprehensible. Let’s proceed.”

Paper snorts with indignation, grumbling about a stubby bunch of digits calling anything about him reprehensible. Nevertheless, when Zalita finally opens the door, Paper follows closely behind with his best business face on while Po brings up the rear. The scroll immediately spots Mazgal, notable for his garish dress, and before he can get a word in, Paper is off on a sales pitch.

“Greetings, it is my astute observation that you must be the Mazgal of such renowned. I understand you wish to discuss business with my client, Mr. Cos’p’Cis Rrass. I am his agent and there are a number of conditions that we demand for our services. First, we work on a per a performance basis, there will be no long term commitment as we do not wish to be tied to any possibly dubious endeavor. Furthermore…”

Paper continues for a solid two minutes, reciting the well rehearsed conditions the group had decided on long ago. This was not the first circus act to seek Po’s unique talents. Po pays little attention. Despite the ribbing between the two, Po trusted Paper completely and had full confidence in his abilities. Instead, he takes the time to get a better look at Zalita, His intrigue for the strange creature has not waned.

Mazgal bides his time impatiently, unhappy to be dictated to in his own trailer. Once Paper has completed the conditions, he starts talking immediately.

“Well now that is a nice list of demands you got there for yourselves. Must think of yourself as something special, but let me tell you something. This is my circus and things round here are run likes I says they are. So, here are MY conditions.”

Mazgal gets only halfway through his first set of terms when Paper interrupts.

“Absolutely unacceptable. It has been nice doing business with you, but we must be going. We will take our leave now, Mr. Cos’p’Cis Rrass.”

Paper turns to leave, certain the ringmaster is a crooked taskmaster who has no concern for any of his performers. Very little, including the conditions of the performs and trailers he spotted outside, escape the notice of Paper. Furthermore, his conclusions are usually correct and this is no exception. Normally, Po would trust his judgment and follow his summoned friend straight out the door without a word, but this time he breaks in and offers a contradictory opinion.

“Wait. Negotiate and talk we, make deal.”

Paper turns back, surprised at the intrusion. He gives Po a perturbed and quizzical glance as he glides to a corner of the room.

“Pardon us for a moment Mr. Mazgal, I need to talk to my client.”

The two converse in hushed tones for a few moments before Paper returns.

“Very well, against my soundest of advice, we will make an arrangement. Finish your terms and we may find a compromise.”

For nearly and hour, Mazgal and Paper go back and forth, bartering clause for clause and haggling over fine print. Finally an arrangement is reached, Po is to meet at the Citadel the next day just before noon. Paper is dissatisfied, the pay is terrible and the conditions shady, but ultimately Po holds the decision making power in situations such as this so he obliges. He does not, however, have any intention of hanging around longer than necessary and heads for the door as quickly as possible.

“Mr. Rass, let us take our leave of this fine establishment. We have preparations to make.”

Po knows that is a lie, the group has no possessions to prepare or plans to lay, but reluctantly breaks off his conversation with Zalita to follow Paper out the door. He had put Paper through enough for one day and might need his cooperation tomorrow. On their way back into the city, Paper laments the unfavorable circumstances surrounding tomorrow’s appearance. Po agrees the conditions are poor, but is content with his decision nonetheless. After sending Paper back to The Other Place, Po finds a favorable rooftop to fall asleep on.
__________________________________________________ ______________
As the sun climbs toward its apex the next day, Po makes his appearance at the Citadel. A monk spots him and directs him toward one of the largest rooms in the great ziggurat. Mazgal’s Spectacle has been in full swing for several hours already, but the audience response is not that fantastic. Po surveys the empty seats surrounding a large, packed dirt ring filled with all manner of equipment for entertainers to utilize. Clowns, acrobats, illusionists, and musicians all ply from the arena floor to a half empty seating area. Mazgal is everywhere, his strident voice calling out to the crowd in an attempt to awaken excitement in their midst. It comes across as pleading more than rousing.

Po briefly spots Zalita preparing for an acrobatic routine. He raises his pinky in his version of a wave and she waves three of her appendages in return, a slight smile on her lips. Before Po has a chance to move toward her, Mazgal is at his side.

“Alright hand, its almost your turn. You better put out a good show after the haggling that miserable scrap of paper put me through yesterday. I’m paying you twice what you are worth, no question in my mind. Don’t disappoint me, I don’t like to be disappointed.”

Po gives the desperate entertainer a pitying look, his implied threat as overblown as the short mans gaudily attired belly.

“You other side go, signal ready when contestant other here. Be I ready.”

Mazgal contemplates for a moment trying to reiterate his position of power in the business and put his newly hired performer in his place, but decides better of it and heads to the other side of the arena to find the other participants in this segment of the Spectacle.

Way too long, sorry, but hopefully it will be worht the context.

[chumley]

"You, sir, strike a hard bargain," Chumley muttered, puffing a pipe of his own design, shooting plumes of smoke out of his trunk like a steam engine. "Indeed... perhaps a corrupt bargain, of the sort in which only the most dastardly Whig would engage."

"I don't know what a Whig is," Mazgal replied, twirling the tip of his scraggly beard between two dirty fingers. "Nor do I care to. I only want your agreement." Chumley flapped his ears, disconcerted. A man that had no interest in the Whigs? Either he was one himself or (worse!) an illiterate immigrant, probably from eastern Europe. The two were seated in a sort of makeshift office, tucked in the corner of a massive circus tent. Sunlight streamed down through the thick canvas sagging over their heads, heating the thick, manure-tinged air to an uncomfortable mugginess. Beneath them, the ground had been torn bare of grass, some straw strewn across the mucky clay the erection of the tent had unearthed. The chair Chumley had perched his elephantine rear upon creaked every few minutes, as if moving a few inches closer to collapse. Instead of a desk, this dastardly gypsy-monger had a stack of old phonograph records covered with cellophane, criminally exploitative business contracts littered across the crude surface, some taped to the side of an old Commodore 64. That's anachronistic, Chumley thought to himself, but then he saw a label on the side of the computer that explained it all: Inexplicably produced by the Lornius Corporation. Call for dirigible and Beretta prices - SIKE THERE ARE NO PHONES IN ALTHANAS.

"That explains all too much," The elephant said, and Mazgal smiled, revealing green and yellow teeth. Even the fellow's false teeth were rotting. Repulsed, Chumley looked away. His eyes came to rest on a huge glass jar filled with thumbs, and he shuddered, looking away yet again. He kept his gaze on the rotting mummy of a midget with the sign "Touch for five GP" still slung across its neck leaning against a tent pole.

"And what good shall this cirque de macabre of yours do, my Hungarian friend?" Chumley asked, taking another puff of his pipe and finding, angrily, that it had gone out in the meantime. Mazgal grinned again, rubbing his meaty, filthy hands together. Chumley noticed the fellow was wearing french cuffs - without cuff links - and cringed. Not only was his red overcoat too small, his bowler hat torn, his hair greasy and matted, and his face pockmarked and scarred, but despite his booming business he didn't even spare the change to buy the most necessary accoutrements.

"I believe it might pique the interest of some of Althanas's more... colorful characters," the man said, and Chumley realized both the fellow's yellow eyes were lazy, roaming about the tent at random. How can he even see anything? the elephant thought to himself, What dark gypsy magic is this? "I speak," Mazgal continued, "of course, of Max Dirks."

Chumley's heart skipped a beat. A cloud moved across the sun. The earth shuddered beneath him. A plague struck Salvar. Rivers flowed backwards. Owls flew at noon and cocks crowed at midnight. Badgers lay down with dachshunds. A quest was judged on time.

"M..max.... who?" Chumley asked, fumbling for his matches. Mazgal laughed heavily, phlegm and old wads of chewing tobacco flying from his maw. So news of the LCC finals had already reached such scum as this? Chumley was appalled, but not especially surprised. That toad he had talked to the evening after that ill-fated battle seemed like a chatty sort. No doubt half of the continent knew of his forbidden... dare he call it love? Surely not. It was no better than perversion, a twisting of what God meant for elephantkind on the Earth. He could smell the ashes of Sodom swirling about him. Pulling an handkerchief from his vest pocket, Chumley dabbed his moist forehead.

"Although I'm sure I shan't be well paid, money does not interest me," Chumley said, trying to recover. "I care only for the value of the entertainment this shall provide the poor people of this benighted land. I saw the poverty and misery of Lornius, a sad fiefdom given no attention by its wretched corporate masters until the annual half-baked orgy of destruction those "gentlemen" call a tournament. And I shall not stand for blood sport to be the only type of recreation available to these sad people! I shall sign your accursed contract, and I shall appear in your vile minstrelsy. I will endure what I must for the people. It is the American way."

******

And thus, a cloaked figure stalked its way to the Citadel on the appointed day. Covered as it was with a thick tarmac of some sort, few gave it a second glance. Despite the sun the day was cold, and most were wrapped up against the blistering wind. The figure was therefore not out of place in any way except for its hurried gait. The Citadel towered over the city as a mediocre artist might tower over merely bad ones. It in a way inspired the figures below it to move with a slightly springier step, as if one day they might be regarded as a local legend, and were ready to quicken their pace toward that eventuality. The most rushed of all the figures ducked into the Citadel. It pushed past a bevy of monks who seemed a rough facsimile of a composite of different asian religious figures. The figure paused as it moved beyond them and tore away its cowl, revealing the stony visage of Chumley de Rotchfeltingham. He surveyed the monks.

"It's a shame," he said aloud to himself, "That they'll probably never accept Lord Jesus." He turned and ran, drawn by some strange magnetic force, toward the appropriate chamber in the cathedral-cum-coliseum. The muted sounds of a restless crowd, grumbling through the porous stone of the dark hallway, alerted Chumley that he had reached the appointed doorway. Pulling his tophat from his cloak, he tossed the tarp aside and affixed the stovepipe gingerly atop his noggin. "Well, I certainly hope this experience proves better than I expect," he said to himself, and pushed open the double doors before him, heaving the heavy wood aside, freshly oiled hinges squeaking merrily.

He stepped out from the doorway almost immediately into what could only be described as a vulgar three ring circus. Rows upon rows of wooden seats lined the edge of the room, stacked nearly two stories into the air. Perhaps a third of the possible seating was full, and most of the audience seemed to be stifling yawns between loud jeers. Several gorillas were engaged in some sort of tumbling act in the center ring, slapping at each other like faith healers. An Indian man, dressed like a homosexual clown, was engaged in a fire eating act in the left ring. Some seals were jumping through hoops held by an octopus in the right ring. Around all three circulated mimes, clowns, various trained beasts, and prestidigitators, trying in vain to rouse the crowd's interest. Chumley saw an elephant trying to balance on top of a large rubber ball and gasped with shock. "DOES THE THIRTEENTH AMENDMENT MEAN NOTHING?" he cried. This caught Mazgal's attention. The burly fellow was dressed in a shimmering coat of silver and red, yelling periodically through a bullhorn, an opium pipe hurriedly and visibly tucked in his back pocket. He smiled his horrific smile at Chumley, who immediately blushed - as well an elephant can blush - and turned to investigate the plumage of a nearby emu dressed as a barrister. Mazgal turned to the most promising sector of the crowd and lifted his megaphone.

"Ladies and gents! Mesdames et messieurs! Lords and ladies! This is the main event!" With that, the lights suddenly dimmed dramatically. A strobe light began pulsating from somewhere in the roof, and several mimes collapsed in fits of light-induced seizures. Heavy thumping bass filled the room, and a huge American flag was lowered from the ceiling, images of half-naked women projected upon it. Cannons of confetti exploded around Chumley, causing him to fall to the floor, hands thrown over his head for protection. As the blizzards of confetti fell to the ground, the entire room reverberated with explosions as cascades of fireworks bloomed from the floor, filling the air with light and smoke.

"We've searched every continent of Althanas, looking for the freakiest of the freaky, and we've found 'em folks! Let's get ready to see these two beasts go head-to-head in MORTAL KOMBAT! LET'S GET READY TO RUUUUUUMBLE!!!"

The crowd seemed momentarily interested.

[RPS & Po]

Mortal combat?? Oh great. I am going to have to talk to Paper after this one. I am tempted to call him right now, but if this is to be a fight I will need to be careful when I bring him out. I TOLD him to get us an acrobatics act or something, not a fight. I KNEW I should have paid closer attention. Ahh..but it was worth it to talk to Zalita. She IS a most fascinating creature.

Po steals a glance at Zalita, who looks very worried about her new friend’s fate in clash to come. Po casually raises his pinky in a nonchalant wave, trying to portray his confidence through his body language, but uncertain if she understands. Remarkably, as few creatures ever have, she seems to understand perfectly, her eight limbs relaxing and her eyes lifting at Po show of mettle.

This poise is no act from Po. While he would never consider himself a great warrior, conflict has a way of following him everywhere he goes. In fact, you might say he has a knack for ending up in the middle of every disagreement he stumbles across. He hasn’t quite figured out why this is, but through the experiences he has on many occasions had to extract himself from rather nasty conflicts, resorting to his unique combative skills to facilitate his retreat. He is confident he can at least keep from being too brutally maimed against most opponents.

Still lost in thought about Zalita, Po fails to notice the glaring, empty spotlight on his side of the circus. A number of performers backstage, including a rather large fellow who seems to have no entertainment value but would be great in a bar fight, are urging him to get onstage. The crowd is already beginning to lose interest with only one of two competitors on the field and Chumley’s less than awe-inspiring posture. The bouncerish fellow places a meaty hand on Po’s thumb, shaking him none too gently.

“Hey, quit’yer googling and get out there.”

Po slides his face across his body to stare at the man, a tactic that tends to have a disconcerting effect on the viewer. The reaction of the thug is rather satisfying as he releases Po and takes a stumbling step backward, his eyes wide.

“Expert, me. Watch, you learn.”

Taking a quick assessment of the situation, Po calls out to anyone close enough to hear.

“LIGHTS!! ME CLOSER!!”

Everyone stands around, not quite understanding the command. Everyone, that is, except Zalita who springs instantly into action. Using her many limbs, she swings quickly from the floor to the lighting racks and instructs one of the technicians. Several spotlights snap on, illuminating Po standing slightly outside of the ring on the opposite side of the tent from Chumley. As soon as he is properly illuminated, Po springs into action.

Taking several, galloping steps with all five fingers, he flings himself into the air. Two heavy poles, supporting an overhanging high wire, bracket the narrow doorway. Hooking his pinky around the left pole, he puts himself into a flat spin, clenched like a fist. The lightmen struggle to keep pace as he whips around the pole, only to hook his thumb to the other side to complete a figure eight around the pair. Timing the release, Po lets fly into the ring, spreading his fingers wide in a mildly impressive display before thudding to the ground, landing on the pads of all five digits before raising up on his thumb alone to wave to the crowd.

To say the crowd roared would be an overstatement. However, at least a portion of their attention was once again captured now that both “freakiest of the freaky” beasts had taken their positions. Settling into a three point stance, Po strains from his position in the far left ring to spot his opponent, spotlight in the far right. Owing to his height, all he can make out is a large, grey, hump.

A rock…is that really what that is? I am to fight a rock?