a jump, back to twelve, up to thirty-five; the brother braces himself, pants for breath when he sinks to ten, & is jerked from his seat when the needle hits fifty & falls; his curse tells the mute he has gone too far; he reminds him of the evening ahead on The Rack. The Helmet is a thumbscrew for skulls, & the brother adjusts it to size, his spirit lighter, explaining the headaches pagans were given; the mute smiles & takes a card from his vest, unfolding it for all to see its word: Excedrin; we applaud as he tightens the nut with a common wrench. The brother has said "enough" four times, but the mute is turning toward his own idea of enough, & the brother pulls at The Helmet, letting words fly unrehearsed through the darkened theatre. Now the mute glides to the last cloth, removing it as one might take a shawl from a birdcage, & it is that, exactly: a huge barred cage, the padlock hanging open on its ring; how strong the mute must be; he has his brother in his arms, like a child, knees to face, arms pinned; he sticks him in the cage & secures the door. There is much complaining, begging the mute to remove The Helmet, but the mute is fumbling with a switch; the cage starts to revolve, its turntable gaining momentum, as a music, heard often at carnivals, flows to the ear. The mute is bowing & clapping,