[Stingy Jack]

Without preamble -- I didn't even notice the curtains at the back of the small stage move -- the same figure who's first handed me the flyer stepped into the concentrated pool of light. At least, I must assume it was the same figure. No sure way of telling, really. It could have been pretty much anyone, dressed like that.
It was thin black cloth, the costume he was wearing. Like a ninja out of old Japan.
Not a scrap of flesh showed. There were two small holes cut for the eyes. But oddly, I could detect no glint from them, even in the bright stage lighting.
Ninjas used to wear black gauze there, I remembered, to prevent that happening and betraying them. And was that what this man had used? I was too far away to be sure.
Something else was glinting though. Behind him, to the left, against the black drapes at the rear, I could just make out a random pile of objects. And ... maybe it was the spotlight which had brought them into dim relief, because I hadn't noticed them before. Miscellaneous shapes. Some large. all inter-twisted. I struggled to make them out.
Was that ... a circular saw?
Was that ... a pair of bolt-cutters?
Was that a scimitar?
Was that an axe?
Chopper said nothing. Made no introduction. Gave no bow. Simply reached down his waist and -- wholly unexpectedly -- yanked the top half of his costume off. The gloves remained in place, and the mask. But we all now found ourselves looking at a braod, well-defined chest.
I was so bound up with details, I've forgotten to describe him -- so far as you can describe anybody dressed the way he was. He had to be somewhere between five-seven and five-nine. Wide-shouldered but with terribly small feet. Short legs for a man of his height, so that his build looked almost like an old-time spinning top. His whole frame extremely muscular, compact. The build of a man who has been doing the right workout for an awfully long time.
His skin gleamed faintly in the spotlight. It had to be pretty hot down there.
No way of determining his age -- but none of the thick hair on his chest had greyed-out; I could see that much.
And no way of telling what his face was like, of course.
He just took a backward step towards the pile of objects I had recently become aware of. Reached down towards it without even looking. His hand came back clutching the circular saw.
He switched it on. Its buzzing filled the theater and Miranda gave a jerk.
And then he proceeded to shave his chest with it.
Miranda buried her face in her hands, along with several other members of the audience. And Cassie? She gripped my arm a little tighter, but was chuckling between clenched teeth. Most of the crowd seemed caught between those two reactions -- revulsion and fright at what they were now seeing, but amusement too.
It was a trick. It simply had to be. No flecks of blood appeared. And the curly hairs didn't seem to be ripped out in any way.
I found myself trying to figure out how it was done. Probably, his chest was already shaven. These were false ones, lightly stuck on. And when he moved the saw across them, they simply got knocked loose.
Bizarre, though. He was getting the bright, spinning blade awfully close to his skin. Or perhaps that was just another trick, one of perspective and angle.
He finally switched it off and put it down to limited applause.
During the course of the next twenty minutes, he continued by doing the following things.
He shaved his armpits with the scimitar.
He closed the blades of the bolt-cutters -- it turned out he had two of them -- around his covered earlobes and then walked around with them depending as though they were jewellery.
He produced a length of chain, attached it to a hook that was lowered from the ceiling, and then hanged himself with it, apparently with no damage or discomfort.
Then he started driving nine-inch nails right through the palms of his gloved hands. He didn't use a hammer. Simply forced them through himself.
No one got up and left, although a few, like Miranda, now had their heads almost buried in their laps. Cassie was clutching onto me extremely tightly by this time -- something I was not ungrateful for -- but smiling stiffly all the same.
"I wonder how on earth he does it?"
Fake blood? Obviously. Trick nails with rubber tips? I still couldn't work out how he'd hanged himself without the aid of a protective collar, but was certain of one thing. This was essentially no different from an old-fashioned magician with a pack of cards, a hat, a rabbit.
Props and misdirection -- that was all.
Startling. But just a show.
Ritch, ever the cynic, leant across my shoulder at that point and murmured, "'Entertainer with a difference' eh? I've seen this kind of act at least half a dozen times before."
And ... I could have sworn that Chopper glanced up, right in our direction, as he said it.
I almost felt him grin beneath that flimsy mask, although I couldn't see it.
He stopped what he was doing. Simply walked to the front edge of the stage. And -- for the first time since he had appeared -- began to address us.

***************

"Are you enjoying youselves, ladies and gents?"
A nervous laugh went up from the whole audience. Were we glad that it was merely a rhetorical question -- had it not been, then how's we have answered?
Chopper's voice was ... well, surprising is the word. Possibly the most surprising thing of this entire show thus far, so little did it match his appearance. It was medium-pitched, rather than the baritone that you might have expected. Fluid, almost silky, every word clearly enunciated. A cultured voice, one that hinted at education, maybe even breeding.
A ... gentleman's voice?
He stood a little taller.
"But, since I am a mind-reader as well as a performance artist, I can tell what some of you have running through your thoughts by now. You're thinking: 'This is all interesting enough ... '"
And I was sure he glanced at Ritch and myself again.
"... but surely nothing new.' And yes, I'll admit that I've had nothing quite unique to offer, up until this point. But how many performers of my ilk, I ask you ..."
And he spread his arms out wide theatrically, encompassing us all.
"... let the audience join in?"
There was just stunned silence for an elastic, nerveless moment.
And then? Almost everybody burst out laughing.
It wasn't a comfortable hilarity, though. You could feel the electric tension that was now spreading between us, the air becoming damp with sweat. I could have sworn the already-high temperature went up another few degrees.
'Join in'? Was that meant the way it sounded? What exactly was he going to do?
But in the very next moment, he was pointing at a tall, red-headed man in the front row.
"You, sir. Yes, you. You look like a courageous fellow."
His friends, seated around him, started chuckling and snorting.
"How would you react, I wonder, if I were to suddenly do this?"
He backtracked quickly to his pile of tools. Whipped out some kind of big stiletto, the blade around a foot long. Then suddenly burst into a sprint, leaping off the stage.
And plunged the thing directly through the center of the tall man's chest.
The women round him let out shrieks and clasped their hands to their mouths. All the male friends stiffened.
The red-headed man ... was perfectly immobile for a moment. Then pitched forwards till his head was rested on his knees.
Several people guffawed at that point. I could see why -- it was quite obvious. The guy was a 'plant', an accomplice, all the 'friends' around him actors. What was the point of this, though? I began to wonder. Where was it all leading?
While I was still trying to figure that out, Chopper returned to the stage and got an air-powered nail-gun, and then pointed at a brunette woman three rows down from myself, also on the aisle.
"You, madam? Would you like a try?"
She began shaking her head, though she was laughing at the same time.
"Oh, c'mon!" He had jumped down again. "You should at least try it once."
Quite a few people, Ritch and Daniel included, were in stitches by this time. 'Schadenfreude' is the German term for it -- pleasure or amusement at somebody else's discomfort. Even the woman's boyfriend was grinning, rubbing at her shoulder in a warm, supportive way.
And, while he was doing this, Chopper simply marched right up the stairs towards her. Held the gun at point-blank range, beside her temple.
There was a pfzzt, and then quickly a second one.
And the woman dropped sideways into her boyfriend's lap, two nails protruding from her forehead, little streaks of blood there.
Applause rang out from a few sections of the theatre. Not from me, though. I was still trying to understand where all of this was headed.
And that was when the black clad figure -- merely yards away now -- looked directly up at me.
And I finally understood what the deal was with his eyes.

********************

There was no gauze. There was nothing at all covering them. They were very small and very narrow, as tiny as I'd ever seen a pair. The irises were large, and left no room for anything else.
They were pure black, so you could not make out where they stopped and the pupil started.
And they had no lustre whatsoever.
Utterly dead eyes.
I felt chilled to the bone, gazing into them.
And then I sensed him smile again, beneath his mask.
And heard him ask me, "You, sir? How about you?"



(Concluded soon)