Sweet-Toothed Savages Episode 4

Written by: Paul Holmes

Episode 4

Frostbite Frankie 

Steve (Fudgey Steve to those that bent the knee on the message boards), sat in the driver’s box of a showman’s wagon. Next to him, the driver. A man called Stink. Within minutes of joining him on the wooden bench of the driver’s box, Steve knew exactly where the name came from. There was remarkably complex stench of filth coming off the man in waves. Luckily Steve had half a tin of peppermints in his satchel that helped take the edge off. Almost.

Three days. For three days, Steve had sat on this ass-bruising wooden bench as the troupe headed north, deeper into Garnath. 72 hours ago, Steve had been ready to hop back into the enchanted ketch he had gotten from Squiffy Planks, and head off to their next port. When Captain Rumguts Radke started giving orders to bring the wagons and mules up from the hold of the Carn-EVIL Clipper, it was obvious the Ringleader had other plans. A rum-drenched arm around his shoulders, Steve was led to this wagon and introduced to the driver as “Not food, and an OK guy” to Stink. Next thing he knew he was riding shotgun on a garishly painted showman’s wagon filled with various performers of the carnival.

The train consisted of 13 wagons stuffed full of everything the SweetTooth Savages might need for a full performance. Earlier in the morning, the had paused outside of a settlement called “Harmony” before the Captain waved them on from his mule rising at the front of the train. “Not enough people,” he had shouted as he thrust his rum-dripped cleaver forward to motion a continuing forward. A half dozen religious statues were erected outside of the settlement, and for a moment Steve wondered if that had had anything to do with Radke’s decision.

Just past midday, the troupe passed a large sign reading, “NOW ENTERIN THE DEVIL’S ANUS. TURN BACK NOW, FOR THERE’S NO WIPIN YERSELF CLEAN ONCE YE ENTER.”

Steve rounded on Stink. “Devil’s Anus? Really? We pass by Ghostflats AND Darkwood to only stop at the freakin’ Devil’s Anus?”

Stink simply shrugged and snapped the reins on the mules pulling the wagon. “T’aint none of my business where we set up.”

The wind shifted, and Steve had to blink away tears as Stink’s miasma nearly made him pass out. Gulping down bile, Steve managed to croak, “Whose turn is it?”

“Hunh? Whatcha mean, boy”

“You know, who gets the first go at the locals before the rest of the troupe gets to have fun?” Steve said. “The Captain had his at Port Linhud, Cotton Candy Randy was next at Highcliff. Who gets off the leash at the Devil’s Anus?”

Another shrug. A snort followed by Stink projecting something green and yellow from between his cracked lips. “Don’t rightly know. Don’t rightly care. I lead this wagon is alls I know.”

Hours later, after Steve found out the Devil’s Anus was the name for the territory itself. Named after the sulphur deposits that accompanied the coal being mined, Steve sat in the mining camp of Thornchapel, sipping a truly nasty whiskey and wiping sweat from his brow. The roustabouts had finished setting up. The calliope began to screech the intro to “Screaming for Emmalene”, signaling the opening of the carnival. Torches flared to life along the Midway, and the vendors began barking for attention.

He didn’t need Radke to cue him in this time. A large puff of what looked like steam caught his attention. The ice blue eyes of Frostbite Frankie met his, and the snow-cone vendor gave him a smile and a nod.

Unlike Randy, Frankie took his time before starting in on the fun. He spent the first half-hour handing out red-dripping snow-cones to the coalminers and their families. Finally, a youth of no more than 16 years approached the stall. He was a miner himself. You could tell from the black stains on his clothing, but he had made the attempt to clean up a bit. His face and hands were free of the soot.

Steve watched through the zoomed-in camera lens as Frankie’s eyes locked on those hands, and a bit of drool leaked from the clown’s mouth, froze, and dropped to the ground. Frankie leaned forward and whispered something to the young miner, who at first seemed apprehensive, but seemed to come around to whatever Frankie was saying.

A brief hand motion from Frankie in the shape of a curvy hourglass seemed to win the debate in the young man’s mind. He smiled and followed Frankie back towards where the troupe’s wagons were waiting.

It was too hot to walk around, so Steve simply adjusted the zoom, pointed the lens at one of the wagons and waited. Moments later, Frankie exited alone, holding something low against his leg to keep it from view. A quick adjustment and Steve was able to see a pair of hands, fingers splayed and frozen solid. Drops of melt falling into the dust. 

Upon returning to his stall, Steve watched as Frankie stowed one of the frozen hands inside his shirt, likely to keep it cool against his frozen skin until he got around to it. The remaining hand was then dipped, one finger at a time, into the various brightly-colored syrups behind the counter of the stall. Producing a rainbow-hued hand of glory, but frozen instead of the traditional wax and wick.

With a crunch Steve could almost hear from his seat, Frankie chomped down on the bright green thumb and began to crunch and chew his way through the fingers until he was holding little more than a frozen palm that he tossed in a bucket behind him. The Iceman’s face was smeared with the colors of the syrups along with a slightly deeper red.

Frankie wiped the color off of his face, taking a portion of the white cake makeup with it, and watched the crowd for the next unaccompanied customer with clean hands.

After the third victim was led to the wagons, Steve saw the trio of belly-dancers emerge looking sated. Shortly after they departed to their stage near the sideshow, a handful of roustabouts let themselves into the wagon. It wasn’t long before Frostbite Frankie led his next “customer” to the wagon. It seemed that he was only interested in the hands, and was more than willing to spread the wealth.

Close to midnight, as the rides shut down, the ride-jocks from The Kraken replaced the roustabouts in the back of Frankie’s wagon, but aside from that, there was little change in the strategy. All told, Frankie and those he shared with claimed around a dozen lives (and twenty-four tasty, tasty hands).

Once the midway torches were quenched, the roustabouts began tear-down while the performers went forth into the dusty, sulphur-smelling, ramshackle mining town to claim their ration.

Hours before dawn, thirteen wagons began making their way back towards Highcliff, the Carn-EVIL Clipper, and ultimately their next performance/feast.