never know. We don’t have that many, after all.”
Cabal made a show of thinking it over, but he knew Horst was right. There really was no choice. “Very well. For tonight only.”
“‘For tonight only.’” Horst held his hands up to an imaginary sign. “‘Thrown out of the best universities, excommunicated from all the most popular religions and many of the obscure ones, fresh from his recent engagement in Hell, we present Johannes Cabal, Necromancer!’ Toot toot toot!” He mimed blowing trumpets.
“You’re a constant font of hilarity, aren’t you?” said Cabal, unsmiling. “And I’ll have you know that I was never, ever thrown out of any of my universities. I always left of my own accord.”
“And always in the early hours of the morning,” added Horst. “Look, Johannes. Despite everything, I’ve always sort of liked you. Back in the days before you abdicated from the human race, your heart was usually more or less in the right place. This will be a doddle. The House of Medical Monstrosity has been set aside for you. You know about the human body—how it works, how it doesn’t work, how, if it isn’t working, you can get it sort of ticking over again. Sort of.” He laughed, and Cabal knew he was thinking of Dennis and Denzil. Cabal bridled: that damn test batch was going down the plug hole the instant he managed to develop something better. “Anyway, it’s something you have an enthusiasm for. Believe me, talking about something that excites you will excite others. It communicates.”
“It communicates?” echoed Cabal. He didn’t believe that for a second. Far too many boring people had cornered him in his youth who were fascinated by things very boring indeed. Their enthusiasm had not “communicated” in the slightest.
Horst’s expression of uncertainty showed he wasn’t so sure of the principle when it involved his brother. “I’ll draw up some notes for you,” he said in a conciliatory tone.
“Ahem. ‘Roll up, roll up. Prepare to be shuddered to the very core of your being. Prepare to witness the most horrible tricks Mother Nature has played upon humanity. Prepare to enter the House of Medical Monstrosity.’” Cabal paused from his notes and looked up. He had an audience of precisely one, a small girl who was sticking her tongue out so hard at him it might actually be hurting slightly. Cabal could only hope. He drew a deep breath and continued.
“‘Within the walls of horror behind me lie the most terrible mutations, the most grotesque freaks, the most fearful occupational injuries. See.’” He belatedly realised he’d been missing the exclamation marks. “‘See! The man with the exposed intestine. See! Alicia and Zenia, the two-headed girl. See!’” He couldn’t understand why he had to keep repeating “See!” He couldn’t imagine the average rube wanting to touch, smell, or taste the show’s stars. Not the average rube, anyway. “‘See! Mr. Bones, the Living Skeleton.’” It had been very good of Bones to make up the numbers. In fact, he had leapt at the chance to lounge around in a thong all evening.
Cabal looked up. There was still only the small girl. She was still sticking her tongue out. Her mother bustled over.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over! And what have I told you about pulling faces? Your face will stick like that if the wind changes.”
“Certain surgical techniques would do the trick, too,” observed Cabal.
The woman looked up at him with an habitual animosity. “And what do you do?” she asked. “You look like a funeral director.”
Despite his black clothes, Cabal knew he looked nothing like a funeral director. He could never have managed the sanctimonious expression if he’d had a month to practice. “Madam,” he said. “Or may I call you ‘florid termagant’?”
“Ooo la!” she said, delightfully outraged. She patted her resinous perm. “I’m a married woman.”
“Forgive me. May I
Cabal made a show of thinking it over, but he knew Horst was right. There really was no choice. “Very well. For tonight only.”
“‘For tonight only.’” Horst held his hands up to an imaginary sign. “‘Thrown out of the best universities, excommunicated from all the most popular religions and many of the obscure ones, fresh from his recent engagement in Hell, we present Johannes Cabal, Necromancer!’ Toot toot toot!” He mimed blowing trumpets.
“You’re a constant font of hilarity, aren’t you?” said Cabal, unsmiling. “And I’ll have you know that I was never, ever thrown out of any of my universities. I always left of my own accord.”
“And always in the early hours of the morning,” added Horst. “Look, Johannes. Despite everything, I’ve always sort of liked you. Back in the days before you abdicated from the human race, your heart was usually more or less in the right place. This will be a doddle. The House of Medical Monstrosity has been set aside for you. You know about the human body—how it works, how it doesn’t work, how, if it isn’t working, you can get it sort of ticking over again. Sort of.” He laughed, and Cabal knew he was thinking of Dennis and Denzil. Cabal bridled: that damn test batch was going down the plug hole the instant he managed to develop something better. “Anyway, it’s something you have an enthusiasm for. Believe me, talking about something that excites you will excite others. It communicates.”
“It communicates?” echoed Cabal. He didn’t believe that for a second. Far too many boring people had cornered him in his youth who were fascinated by things very boring indeed. Their enthusiasm had not “communicated” in the slightest.
Horst’s expression of uncertainty showed he wasn’t so sure of the principle when it involved his brother. “I’ll draw up some notes for you,” he said in a conciliatory tone.
“Ahem. ‘Roll up, roll up. Prepare to be shuddered to the very core of your being. Prepare to witness the most horrible tricks Mother Nature has played upon humanity. Prepare to enter the House of Medical Monstrosity.’” Cabal paused from his notes and looked up. He had an audience of precisely one, a small girl who was sticking her tongue out so hard at him it might actually be hurting slightly. Cabal could only hope. He drew a deep breath and continued.
“‘Within the walls of horror behind me lie the most terrible mutations, the most grotesque freaks, the most fearful occupational injuries. See.’” He belatedly realised he’d been missing the exclamation marks. “‘See! The man with the exposed intestine. See! Alicia and Zenia, the two-headed girl. See!’” He couldn’t understand why he had to keep repeating “See!” He couldn’t imagine the average rube wanting to touch, smell, or taste the show’s stars. Not the average rube, anyway. “‘See! Mr. Bones, the Living Skeleton.’” It had been very good of Bones to make up the numbers. In fact, he had leapt at the chance to lounge around in a thong all evening.
Cabal looked up. There was still only the small girl. She was still sticking her tongue out. Her mother bustled over.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over! And what have I told you about pulling faces? Your face will stick like that if the wind changes.”
“Certain surgical techniques would do the trick, too,” observed Cabal.
The woman looked up at him with an habitual animosity. “And what do you do?” she asked. “You look like a funeral director.”
Despite his black clothes, Cabal knew he looked nothing like a funeral director. He could never have managed the sanctimonious expression if he’d had a month to practice. “Madam,” he said. “Or may I call you ‘florid termagant’?”
“Ooo la!” she said, delightfully outraged. She patted her resinous perm. “I’m a married woman.”
“Forgive me. May I
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