Nightmare Carnival

“Just practice the spot,” Chattopadhyay said. He took a long step, scooped Johnny the Plant up, and slammed him to the grass. Johnny the Plant whumped, but was all right. Chattopadhyay was a real pro. “Good. And make sure you say the last town’s name right.”

“Wilkes Bar?”

“Wilkesberry,” Chattopadhyay said, rolling the r. He picked Johnny the Plant up by the wrist, spun the arm, and tripped him. Johnny the Plant landed hard onto his face, then rolled over with a smile.

“You look like an amateur,” Chattopadhyay said. “Good.”

That night at the far end of the midway, around Jeff Gordon’s All-Star All-Comers trailer, a small but hot crowd gathered. It was a sultry summer night, fireflies and the sticky smell of beer and candy everywhere. An improvement over the usual cow-shit stench of Scranton. The trailer was open, the Murphy bed ring open, the lights on, and a nice tip of gawking gillies in dungarees — true fans of the Sport of Kings — were standing on the grass around the ring.

“Five minutes!” Jeff Gordon addressed the tip, his lungs practically busting the buttons on his red-sequined evening jacket. There were plenty of police in the crowd, in plain clothes, and a lot of other big men milling about, but he didn’t bother to rewrite his bally for the evening. “You’ve seen such shows before — dare any of you step into the ring with our champion wrestler? Go five minutes without being pinned. without being horribly injured! And you will win one hundred dollars, guaranteed and backed by gold!”

The ring was empty. Chattopadhyay was wrapped up in the blackout curtains behind the ropes, sweating as he did every night.

“But our man is different!” Gordon went on. “The Lackawanna County Sheriff’s Department has declared the grappler we have with us tonight too dangerous! After an evening of destruction and devastation at our last engagement, you will not be allowed to step in the ring for five minutes, even with all waivers signed, a nurse for a wife, and an undertaker for a brother-in-law.”

The hick chuckles subsided after a moment. “Tonight,” Gordon began again, “and tonight only, you’ll need only last three minutes. in a nonsanctioned match that no referee bonded by the state of Pennsylvania would dare officiate! Risk your lives, against. ”

He ran a finger under his starched collar, then flourished with his arms.

“The Black Raaaaja!”

Chattopadhyay stepped out from behind the blackout curtain, and swung his matching black cape ostentatiously. He shrugged it off and struck a pose, flexing his pecs and biceps. The crowd hooted and booed appreciatively. Through the slits in his Zorro mask he sized up the likely competition from amongst the tip. It was the usual mess of underfed shitkickers and laid-off coal miners whose lungs wouldn’t keep them upright for more than sixty seconds.

And the Klan.

How can you spot Klansmen, when they’re not wearing their hoods? Chattopadhyay could tell. It went beyond the certain self-satisfied swagger men have when they’re large and walking down to ringside with a group of their friends. There were signs, subtle ones. The fellow with his hand tucked into his pants, but with three fingers sticking out uncomfortably. The muttering of “thirty-three. ” followed by the countercall of “six.” And as Gordon continued his patter, the Klansmen shouldered their collective way to the apron, and grew very interested in Chattopadhyay. That was the final tell. Chattopadhyay’s skin tone and physique and accent often just confused the cracker townies on the circuit. But the eyes of the Klansmen blazed.

Blazed, at first, with confusion, like those of everyone else. But whereas most people just ultimately decided to keep Chattopadhyay at arm’s length, Klansmen kept careful track of the races of man and all their terrible attributes. But what was Chattopadhyay — a villainous Sicilian, a savage Comanche, some atavist subhuman Jew from the deserts of Palestine? Or a tainted quadroon, as they call a fellow with one Negro grandparent on the southern circuit? They had to know, and individually, every man before the ring apron made their decision. Their eyes still blazed, but now with hatred.

No, not hatred. Anticipation.

Chattopadhyay was on automatic, with his usual posing and gnashing of teeth. He pulled off his cape and threw it behind him into the back of the trailer.

The Klan was a carnival in its own right, Chattopadhyay thought. Lingo, hand signs, a code of honor of sorts. And almost always capable of paying off the cops, unlike the outfit he found himself working for in these later days of his career.

“Are there any challengers at all?” Gordon demanded to know. “Or shall we mark it down in the record books, yet another victory for the Black Raja via collective forfeit?”

“I’ll do it,” Johnny the Plant said. He jumped right on to the ring apron and with a practiced misstep, stumbled and grabbed the ropes. The crowd laughed and booed and someone shouted, “Go on home to Mama!”