started up from the Screamer, off behind the booth. It was one of the first rides you saw when you came in through the gate, tucked in a corner of the charged fence. Del stared over at it through the glass of Too’s booth. His manner grew subdued again. “I really will miss you, hon. You’re a sweet, sweet kid–no pun intended. I really am fond of you, all sex talk aside. Write to me. Come back next year if you need work–I’ll get you something better. Let’s stay friends, alright?” He looked at Too and gave her that big, toothy, extra-pleasant Del Kahn grin.
“I’ll write you, I promise.” Too was embarrassed, averted her eyes. Luckily, a little girl had appeared, so that Too could keep her eyes on her whirlpool. “I may very well be back next year…God knows my mother and father won’t give me enough money for a car.”
“I’ll buy you a car if you go to bed with me once.”
The little girl paid for her cone, looked up at Del. “You pig.”
Del laughed. “Sorry, honey, forgot you were there.”
The child ran off. When Too let herself look at Del again, he was again looking through at the Screamer. “Decide what you’ll be doing this fall?”
“Nope,” he muttered. “Same old thing. I guess.”
“I thought you said you might start writing some songs, and if you decided not to use them you’d give them to friends.”
“Mm,” he grunted.
The Screamer was a circular machine, with a full circle of connected cabs which rotated around a central axis, dipping and rising along with the dips and rises in the surrounding metal walkway as they spun. The cabs, base, and circular roof were white, but the sides of the roof, trimmed with colored lights which didn’t show too well in daylight, were also covered with bright, crude paintings. Music was strongly associated with the Screamer. While there were far more complex, imaginative rides, it was the use of music and the very simplicity of the ride itself that made the Screamer one of the most popular rides. Music blasted from speakers above the control booth attached to the left side of the ride at the highest point of the surrounding walkway. The Screamer’s music was loud; it was the primary background music for a fifth of the carnival proper just by itself. And so, painted on the outside of the circular roof above the train which madly spun around the central cylinder, biting its own snake tail, were four or five music stars.
There was Magdilon Perimeter, naked as always (though looking over her shoulder to hide her breasts), with long dark hair and a hauntingly gorgeous and impassive face. She had committed suicide at the height of her career. There was Lotti, the Tikkihotto idol. He’d been assassinated. There was Zodiac Jones, still going strong today after over thirty years of performing; his style had changed considerably over the years, as he incorporated every popular new style that developed, without his fading into obscurity…but the partying exuberant tone had never varied in thirty-some-odd years. In his muvids, Jones–artificially young and smooth-looking–cavorted and pouted and panted and growled like the teenage boys and girls who played him.
Huge on the side of the circular metal canvas loomed the face of Del Kahn, eyes passionately squeezed shut, mouth wide as if to fellate, Sophi teased, the microphone clenched in his fist. On his head was the black beret he had taken to wearing for several years, at first because he wanted it but which he later maintained as a helpful visual identification symbol at the urging of his ex-manager. Men, boys, even women had followed suit with their own black berets. Del stopped wearing it when it had worn itself thin.
The painting hadn’t been painted since Sophi had bought and assembled the carnival, ironically enough–it had already been there, and had been there since Del’s great successful days. Del was embarrassed, had asked Sophi to have it repainted. “With who–Chauncy Carnal?
“I’ll write you, I promise.” Too was embarrassed, averted her eyes. Luckily, a little girl had appeared, so that Too could keep her eyes on her whirlpool. “I may very well be back next year…God knows my mother and father won’t give me enough money for a car.”
“I’ll buy you a car if you go to bed with me once.”
The little girl paid for her cone, looked up at Del. “You pig.”
Del laughed. “Sorry, honey, forgot you were there.”
The child ran off. When Too let herself look at Del again, he was again looking through at the Screamer. “Decide what you’ll be doing this fall?”
“Nope,” he muttered. “Same old thing. I guess.”
“I thought you said you might start writing some songs, and if you decided not to use them you’d give them to friends.”
“Mm,” he grunted.
The Screamer was a circular machine, with a full circle of connected cabs which rotated around a central axis, dipping and rising along with the dips and rises in the surrounding metal walkway as they spun. The cabs, base, and circular roof were white, but the sides of the roof, trimmed with colored lights which didn’t show too well in daylight, were also covered with bright, crude paintings. Music was strongly associated with the Screamer. While there were far more complex, imaginative rides, it was the use of music and the very simplicity of the ride itself that made the Screamer one of the most popular rides. Music blasted from speakers above the control booth attached to the left side of the ride at the highest point of the surrounding walkway. The Screamer’s music was loud; it was the primary background music for a fifth of the carnival proper just by itself. And so, painted on the outside of the circular roof above the train which madly spun around the central cylinder, biting its own snake tail, were four or five music stars.
There was Magdilon Perimeter, naked as always (though looking over her shoulder to hide her breasts), with long dark hair and a hauntingly gorgeous and impassive face. She had committed suicide at the height of her career. There was Lotti, the Tikkihotto idol. He’d been assassinated. There was Zodiac Jones, still going strong today after over thirty years of performing; his style had changed considerably over the years, as he incorporated every popular new style that developed, without his fading into obscurity…but the partying exuberant tone had never varied in thirty-some-odd years. In his muvids, Jones–artificially young and smooth-looking–cavorted and pouted and panted and growled like the teenage boys and girls who played him.
Huge on the side of the circular metal canvas loomed the face of Del Kahn, eyes passionately squeezed shut, mouth wide as if to fellate, Sophi teased, the microphone clenched in his fist. On his head was the black beret he had taken to wearing for several years, at first because he wanted it but which he later maintained as a helpful visual identification symbol at the urging of his ex-manager. Men, boys, even women had followed suit with their own black berets. Del stopped wearing it when it had worn itself thin.
The painting hadn’t been painted since Sophi had bought and assembled the carnival, ironically enough–it had already been there, and had been there since Del’s great successful days. Del was embarrassed, had asked Sophi to have it repainted. “With who–Chauncy Carnal?
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