Most people, no one I know, can survive a cavernous neck wound. He'd bleed to death soon (well as much as he can die). Yet, he sat placidly. His smile seemed to be the stuff of legends, an infectious grin causing the audience to not only mirror it, but inspired some to giggle uncomfortably, chuckle then laugh out loud; and once the whole room resounded with laughter he slumped over dead. On this occasion it took less time than I expected.
Shaking my head, "Sonuvabitch couldn't hold on one more minute?"
"Yeah, well I knew he wouldn't." The stagehand beside me gestured, "Pay up."
Handing him a fiver, "You earned it."
As the clown crew cleaned up the stage, carting the corpse away in a polka dot wheelbarrow, I emerged from behind the red curtain. Donning my trademark top hat, I addressed the audience, "Wasn't that something ladies and gentlemen? But that particular act is far from over. You have merely witness part one of the performance."
The lights lowered on cue, and I continued, "For a brief while the man you have all seen die, Professor Lazarus, shall remain dead. However! Before the night is through, he will return."
Skeptical murmurs filled the room. The disbelief seemed like an echo from previous nights. Only those few who've seen the act before knew better.
Already prepared for skeptics, I said, "There are those who won't believe such a feat could be achieved. The rational, logical, scientific mind -- and this is a modern age of reason -- insists the dead are dead. Once that state of being is reached there is no condition afterward, save for decay. And I admit to having shared that misconception. Yet, I swear." Taking off my hat, and holding it over my heart, "Professor Lazarus is dead, yet he shall live again… which is why he chose his rather apt stage name."
A few soft chuckles, though I didn't expect much. Mirth in the midst of morbidity is a difficult thing to attain, depending on those in attendance. Despite the macabre nature of our troupe's particular vaudeville, even the darkest humorists find actual death hard to make light of. No, instead I pricked an ear waiting for the sound of Robert, this evening's plant.
Right on schedule he shouted, "Then he's not really dead."
Returning my hat like a king his crown, I glared out at the crowd, "I will not be accused of such chicanery. If you do not believe he is really dead, well sir, I encourage you, and any who suspect as much to go into the lobby during the intermission. Inspect the corpse. Verify the presence of death however you like, so long as it isn't lewd."
Another ripple of laughter, appreciated, though again, not expected in any great volume. However, everything on stage is for a purpose, "Speaking of lewdness, on to our next act. Straight from the palace of Versailles, circa 1786, a woman from a different time entirely; we, the Circus ex Inferno, present to you the marvelous, mind bending burlesque of Mademoiselle Michelle La Morte."
The band began playing a giddy jazz number. Then, applause filling the air, I slipped back behind the curtain, receding from the stage as the marvelous Michelle took ownership of it. The sequins of her sheer gown sparkled like stars, magnificent seductive constellations of an erotic Zodiac known only to the mystical courtesans of lost Atlantis. I caught but a glimpse, though I knew it so well.
Hints of her lilac perfume drifted back stage while her lithe figure danced. I could imagine the rapt attention of the audience, transfixed by her hypnotic gyrations. However, I didn't have time to dwell on such thoughts.
The business of the Circus demanded my attention.
Instructing the clowns to deposit Professor Lazarus in the lobby, I told Psycho Zepo, "Don't stab him again. I know it assures them he's dead, but he hates the unexpected wounds."
Psycho Zepo responded, "Yeah, but it's like a bit. I go to prick him a li'l then I trip, and oops, the knife is in his heart."
Not wanting to argue with a demented Weary Willie knockoff, I held up my hands in surrender. "Then you deal with the Professor when he complains. I'll aim him straight at your door."
Psycho Zepo shrugged, "Fine. I ain't scared of him."
"You should be," I said, "He can't die."
After that I made certain the bartender possessed enough spirits for the intermission cocktail rush as well as inspecting box office receipts quickly to know how the night would turn out. It's a circus, but it's also a job; we need the money, whether we like it or not. And all this needed to be accomplished in the few minutes Mademoiselle Michelle took to perform.
I returned back stage, just as she concluded, floating naked above the spellbound audience. She drifted up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, where she ascended to the roof for her after show absinthe and cigarette. The night fell into routine then: a fire dancer on fire, the quantum entangled twins singing, Louis Snow's telekinetic cats... until finally came the moment for Professor Lazarus to return.
Psycho Zepo, having cut Lazarus’s throat earlier, got tasked with positioning him on stage in a chair. Eying a pocket watch, I stood next to Professor Lazarus. Right on time the neck wound started growing together, meat rippling like waves as he healed. His eyes popped open wide, and he jumped up gasping.
He staggered a step or two then vomited some superfluous poetic gibberish about the magnificence of heaven. The truth is he rarely sees anything, though he once drunkenly told me, “Sometimes I hear a cacophony of screams. I’ll feel a bitter coldness, and in the distance see six flaming eyes. Honestly, I don’t think I’m entirely dead when I die. I’m just hanging in the void between worlds.”
But that story doesn’t sell as many tickets as one might think. So we lie. That’s entertainment.
Shaking my head, "Sonuvabitch couldn't hold on one more minute?"
"Yeah, well I knew he wouldn't." The stagehand beside me gestured, "Pay up."
Handing him a fiver, "You earned it."
As the clown crew cleaned up the stage, carting the corpse away in a polka dot wheelbarrow, I emerged from behind the red curtain. Donning my trademark top hat, I addressed the audience, "Wasn't that something ladies and gentlemen? But that particular act is far from over. You have merely witness part one of the performance."
The lights lowered on cue, and I continued, "For a brief while the man you have all seen die, Professor Lazarus, shall remain dead. However! Before the night is through, he will return."
Skeptical murmurs filled the room. The disbelief seemed like an echo from previous nights. Only those few who've seen the act before knew better.
Already prepared for skeptics, I said, "There are those who won't believe such a feat could be achieved. The rational, logical, scientific mind -- and this is a modern age of reason -- insists the dead are dead. Once that state of being is reached there is no condition afterward, save for decay. And I admit to having shared that misconception. Yet, I swear." Taking off my hat, and holding it over my heart, "Professor Lazarus is dead, yet he shall live again… which is why he chose his rather apt stage name."
A few soft chuckles, though I didn't expect much. Mirth in the midst of morbidity is a difficult thing to attain, depending on those in attendance. Despite the macabre nature of our troupe's particular vaudeville, even the darkest humorists find actual death hard to make light of. No, instead I pricked an ear waiting for the sound of Robert, this evening's plant.
Right on schedule he shouted, "Then he's not really dead."
Returning my hat like a king his crown, I glared out at the crowd, "I will not be accused of such chicanery. If you do not believe he is really dead, well sir, I encourage you, and any who suspect as much to go into the lobby during the intermission. Inspect the corpse. Verify the presence of death however you like, so long as it isn't lewd."
Another ripple of laughter, appreciated, though again, not expected in any great volume. However, everything on stage is for a purpose, "Speaking of lewdness, on to our next act. Straight from the palace of Versailles, circa 1786, a woman from a different time entirely; we, the Circus ex Inferno, present to you the marvelous, mind bending burlesque of Mademoiselle Michelle La Morte."
The band began playing a giddy jazz number. Then, applause filling the air, I slipped back behind the curtain, receding from the stage as the marvelous Michelle took ownership of it. The sequins of her sheer gown sparkled like stars, magnificent seductive constellations of an erotic Zodiac known only to the mystical courtesans of lost Atlantis. I caught but a glimpse, though I knew it so well.
Hints of her lilac perfume drifted back stage while her lithe figure danced. I could imagine the rapt attention of the audience, transfixed by her hypnotic gyrations. However, I didn't have time to dwell on such thoughts.
The business of the Circus demanded my attention.
Instructing the clowns to deposit Professor Lazarus in the lobby, I told Psycho Zepo, "Don't stab him again. I know it assures them he's dead, but he hates the unexpected wounds."
Psycho Zepo responded, "Yeah, but it's like a bit. I go to prick him a li'l then I trip, and oops, the knife is in his heart."
Not wanting to argue with a demented Weary Willie knockoff, I held up my hands in surrender. "Then you deal with the Professor when he complains. I'll aim him straight at your door."
Psycho Zepo shrugged, "Fine. I ain't scared of him."
"You should be," I said, "He can't die."
After that I made certain the bartender possessed enough spirits for the intermission cocktail rush as well as inspecting box office receipts quickly to know how the night would turn out. It's a circus, but it's also a job; we need the money, whether we like it or not. And all this needed to be accomplished in the few minutes Mademoiselle Michelle took to perform.
I returned back stage, just as she concluded, floating naked above the spellbound audience. She drifted up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, where she ascended to the roof for her after show absinthe and cigarette. The night fell into routine then: a fire dancer on fire, the quantum entangled twins singing, Louis Snow's telekinetic cats... until finally came the moment for Professor Lazarus to return.
Psycho Zepo, having cut Lazarus’s throat earlier, got tasked with positioning him on stage in a chair. Eying a pocket watch, I stood next to Professor Lazarus. Right on time the neck wound started growing together, meat rippling like waves as he healed. His eyes popped open wide, and he jumped up gasping.
He staggered a step or two then vomited some superfluous poetic gibberish about the magnificence of heaven. The truth is he rarely sees anything, though he once drunkenly told me, “Sometimes I hear a cacophony of screams. I’ll feel a bitter coldness, and in the distance see six flaming eyes. Honestly, I don’t think I’m entirely dead when I die. I’m just hanging in the void between worlds.”
But that story doesn’t sell as many tickets as one might think. So we lie. That’s entertainment.
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