~ 5 days to Halloween ~

Richie opened his eyes. He was floating on his back in the serene waters of Blue Terminal.

I've been here before. he realized.

The sky was a nostalgic pastel blue, like a baby boy's painted room, and strewn with fluffy cotton clouds. Quaint houses and rolling grassy fields drifted like floating islands across the great lake. In the distance, Richie could hear the whistle of the train.

He floated himself, like an otter, over to a sloping grass landmass, and pulled himself atop it. The water was warm as it pooled beneath his back, and he began to dry off under the light of a warm summer sun. He brushed himself off, watching stray blades of grass flutter off of him. Mercifully, they didn't itch.

He looked down and saw that his injured foot was bandaged. He tested it, cautiously shifting his weight onto the foot, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Moored to one of the docks was something that could hardly be called a boat. It was a polished oak coffin with a crimson-cushioned interior, and the upper lid left open, open casket funeral style. Framing the pillow at its head was a candelabra with long white candles whose wicks burned an otherworldly, ethereal purple, not unlike the braziers of cool blue flame intersecting the junctions of Blue Terminal.

A tall shadow stood over Richie, and he looked up into a face hidden by the glare of the sun, and the brim of a tall top hat.

"Well done." a drawling voice with a creole twang said.

The tall man plopped down next to Richie, sitting criss cross, and made himself comfortable. Richie turned over, propping himself up on his side, and got a good look at the man.

He was a willowy black man in a dapper tuxedo suit with a high popped collar and fancy bowtie. His top hat added a foot to his already imposing height. He seemed to be as tall as Richie in a sitting position as Richie was standing. He had gaunt cheeks and a tapered chin, giving his face an almost skeletal look, enhanced by his sunken eyes, with dark rings. Maybe it was just the angle and the lighting, but his milky white eyes seemed to lack pupils.

"Dat was some real zen shit you pulled." the man said.

Richie sat up. "Have we met?"

The man cracked a small smile. He took a fat bottle of rum from his breast pocket and popped the cork with his teeth. He spat out the cork, tilted his head back, and drained half the bottle in seconds, making glug glug glug noises as the aromatic liquor sloshed.

"That's the good stuff." he licked a stray streamer of rum from the side of his mouth. He then went on to answer Richie's question. "Not strictly speaking. Point of fact, we aren't really meeting now."

Richie raised an eyebrow.

"Take it as you will." the man chuckled. He offered Richie the bottle. "Swig?"

Richie shrugged. When in Rome. He imitated the man and tossed his head back, then grimaced as the burning liquid went down his throat.

The man chuckled again. "Potent, eh?"

"Oh god." Richie covered his mouth, handing the bottle back. "Keep that stuff away from me."

The man shrugged his wide shoulders. "You learn to love it."

He looked up across the sky.

"I didn't 'tink anyone else would have the balls to run this road and beat the tide. What put a fire in your pants?"

Richie rotated his bandaged foot. "Obligation, I guess."

"No such 'ting." the tall man said.

Richie smiled pensively. "Maybe a better answer would have been my conviction to see someone again. That, and a dream, I guess. You're Moses, right?"

"I see my reputation precedes me." the witchdoctor gave a sitting bow.

"You're the only other person I know who ran Coral Road. This is probably just another dream, since I can remember all the little details. I imagine I'll forget it all again when I wake up. Strange, I wonder how many whole lives I could have lived in my sleep without remembering…"

"You could say the same thing of life in general. All asleep and dreaming." Moses said cryptically.

"Your companions, Leon and Kokumo, told me about you a while back." Richie said.

"Glowing praise, I presume." Moses said.

"Actually, they called you a quack." Richie chuckled.

"Says da twink with the rose fetish, and his exhibitionist dance partner." Moses chuckled.

"So, what about you? Why'd you leave unannounced, and race across Coral Road as the storm was closing in?" Richie asked.

"Had to check on some'ting." Moses said. "The world will turn, as it always does. It's in fate's hands now."

Richie smirked. "Fate, huh?"

"Not a believer, I take it?" Moses said.

Richie looked at his Azure dragon rune tattoos, coiling around his limbs. "Who knows? Don't really care, I guess. I've got my own plans."

Moses took another swig. "Your plans may intertwine more than you 'tink. Tell me, you've seen it? A glimpse of that Great Beyond?"

"The Abyss? I think so. A friend of mine too." Richie said.

"Looked like an abyss to you, huh?" Moses asked.

Richie tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

Moses drained his bottle and plopped it down, sighing contentedly. "The boundary between this world and the next is a very personal, intimate thing. A thousand different people on the brink of death and back see a thousand different things. Some see a light, some see Hell. Who's to say who's right and who's wrong? Your visions are your own. How much do you know about Haitian Vodou?"

"Simultaneously monotheistic and polytheistic, influenced both by African mythology and Roman Catholicism. Practitioners see no contradiction in pursuing both faiths. There is no overseeing central religious authority, practice varies from practitioner to practitioner. The creator deity, Bondye, is transcendent and beyond the reach of mortals. To commune with him, you must act through the loa, spirits likened to angels by Western standards, who can be appeased with favored food sacrifices and other tributes to curry their favor. You facilitate the temporary possession of followers by these spirits, to speak with them. They are the link between the earthly world and the knowledge beyond the veil." Richie rattled off.

"You're well-read." Moses chuckled.

"Reading passed the time, cooped up in the house as a kid in hiding. Always loved stories and legends." Richie smiled fondly.

"What you call the Abyss, I call Bondye. Others may call it God. Whatever you see or feel, it is the origin from which existence flowers. To see it directly is to be in the presence of divinity, a feat thought unachievable. God is beyond mortal reach. That's why people pray or commune with intermediaries. But you, and your little friend, you basked in the glow of creation on its own level." Moses said.

"I'm just awesome like that." Richie shrugged.

Moses snorted. "Full of piss and vinegar, I like dat. But it's not so easy to waltz into God's domain - without its complicity."

"What do you mean?" Richie asked.

"God is sick, and requires medicine. It's time to give back to creation, and secure its continued survival. The Backyard at the edge of your den is sacred ground, set aside for you to grow and mature. Think of it as the world developing its own vaccine. But that vaccine cannot reach its target without help. These liminal mazes, when connected, form the road to God's heart. It's only a question of which reaches it first - the vaccine, or the final blow."

Richie scratched his head, sighing. "Can't escape fate, huh?"

"Your perspective is wrong. What is will be. If the past is the past, the future is the future. On a perfect sphere, you cannot perceive distinct angles and turns. There is no single linear line. The simbi who guided you to her garden favored you, yes. But never forget - you gained that favor through your own actions." Moses said.

He stood, and Richie could see that he was nearly seven feet tall. He saw also that his left arm was covered in cloth wrapped tightly with a cord of rope, dipped in sticky resin with bits of broken glass stuck to it, making the fist a kind of improvised human morning star. His right leg was wrapped in a heavy iron chain that reminded Richie of the leg wraps worn by muay thai kickboxers.

He offered Richie his non-serrated hand, and pulled him to his feet. The pain in his foot had long subsided. It didn't even seem to be broken.

"And now it's time for you to go back to your story. I have my own to finish." Moses said.

Richie looked him up and down, noticing that beneath the dapper suit, Moses was jacked. His tall, skeletal frame had made it hard to see at first. His white undershirt could barely contain his puffed-out chest, and his lead arm and leg were corded with compact, chiseled muscle.

"Based on your physique and your cool duds," Richie gestured to Moses's glass-studded fist and chain-wrapped leg, "I'd say that you're a fighter too. What do you say, want to go a few rounds?" he punched his open palm, smiling excitedly, eyes lit up like a little kid's.

Moses threw his head back and laughed heartily.

"si Bondye vle." he said.

Then, he stepped into his coffin boat, the ropes snaked off of their moorings, and he floated away into sudden fog, the purple glow of his candle flames fading away, along with the dream.

Richie woke on his couch, and saw his bandaged foot. Holly, upon noticing this, asked when this happened. Richie smiled, and told Holly, to her confusion, that he had been to see the Doctor.

Later, browsing the internet, he would come across an interesting piece of information - 'Ville au Camp'; "The House in the Fields" - was the underwater capital of the loa.

…

The sun began to set. Holly, buried in a book, popped out of her trance and startled.

"Oh!" she said. "This is no time for you to be dawdling around here. Your show is tonight!"

Richie perked up. "Oh, that's right! Thanks, Holly, I almost forgot." he scratched his head. He grabbed his coat and scarf and peeled out the door. "Catch you later!"

…

Richie crowded his way through the jam-packed stadium seats, struggling to locate the marked spot, eyes straining to read the ticket he held in the muted light before the opening surge of neon and carnival music. The place was hot and humid with the body heat of countless whispering, mumbling, and laughing spectators, and Richie felt like dough being put through a tortilla maker trying to squeeze through the throngs of seated ladies and gentlemen. His dragons sniffed beneath his jacket sleeves, and pointed him in the right direction. Cuppy and Freyja caught his gaze, Cuppet’s wooden face peering through the flap of Cuppy’s backpack.

“Yo, Richie, over here!” Freyja waved him in.

“‘Scuze me, pardon me, sorry,” Richie stumbled and toe-stepped his way to his seat, netting grumbles and complaints as he jostled and nearly spilled full cups of soda and buckets of buttered popcorn. He plopped down in his seat in between Cuppy and Freyja, and nuzzled his ass comfily into the cushion.

“With two minutes on the clock. You sure do like your close calls, don’t you?” Freyja said.

“You know it.” Richie rolled his eyes.

His hand drifted to the bucket of popcorn Cuppy had, sifting through the delicious kernels of golden-white goodness. Cuppy had gone in for a handful at the same time, and obviously scooped up Richie’s hand, taking a big chomp. Richie’s eyes cracked like glass and he gave a pitiful kitten sound.

“Fuck!” he withdrew his hand, lined with Cuppy teeth marks. “Damn your ping-pong IQ!”

Cuppy giggled, licking butter from his lips. “Too late.”

Richie went to go on a rant, but Freyja cut it short by shoving a corndog down his throat.

“Shush.” Freyja said in advance.

Richie began to panic as his airway was blocked, grasping at the base of the corn dog, and the dinky stick handle, but fumbling it with his buttered hands.

“Cup, Richie is asphyxiating.” Freyja said without looking away from the ring at the ground floor.

Cuppy sprouted some tiny strings from his finger, hooked them into the handle, and pulled the corndog free.

Richie took in a desperate breath, panting and clutching his chest. Color returned to his pale face.

“Hate… you… hate you both…” he wheezed.

He looked at the slobbery corn dog he had choked on, and took a bite out of it anyway, glaring.

A spotlight fell on the ground floor, where a wrestling ring with four corners and thick ropes was erected. At the center, a man in a flashy purple coat and tophat stood with a microphone in his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the Carnival Top special event! We have a real treat for you tonight! Local fan-favorite, circus veteran, beast handler, flying acrobat, and proud prince of wrestling, Leon Valentine-” he threw his hand to one corner of the ring, where a pink spotlight illuminated Leon, smelling a rose in his hand, “-will lock horns with the immovable, the indomitable, the ultimate Yokozuna, all the way from Osaka, Dai Funka, the Great Eruption!” he threw his arm to the other corner, where a yellow spotlight fell upon the powerful mass that was Dai Funka. The rikishi wore a thick rope belt that joined his red manwashi with a ceremonial kesho-manwashi. The latter was a kind of embroidered apron with tassels at the bottom. Traditionally, those of the two upper-ranked sumo divisions were allowed to wear these mantles into the sumo ring, casting them off before the match proper.

In keeping with the spirit of spectacle, Dai Funka would retain this cloth, which bore the design of a huge, cracked stratovolcano lined with veins of magma, blowing its top in a cataclysmic geyser of hot rocks and pyroclastic debris. The man behind the manwashi tossed a handful of salt across the ring.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the two were announced.

“This ring is neutral ground, no holds barred! The only object is domination! Which one of our resolute, manly contenders will take the belt? Let’s find out! Without further ado, let the long-awaited clash of titans begin!”

A ring handle at the end of a rope descended into the ring, the announcer tipped his tophat, and then he grabbed the handle, giving a tug. The rope raised, lifting the showman out of the ring, which was suddenly fully lit in a halo of spotlight, leaving Leon and Dai Funka alone, facing each other down. In the moments before the bell rang, Leon flourished his rose, which disappeared into his sleeve. He waved his hands and unfurled a whole bouquet of roses, which he kissed. Waving his hands, he turned to the crowd, and tossed the bouquet into the upper mid-section, to the screams of excited, lovestruck fangirls. Richie watched with bemusement as the bouquet landed in one of the rows below them, in the lap of a blushing party girl who was immediately mobbed by a dozen other women, dogpiling and grappling for the romantic token from their hero.

“He was clearly aiming for me.” Cuppy folded his arms, frowning.

Freyja snorted her root beer on accident.

Dai Funka lifted his leg high in a vertical splits, held the pose a moment, then stomped down, planting his feet in the white mat. His other leg followed suit, and he squatted in his deep crouch, knuckles in the ground. He looked to the floor, and then raised his head, eyes locked onto Leon, who unhooked his long thorny whip from his waist, taking a length from the coil and pulling it taut between his safety-gloved hands.

The bell rang, and the show began.

With a battle yodel, Leon whirled his whip, and unleashed the rosen cyclone. A blur of spiky pain cracked out at Dai Funka. The sumo furrowed his bushy caterpillar eyebrows and frowned, his face becoming a mosaic of deep intersecting wrinkles with two focused eyes at their center. A bicep swelled, and he thrust his palm out and away, slapping the whip strike. The momentum was redirected to the side, the whip decelerating out of its blinding lightning strike. There was nary a scratch on that rough palm.

The whip wrapped around one of the ropes, and Leon yanked on his handle, squatting back and building up tension. He sprinted to the other side of the ring, planting himself in the corner, and took aim at Dai.

"This works too!" he said, and lifted his feet. He was pulled by his whip, flung forward toward the sumo by the elastic snapback of the rope, like a slingshot.

Dai planted his feet and hunkered down, waiting. As the Lion Tamer rocketed into him, Dai thrust his arms out and caught Leon, stopping his momentum dead in its tracks. True to his reputation, the rikishi hadn't slid back an inch.

"Yeah! Show him what you're made of, Great Eruption!" Richie cheered, his excitement creeping Freyja out a bit. She smiled for him despite this.

Dai grabbed the shocked Leon by the collar, twisted, and bent forward, flinging Leon head over heels, sprawling across the mat. A judo-style shoulder throw. Leon sprang back to his feet like the big cats he wrangled, and tucked his golden locks back behind his ear.

Dai Funka cracked a tiny smile. "If this were a sumo match, you'd have already lost just now. That's one knockdown for me."

Leon twitched an eye. "Good for you."

He shot his arm skyward, recalling his whip, and began twirling it, encircling him like a ribbon as he spun.

"Try this one on for size!" - he rapidly failed out a storm of whiplashes. The sonic barrier split along with long tears in the mat, and Dai Funka's broad profile was swallowed up, as the masked would-be kidnapper's with the rock gimmick had been before him.

Dai crossed his arms and sank his chin to his chest, crouching and remaining resolutely silent. The crowd hissed and shrieked in shared pain as ribbons of blood opened up and sprayed to mist all over Dai Funka's body. His embroidered apron fluttered in the game force winds of the attack, animating the image of the erupting volcano that adorned it. It gave the illusion of rumbling.

This really takes me back to the good old days, getting hazed and brutalized in the stable… wait, I don't want to remember that. Dai Funka sweat.

The life of a sumo wrestler was a punishing one. Copious food, beer, and naps were a meager relief when traded for the white-knuckle training and backbreaking chores that the career demanded. How many hours spent squatting and stomping around, toughening up his palms and muscles? How many asses kissed and toilets cleaned? How many bottles broken over his head? Sumo wrestling was an art with its roots in Shinto, and it was treated with fittingly religious reverence. Salt purification had been a relic held onto from that time, and even outside the stables, sumo wrestlers adhered to a strict traditional lifestyle. They could not wear more than a thin robe even in a freezing downpour, and they were obliged to wear their wax-slicked hair in austere topknots.

But the real bummer had been that they were forbidden to bear tattoo work. Dai Funka, the Great Eruption, was still disappointed that he hadn't been allowed to adorn his back with the mantle of Mount Fuji, blowing its lid.

But, he had found a workaround.

The spectators at his back gasped in confusion as the man tensed his back and shoulder muscles. His skin pulled taut and contorted, and a network of angry red stretch marks formed the outline of the volcano.

"What the?!" no small number of viewers called out.

"Osu!" Dai Funka thrust both palms outward, and the whirlwind of whip strikes ceased. A pressure wave was displaced outward, blowing Leon's whip back at him. The Lion Tamer allowed the noodly weapon to coil around his arm, then took a running dash at Dai Funka.

"Up close and personal is fine by me!" he laughed excitedly.

A palm strike again killed his momentum, and the next moment, that same thrust that had gone straight through the punch measure machine followed up, burying itself in Leon's stomach. He gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, and a delayed moment later, his body went soaring out of the ring, slipping between the ropes.

Richie felt his hair get blown back.

Wait, what the fuck? he blinked.

Dai Funka had another tiny smile. "Score 2 points. A knockdown and a ring out."

Leon grabbed the ropes and whirled himself around, slingshotting back into the game and running at Dai Funka. He used the momentum to spin and drop a heel kick down toward Dai. The massive sumo wrestler thrust a palm upward and it collided with Leon's heel, deadlocking them.

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"Yeah, that's it!" Richie cheered.

Cuppy was mowing down popcorn like a clockwork, silently enraptured by the duel.

"This is incredibly dumb." Freyja cracked a smile.

Richie bit her.

"Hey!" Freyja yelped.

This was awesome. Richie fondly remembered all of Dai Funka's bouts he had caught on TV as a kid. He thought of his own climb up the tower.

I'm on his level now. I'm standing tall. Richie grinned.

You're 5'7, at best. his dragons chimed in.

What's that? I think it's the sound of me getting my potato peeler. Richie sassed back.

Dai Funka barreled into Leon, grabbing him around the waist and hefting. Leon sank his heels into the ground, resisting the lift.

"How are you not moving?!" Dai Funka grunted, face straining and turning purple.

"I am not so easily pushed out of the limelight!" Leon dropped double elbows onto Dai Funka's head, breaking free of his grasp and kneeing him in the face. The sumo stumbled backward, and Leon slipped behind him, grabbing the huge man and preparing to suplex him. To his astonishment, Dai Funka felt his feet begin to lift off the ground.

Impossible. I'm 500 pounds, and he can barely clinch his fingers around me in the first place. Where are you packing all that muscle, Lion Tamer? Dai Funka chuckled.

He slammed an elbow into Leon's kidney, breaking free of the hold. Leon doubled over, clutching his side. The rikishi whirled back, closed a hefty fist, and struck Leon across the jaw, dropping him.

The Lion Tamer writhed on the floor, hissing.

"Hey!" he paused to spit out blood. "Those kinds of strikes aren't allowed in sumo!"

Dai Funka grinned. "I believe you'd call this 'being a Heel'."

Leon returned the grin, blood dripping down the corners of his mouth, framing it like a vampire who had just had a drink.

"Time!" one of Leon's handlers jumped into the ring, spreading his arms wide. "You can't hit the pretty boy in the face, jackass! That ladykiller look of his is half his promotional value!"

Leon grabbed the handler's shoulder roughly and wrenched him aside. "Get lost. Don't interfere in my fight. Tonight's show is marvelous, I won't have our performance interrupted."

The handler whirled on Leon, grabbing him by the collar. "Do you even know what you're doing anymore?!"

He heard a stomp behind him. Sweating profusely, the interloper looked behind him to see a crouching Dai Funka, eyes darkened, radiating tranquil fury. "Piss off."

Leon picked the handler up, spun him around, and tossed him out of the ring, yelping in affronted disbelief. He then wiped the blood from his lips, sucked it off, and beckoned his opponent forward with a flippant hand signal and a cocky grin.

Dai Funka obliged him.

Worthy opponents, at last.

Dai Funka lifted a leg and chambered it, hands pulled into an iron guard position. His leg unfurled, planting a brutal roundhouse kick in Leon's ribs. The Lion Tamer hissed, but dropped an elbow into the behemoth's ankle, denting it. Dai Funka hissed and stumbled backward, ankle already swelling. All that weight bearing down on a wounded ankle was sure to slow him down a bit.

They grabbed each other's arms and the battle became a sudden, pure shoving and grappling match, each trying to overtake the other and push or toss them sprawling to the ground.

This was nostalgic for Leon too. He smelled the fresh roses draped in spring dew, and smiled as he reflected on his youth spent with Grandpa Zenon.

Richie felt strange as the battle raged. His memories of idolizing the likes of the Great Eruption were in conflict with the memories he had begun to reclaim of Tide Town. More and more, he saw that Leon was the one at a disadvantage.

Dai Funka slammed into Leon, tackling him headfirst, but the Lion Tamer stayed standing, knee almost buckling from the immense weight shifted onto his back leg. Still, the bull charge into his gut wracked his body with nausea, and he doubled over. Wasting no time, Dai Funka threw his head back, headbutting the underside of Leon's jaw. Leon rocked back, dazed. Dai Funka planted another harite in Leon's chest, soaring the Lion Tamer into the ropes.

Richie had a flash through his mind of the bladed shade limb impairing Leon through the waist from behind, and of the shade elephant striking that wound with a swing of its bludgeoning trunk, spraying blood and throwing Leon into the sea.

Richie saw Dai Funka's arms jet forward like pistons, open palm upon open palm overlapping each other like a flurry of afterimages. The sumo wrestler's arms were blurs, and it was as though Leon's body was being pounded by dozens of thrust slaps at a time.

Richie felt as though he was looking up the tower - no, up the Longman Falls. Before Leon was the immovable object to surmount.

"Do… do your best, Leon!" Richie shouted despite himself.

The feeling of camaraderie in his heart for the overdressed tool had crowded out his hero worship for the unmet king of sumo, if only for a second.

Leon was laid out on his back, a peaceful smile on his bruised face, as Dai Funka rose into a vertical splits once again, prepared to repurpose the traditional pre-match sumo stomp into an appropriate finishing move to close out this circus spectacle.

Yep. Just like good old times. Leon thought.

…

"Kitty!" Leon, ten years old, wrapped his arms around the lion cub he had unboxed, colorful bow and ribbons tossed aside. The newly-unveiled Sparta tilted its head at the pale hominid with the fall of blond angel hair, and sniffed. The boy smelled of rosewater and the faint aromatic aftertaste of paprika. Sparta meowed, and swished his tail as the boy picked him up.

"That's no ordinary kitty, son." Kinga Valentine, premier strongman of the family circus, said proudly. "He's your right of passage. To master beasts, the Valentine children are each paired with a personal wild pet, to be raised together, sharing joy and sorrow. He is your brother from here on, as well as your rival. He's small now, but he'll grow, just as you will. Get to know each other, analyze each other. When the lion bows to you, brought to heel by your force of will, you will be worthy of the mantle Beast King."

Leon nuzzled Sparta's face, and the lion wrinkled its face, whirling and biting Leon's face in turn.

"Off to a great start already." Kinga chuckled.

Each of Leon's siblings, too, were paired with an exotic and dangerous companion, mostly big cats, hand-picked from the menagerie of animals gathered beneath the Valentine banner. Leon was the envy of Eleonora, Melchior, and Eryk, but elder brother Kasper was rightly wary. He knew at first glance that Sparta would live up to his name.

Leon and his adopted feline brother slept in the same bed, walked and played together, and at meal times, savagely fought over hunks of meat, each gripping an end in their jaws and yanking with all their might to emerge from the tug of war victorious. As they grew, their tussle became increasingly violent brawls. By age twelve, Leon's dainty body was easily outclassed by Sparta's freakish growth spurt. The lion, already at the apex of size and power for most adults of his species, easily rolled Leon around like a chew toy. The lion easily pancaked Leon against the wall with a solitary swipe of his paw, claws retracted only out of memory of the bottled milk feedings the boy had lavished him with. The proud lion turned its nose up at its unworthy rider, and stomped off.

Leon gazed longingly at the coil of thorn whip on his father's belt, the prized heirloom of the Valentine family.

"This here," Grandpa Zenon had told him once, the boy sitting on his knee, "is a bit of a mystery. It is an alchemical creation of unknown origin. How it came to be in the possession of our bloodline is a bit of a mystery. What matters is its iconographic meaning. A whip is a symbol of dominance, and of oppression. Riding crops steer horses and instill fear in their hearts. Scourges disciplined navymen under the helm of cruel captains, and the scars on the backs of African slaves who toiled under the ownership of merciless masters rival grains of sand on the beach. A whip is not merely a weapon, but an implement of pain, used to force the world into unnatural shapes of submission. The lion tamers and beast handlers of old made spectacle of whipping those beasts into submission, of cowing their service. But instilling fear and earning respect are not the same thing. Fear ferments into resentment and hatred, and hatred becomes revolt. Tension breaks, and open war begins. War between two wills, be they individual people or animals, or entire nations. The law of the jungle is survival of the fittest, and the right of conquest goes to those who have strength. But, man is capable of rationality and compromise, of distinguishing when war and suppression are the answer - or, when to take a diplomatic approach. Even within nature, symbiosis occurs, and the bonds of camaraderie can be more fearsome than those of lust for power and control."

Leon's eyes were wide, his ears perked. Sparta was curled up on the rug by the crackling fireplace.

"Take bees. You rattle the hive, strike down one bee, and all the colony will be upon you. A swarm of weak individuals come together as one, and the single entity they join into is strong. The same is true of the Second Great War. Aggressors pushed the boundary of what the rest of the world was willing to take, and they fought back. Ironic, isn't it? That the fascist powers which held to the social Darwinist right of conquest were themselves destroyed by the sum will of those crying out for peace." Zenon smiled strangely.

"My point is that we, as sapient animals, have the capacity for both violence, and discussion, for creation, and destruction. Not only may we choose whether to accept the truth of power, we have the tools to redefine it. Tools of conquest were born in times of strife and hatred. But, looking toward the future, weapons must one day become only artifacts - remnants of a cruel history put behind us. My dream is that man will one day grow to love and respect one another. Warriors then will not be those who win deadly battles, but those who can put smiles on people's faces, people who can lift the weary and the apathetic out of meaningless drudgery, and into the exalted realm of joy. It isn't enough just to survive. We must live. And to live, we need novelty. It is the duty of entertainers to raise the collective morale of the human spirit, so that hatred never again poisons their hearts. When that day comes, the rose whip will no longer be a tool of subjugation, but a trophy for one who stands above the law of the jungle. He who holds the whip will not have forced beasts or fellow man into slavery. Rather, they will have brought the fundamental, violent nature of life itself, under heel."

Leon nodded. "So, when can I have the whip?"

Zenon punched the top of his head, hitting.

"Ow! What was that for?!" Leon whined.

"Pay attention, will you? The whip is strictly a prop in our beast shows now, a satire of those dark ages. The bond between us and our animals is one of respect and trust. Circus work, like human history, is stained by cruelty. We must never allow ourselves to abuse the animals under our care. You will earn the whip when you have proven that you don't need it. You must earn Sparta's approval. Then, you will have your prize, and your title." Zenon said.

Leon frowned and folded his arms.

"Sparta! Duel me, and let's settle this!" Leon lifted his lion from the rug, urged on by a surge of determination. The cat grunted in surprise at the audacity of the act. Leon moved to suplex his lion, but it was a hollow victory at best. He was pancaked under the heavy lion, who laid there, disaffected, as Leon began to smother beneath him, exposed arm clawing and flailing.

"You didn't understand a thing I said, did you, boy?" Zenon pinched the bridge of his nose.

…

Circus education did not wait on Leon to earn Sparta's respect. He was put to work tending the elephants and shoving their shit, put through his paces building core and arm strength to navigate the trapeze, and relentlessly drilled in the hand-eye coordination necessary to juggle evermore ridiculous objects, from bowling pins to torches - give or take a unicycle.

His stomach dropped at the sight of the long plummet down to the tent floor, from way up at the start of the tightrope.

"Kasper?" Leon asked warily.

"What, pest?" his elder brother, who looked not unlike the adult Leon did now, looked back at him from midway down the tightrope.

"Where's the safety net?" Leon asked.

"Safety net? What safety net? Don't be spoiled, you aren't going to rely on training wheels forever, are you?" Kasper rolled his eyes.

When Leon inevitably lost balance, pinwheeling his arms, and fell, Kasper dove like a seabird of prey, catching him, and caught a rigging rope, swinging to safety as the terrified Leon clung to his chest, not unlike Sparta clung when trying to give him a bath.

"Such a pain." Kasper grumbled.

Mina Valentine, Leon's mother, saw to his grooming, formal education, and the cultivation of his flair for showmanship.

"You look great in red, just like your father did!" she said approvingly.

Leon combed out his great blond locks in the mirror, his feminine blue eyes staring back at himself. At dinner, his mother splashed him and Sparta alike for their atrocious table manners.

"A prince must be both strong and refined. Elegant. You must captivate the hearts of your audience with the power of sheer charisma." Mina scolded gently.

As time went on and Leon's skills progressed - as he mastered acrobatics and showmanship, magic tricks and feats of dexterity and coordination - he began to harbor an understanding.

I'm special. he realized.

That haughty attitude did him few favors in school. The entitled pretty boy act brought bullies down on him like an avalanche. Naturally, they were outclassed by a boy who, at thirteen, had athleticism pushing the lower limit of Olympic aptitude. But for slamming heads together, he suffered in turn when he returned home.

Zenon smacked him again.

"Dammit, old man!" Leon growled.

"Why did you lower yourself to those anklebiters' level?" Zenon asked.

"They started it!" Leon protested.

"You have the agility and reflexes to evade schoolyard bullies."

"Why should I run away and let those assholes' snicker at me? I'm no coward!"

Zenon rubbed his temples. "Some fights aren't worth the trouble. You know your own strength. That should be enough."

"So I'm just supposed to let it go?!"

"Is your ego so fragile that you need validation from immature brats?" Zenon retorted.

Leon froze, lip quivering, eyes baleful.

"You have a gift, Leon. You are strong. And it is your duty and burden to use that strength in service to the happiness of mankind. You must never fall to the level of barbarians who feel their power entitles them to trample the will and dreams of others. Where there are tyrants, there must be counterbalances, those who stand tall to protect those who cannot protect themselves. But there is no point beating those boys senseless just to salve your own wounded pride. Invoking fear is not the same as earning respect. Be patient. Stick to your path and become a great man. Your achievements will speak for themselves. Lions don't concern themselves with the pecking of vultures."

So, Leon endured the taunts and spitballs, the books knocked out of his arms, and the slew of politically incorrect commentary on his assumed orientation. What did he care what those peasants thought? The only opponent he need focus on was Sparta himself.

He averted his gaze, playing on the monkey bars as some quiet bookworm with a lisp bore the brunt of the bully pack's wrath in his place.

For this, he got smacked upside the head.

"What now?!" Leon rubbed his red cheek.

"I didn't say to turn a blind eye, dumbass!" Zenon threw a peanut at him.

"Do you want me to stick to this pacifist crap or not?!" Leon roared back.

"Do you need me to wipe your ass for you still? Surely you can determine on your own when it is appropriate to use which approach! You have no need to avenge yourself on those who cannot touch you. That doesn't mean you should turn a blind eye to easier targets who can't defend themselves. Entertainers are born to create and preserve happiness. When tyranny infringes on the happiness of the innocent, it is your job to put those tyrants in check! You're a smart cub, why do I have to walk you through every little detail?" Zenon said.

That night, Leon again got his ass kicked by Sparta. Every lunge was countered, every hold broken, every inch of skin left blotched with sickly bruises. The big cat didn't even budge, not once. It was so frustrating, and a foreshock of the grown Leon's ordeal against Dai Funka now.

"Trust your instincts. Don't fixate on the outcome you want, or the impossibility of the task before you. Clear your mind." Kinga had coached his son.

Pride was the reward for overcoming Sparta, not the means to do so. Hyperfocusing on his need to succeed Kinga as wielder of the rose whip, on the enormity of the gulf between him and that result, served only to cloud his mind with doubt and frustration. Second-guesses and overthinking were the enemy of pure, animal instinct. Logic was the enemy of instinct. All common sense would dictate that a teenage boy was no match for a giant lion. That logic had to be undermined. To make the impossible possible, faith was needed. Faith in one's own force of will.

But alas, Leon could see none of this through the rage and indignity of being a plaything, of being destined for greatness yet treated as a joke, and of having the strength to pummel those who mocked him but being forbidden to use it.

Mankind had the ability to rewrite the meaning of strength. What did that even mean? Strength was strength. Power was power. Dominance was dominance. Why shouldn't he use them? Why should he toil for the jeers of faceless masses, when he could do whatever he wanted instead?

Sparta's massive paw slammed into Leon, and threw him across the mat.

"URRGH!" Leon punched the ground.

"Didn't go well? Eleonora asked at lunch.

Leon stirred his goulash moodily, forehead bandaged and both eyes blackened.

…

He overheard Zenon talking to his parents at night, as he had silently crept down the hall to get a drink of water. Zenon proposed that he borrow Leon for a bit, and relieve him of his entitlement.

Naturally, Leon wasn't fond of this arrangement.

…

"Seems we need a new approach. To fully appreciate being the species who stand outside the law of the jungle, I think you need to have a taste of what it's like when those safeguards are set aside." Zenon said.

"So you're taking me swimming?" Leon asked, confused, standing in his rose-patterned trunks.

"That's right." Zenon nodded. They stood on the grassy bank of a huge tropical river.

"Easy." Leon cracked out his neck and stretched his legs. He already lapped everyone else at swim lessons as it was, this was nothing.

"Why did you put raw steaks in my pockets, though?" Leon asked.

Zenon picked Leon up and aimed out over the murky waters. "Motivation! These waters are infested with red-belly piranha."

Leon's stomach lurched. "What?!"

"Heave ho!" - splash.

"Kick your legs, boy! Kick!" Zenon coached.

Next came climbing races up trees against monkeys, electric eel wrangling, punching bullet ants - the works. The Valentine terrarium was a marvel of biosphere creation, housing different environments and their deadliest denizens in each specialized sector, all for the singular purpose of turning boys into men.

Leon planted as he trudged through knee-high mud, carrying a heavy truck tire around his neck. "This… isn't…" he paused to double over and catch his breath, "so bad…"

Zenon clapped his hands, and a cage opened up. "Release the swamp puppy!" the old man cried.

"The what?" Leon gulped.

A large crocodile sprinted out of the cage, homing in on Leon.

"Ah! Swamp puppy!" Leon screeched, and found the capacity to run faster.

…

Leon dropped down from the tree, the monkeys having pelted him with rocks.

"Fuck you, dirty cheats!" Leon flipped off the simian gadflies, who ooked and acked in glee.

"Shake it off, time to box Poncho." Zenon waved, tossing Leon his boxing gloves.

Poncho was Zenon's pet male silverback gorilla. The huge, musclebound ape towered over Leon, glaring. He too wore boxing gloves.

"I don't want to box Poncho." Leon said, deadpan voice at odds with his wide eyes.

"Nonsense, get in there." Zenon brushed him off.

Leon's past and present meet, his pummeling at the blurring hands of Dai Funka overlaying with those long days of sparring. He felt his small body slammed into the ground and thrown into the air by wild ape punches. He couldn't believe the crazy bastard actually taught a gorilla boxing lessons. Even in the event one of Leon's fists impacted Poncho's stomach, the dense muscle was its own impenetrable armor.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and Leon began to wonder what the point of all of this was, more and more. He struggled to survive every day, and for what? The monkeys would always outpace him, the anaconda would always squeeze harder, and the jaguar would always bite harder.

Had the old man gone mad, if indeed he had ever been sane?

Zenon knew the boy was losing faith in him. That was fine. He couldn't see the full picture yet. This sanctuary was peaceful to the old man, a living memorial to the day that changed his life, wandering the Amazon, lost and questioning his place in this harsh world. Survival, by his own blood, sweat, and tears, had reforged him into a stronger, wiser man, and with a renewed sense of resolve. The beasts he had learned from there became his muses, and it was in befriending them that the catalyst of the Valentine Family Circus's creation arose.

-

Leon rolled out of the way of Dai Funka's stomp, and flipped back onto his feet, grinning wildly. His body was sweat-slicked, bruised, battered, and bloody - nothing existed right now but his own instinct to survive. The exchange of blows was life in motion, a quality of realness, of primal purpose, that had been long absent.

-

A younger Leon had deemed Zenon insane and unfit. How many times had he almost gotten him killed now? There was no justification for this flagrant abuse.

He crept up on Zenon by the campfire as the old man slept, an ax in hand.

"Don't bother." his grandfather yawned, rousing.

Leon bothered.

The snapped-off ax head buried itself in a tree trunk, and Leon was knocked flat on his ass.

"Damn you!" Leon tore at his hair. "Trying to get me killed out here, you senile bastard?!"

"You won't die. You're a Valentine. You can survive worse than this. This place isn't Hell, it's not even close." the old man said.

Leon wiped his mouth and stood, crouched, ready to rush down the addled fool.

"I would know." he smiled strangely.

Leon sprang, but a sight illuminated by the campfire stopped him - a series of numbers tattooed across Zenon's arm, an arm that had always been covered until now.

"Y…You…" Leon stopped, shocked.

"Ever wonder how our family started this business? The Valentine's had always been nomadic, but our relationship with majestic beasts began in a jungle like this one. Those liberated from the camps, or those who had escaped, many fled to the South Americas. I was among them. I had never seen a jaguar before. Somehow, that encounter filled me with a renewed will to live, and an understanding. We all are cut from the same cloth, beings struggling to survive the tides of time and change. What set man apart from the animals was his ability to recognize himself, and his place in that wild world. Perhaps, with such knowledge, he could create the means to rise above the law of the jungle, and establish peace. All other living things live and die without ever finding the meaning of their existence. It isn't enough for human beings to survive, we must live. We must wonder. Our minds, reaching for meaning, create art and entertainment, the byproducts of our unique evolution. To us, though, they are everything. Emotion doesn't distinguish between fiction and reality. They are part of the same story."

It was night now, and he looked to the glittering stars. "Beautiful, aren't they? So vast, so impossibly far away, markers of the infinite space beyond our world. It's easy to get a sense of vertigo looking up, and to be overwhelmed by the incomprehensible scope of everything. But for all the existential terror they imply, the stars inspire us. It is as if the unknown challenges us, throws down a challenge to be met and overcome. You can't cope with me. You can't find peace of mind within me. Stare into me, and I stare back. I am all. I am one. I am infinite, and you are so very small. What must the first sailors have thought as they ventured out over the endless oceans in their rickety little boats?"

Leon sat, entranced once again.

"I return to this place here and there, to remind myself of my rebirth in the Amazon. When the world challenges you, you struggle. It is our nature to do so. And with our base needs met, the mind, ever seeking new horizons, turned to stories. We lifted ourselves out of the law of the jungle, and broke a cycle of violence. But enlightenment was far from universal. Others, their minds still steeped in territoriality and hunger, intolerant of castes and clans apart from their own, lost sight of mankind's shared potential. When man has no enemies, he creates new ones. People don't really fight over race or place of origin, these are but helpful shorthand, easy identifiers. The lust for dominance which erodes rationality and peace always persists, a holdover from our dark age. We have the power of creation at our fingertips, and ever we choose destruction. But, I survived. I am here now, and I still rise to meet the challenge the world set out for me. I still believe that mankind can be better than it is. The means to win our war with ourselves, are no more or less than the enduring spirit of our inner children, our innocence. Our wonder. The warriors of new will be those who bring joy to the masses, who put smiles on their faces. To know joy, one must know its absence. You've seen how harsh the world can be," Zenon gestured around them. "Now you must decide how you can best cheer up mankind in spite of it."

In the end, Leon turned down the chance to return home early. He had goal posts he had yet to surpass. Zenon, in all truth, had never seriously expected Leon to topple any of the beasts against which he competed. They were obstacles with no solution, put in place to ignite the fire of unbreakable will, like a cat chasing a laser pointer. They may never truly 'win', but they are fit for the effort.

That wasn't enough for Leon. Now that he knew what he wanted to do, it was all laid out clearly before him. With that clarity came balance, and renewed faith in his victory.

Three years had passed, and Zenon gaped as Leon pinned Poncho, and coerced his surrender.

The boy had become a man, and a pinnacle of human strength.

"You are a guardian of mankind's innocence and hope. Remember that." Zenon had said.

Returning home, Leon greeted his lion, now full-grown. Sparta sat on his haunches, perplexed.

"Can't get rid of me that easily." Leon smiled.

Something seemed different about him.

Before their final duel, the one that would determine Leon's inheritance, he spoke candidly to his mighty pet.

"Don't hold anything back this time. Teeth, claws, anything goes." Leon said.

…

Leon and Sparta at last broke apart, exhausted, and called it a draw. "You've grown, Sparta." Leon flashed a smile.

The lion grunted.

Then, Leon wrapped his weary arms around the big lion's neck and hugged him tight. "I missed you, dear friend."

To instill fear was not to earn respect. Their battle had been more than an exchange of force. Between its lines, Sparta had read something in the way Leon carried himself. His scent had a strange new undercurrent to it too, as if of open sea air.

It was the scent of his Master.

Leon proudly strode onto the fairgrounds abreast his mighty lion, the ancestral family thorn whip at his side. Predators and thorns, hazards of the wild, both would now become symbols of man's enduring fortitude.

Leon and Sparta both basked in the glory of applause and cheers. And, in the rows encircling them, Leon saw small children, eyes wide with awe.

He smiled, knowing his battle was well-fought.

…

"Wrestling?" his mother had asked, bemused and uncertain.

"Sure. My grace and agility lend themselves well to the craft. The kids will love it." Leon smiled. "Right, Sparta?"

The lion put his big paw in Leon's hand, and they shook.

Perhaps, image aside, they were not truly pet and master, but partners, joined under the same banner of novelty.

-

And now: