Quincy widened his eyes and gave the Fishman a minute lift of the 
head. The Fishman didn't need another warning; the anchovies and 
minnows in his tank had already told him of the potential danger; he 
dived back into his cylindrical tank and quickly put on a show of 
complex underwater acrobatics, which drew in enough cheers from 
the audience. The Freewheeler retreated back into the shadows. 


Back inside the Freaks' lounge, Yume's flowery hair shook as the 
pink roses began shedding petals from her fear. She had heard the 
Freewheeler make its way to the Den entrance, chittering excitedly 
to its Rider; from the response, Yume guessed that the 
Freewheeler's bicycle was being driven by a toad. The croak 
sounded awful. 


What went wrong? What went wrong? she wondered in terror. 
Something must have gone wrong. 


Squeak, rattle, squeak, rattle 
Oh, god, there's another one now. 
Squeak, rattle, squeak, rattle 


Three ?! 


Forty feet away, hidden in the rafters of the Big Top, the tall, thin 
Ringmaster sat with his legs outstretched, his top hat tilted over his 
face, his maroon-red suit swaying gently. He grinned. 


"Dear, dear, Fishman," he crooned as he watched and heard 
everything occurring in the Den of Freaks through the button eyes of 
a Freewheeler. "You must really learn to know when to hold your 
tongue." 


Below him, the crowd cheered as the Clowns took a bow and 
walked offstage; the lights dimmed for the next act. A circle of a 
dozen elephants emerged from the tent flap and gathered into a 
conga line. The giant animals were all garbed in stars and stripes, 
and were trumpeting as a calliope continuously played its 
lighthearted, celestial tunes; with the swirling, color-changing 
spotlights, it almost looked as if the elephants were walking through 
space. The Ringmaster clapped his hands together. 


"Such resentment towards me, Freaks? You hurt my feelings..." The 
Ringmaster moaned in mock offense. "Manny, Manny, Manny! Keep 
your pets more loyal, s'i/ te plait? Oh well, old friend, I'm afraid | 

have to take matters into my own hands... | apologize in advance..." 
The Ringmaster pressed his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. 


"Now then, which Freak, which Freak? Which Freak to beat and 
meet? Where to go? Where to go? Freak Show if | know..." 


AND NOW, THE FISHMAN OF MANASQUAN WILL RETURN TO 
HIS UNDERWATER HOME! WE THANK YOU FOR WATCHING 


THIS MARVELOUS SPECTACLE AT—HERMAN FULLER'S 
CIRCUS OF THE DISQUIETING! A male voice boomed throughout 
the entire of the Den of Freaks. 


Fuller?! Yume let out an involuntary gasp. The remaining pink 
flowers growing from her head contracted and withered, their now 
dried petals fluttering to the ground. Yume felt her head growing a 
new arrangement. She picked one. 


A gladiola... 


Yume heard a gasp of surprise from the audience, followed by an 
eerie, empty rippling of water. 


No... 


Back inside the main Den, Quincy spat out a moth. 


The Ringmaster hummed nonchalantly as he sat in his velvet chair, 
his feet propped up as he reclined back as three Freewheelers 
rolled up to him in his "office". It was more of a side tent than 
anything, smaller than the Freak Lounge, but comfortable 
nonetheless. A simple wooden desk sat in the middle of it; an ornate 
swing arm lamp illuminated the room. A portrait of Herman Fuller 
looked around the room from an easel off to the side, and a single 
photo frame lay face-down underneath it. 


The lead monster's chest cavity bulged and squirmed with a human- 
sized lump. Ragged breaths could be heard from within. Fuller 
smiled and ignored the cries. 


"Hello again, Freewheelers!" The Ringmaster sang over the muffled 
yells. "Brady, Bridget." He nodded towards the giant horned toad on 
a scarlet bike; the Ragdoll, as usual, was mounted in the place of 
the handlebars. The pig-tailed, patchwork torso tilted its head. 


"Willard, Warren." A barn owl clicked its talons in greeting. 


"Now, you know why we're here. You should know, | made you," 
Herman Fuller guffawed. "Once again, Manny's little pets have 
dared to raise a voice against me, and we all know that that simply 


won't do. Dish out the usual punishment, please; but keep him quiet 
while you're doing it. | don't want another disaster like the one with 
the Crane Woman!" As he spoke, the Ringmaster picked up a 
wooden plank and swung it into the lump within the Freewheeler. 
"Shut up, Freak! | could have you set on a hook right now with a 
Clown grub in your mouth! I'm not some bait you can just bite and 
expect to get away with it, you fishy bastard! Now, toodle-loo! 
Wheelers, do do your thing!" The Ringmaster shooed his watchdogs 
away. 


The Freewheelers turned to leave their master's office. Then they 
suddenly stopped. Six pairs of eyes turned their heads back towards 
Herman Fuller. 


"What are you doing?" 


Fuller threw his hands into the air. He picked up his chair and turned 
it a hundred and eighty degrees. He pushed it up against his desk. 


"| repeat, what are you doing?" 


"My job as a leader, Manny." Utter contempt bubbled from the 
Ringmaster's as he glowered at the ground. 


"Are you going to move your chair? Or will | have to do it for you?" A 
cold voice spoke softly from underneath The Ringmaster's 
worktable. 


"Oh...go flirt with Emily again, will you? The little minx doesn't 
respect me anyways." Fuller's chair shot out from under him, 
spinning in the air like a wheel. He jumped out of it and gracefully 
back-flipped onto his feet as his seat cracked in splinters to the 
ground. 


The Man with the Upside-Down Face, Leader of the Freaks, 
emerged from the desk cabinet and stepped on the dirt. 


"Learned a few more tricks, | see." The Ringmaster looked at where 
his former Circus partner had stepped out from. 


"It's nothing, really," The Man said coolly. "Same principle as to what 
happens when you saw a Clown in half, or when you pull a Fun- 


Lover from a hat. Any hole can be a door. Now, what's going on 
here?" 


Herman Fuller sighed. "Andy and Alice, let him out, please," The 
Ringmaster asked with his eyes closed as he waved his hand 
towards the duo of ragdoll and bicycle-riding box turtle. The box 
turtle tilted its head slightly, staring curiously at the Ringmaster; the 
ragdoll did the same, then swung its head towards the floor. The 
seams around its mouth opened up, and out of the ragdoll's mouth 
tumbled a disoriented Fishman of Manasquan. He immediately leapt 
to his feet and looked around. His crazed eyes stared at Fuller for a 
moment, then he began backpedaling, frantically running toward the 
exit flap. 


"Manny!" The Fishman shouted as he ran. "I'm sorry, I—" 


"That will do for now, Gabriel. Go back to the Den" The Man spoke 
curtly. The Fishman bowed in gratitude before ducking out. The Man 
turned back to Fuller, and the two sneered with mutual hatred. Then, 
without warning, The Man with the Upside-Down Face lunged 
forward and swatted Alice the Turtle off of its bicycle seat. Andy 
roared in protest and opened its mouth; four sinewy, snake-like 
tongues shot from it towards the turtle's attacker. The Man snatched 
them all at once and drove them into the ground with a tent spike 
and a swift stomp. The Freewheeler lurched forward, its bicycle 
unable to stand without a Rider, and it flailed grotesquely on the 
ground like a potato sack baby. The other two Freewheelers quickly 
turned tail and sped out of the room. 


"Andy!" The Ringmaster rushed forward only for The Man to step in 
his way. 


"You know, considering your little toys are old Freaks, I'm surprised 
you care for them so much." The Ringmaster flinched involuntarily 
as Manny, who towered above him by a good two heads, leered 
down at him. 


"Now, what were you doing to Fish?" The Man with the Upside- 
Down Face inquired, taking a step towards Fuller. 


"It's my Freaking job, to carry out discipline within these grounds!" 


handling of the incident and lack of self serving interest once he 
discovered what the bell and Mr. Deeds were capable of. 


« SCP-661 | SCP-662 | SCP-663 » 


The Ringmaster spat. 


"It's your job to watch over your area, your goddamn Big Top that 
you're so proud of!" Manny shouted. "We agreed on that! We 
operate separately, on different terms!" 


"Well," Fuller laughed mirthlessly, "/ don't agree with your terms, and 
seeing that I'm the head around here, | can do as al goddamn 
please!" 


"You make me sick!" Manny hissed. "You were bad enough when 
we first teamed up, and now you've somehow gotten even worse off 
since the Clowns!" 


"The Clowns? The Clowns are amazing!" Fuller threw his head back 
and cackled. A dribble of spit rolled down his lips. 


"You're not fit to be a leader," The Man said quietly. "You're just a 
greedy, Milk-snorting fop!" 


"Well, it blows to blow, Freak!" Fuller exhaled sharply. "And until | 
drop dead, I, make, the rules around here! But you'll be long gone 
by the time that happens, oh yes, you'll be long gone! I'll see to it 

that you meet your end in due time!" 


"In due time?’ Fuller, Fuller, Fuller, you know as well as | that /'m the 
one who keeps the Clowns in check, not you! You rely on me, 
Herman! You've got the show, you've got the tent, and you've got 
the money, but you still need me!" 


Silence rang through the Ringmaster's office. The audience was still 
cheering; they couldn't even hear what was transpiring as they 
goggled at the Flaming Lions and Tigers and Bears. 


"I'll have you stuffed into a Freewheeler soon enough," The 
Ringmaster's handlebar moustache twitched as he bared his teeth. 
"Get out." 


"You stay away from my kind," The Man with the Upside-Down Face 
warned. "Or you'll find yourself strung up as a squeeze toy for 
Luana." 


"Oh, we'll see who comes out in first. All in due time." Herman Fuller 
snapped his fingers. His ruined furniture pieced itself back together, 
restoring his office to its clean state. 


The Man kicked his foot through Fuller's portrait, leaving a neat, 
boot-shaped hole. He leaned through the opening, and seemed to 
melt through it, until his whole body was gone from sight. 


The Ringmaster sat, slightly disheveled, his top hat knocked askew. 
He put his hand in it and pulled out an apple. He bit it, then spat the 
chunk out. 


"Strung up, eh?" The apple was full of worms. 


A Circus of a Wreck 


« | A Circus Milked Dry | A Circus With Paranoia » 


A sudden crack broke the silence of a vast, infinite plane of the white 
landscape known to the Clowns of the Circus of Disquieting as the 
Phoneyard, a series of "hubs" for pick-ups and quick travel. Here 
and there, patches of various landscapes seemed to sprout from 
nothing out of the blank world, from dry deserts to fog-filled forests; 
spatial duplicates of past Circus Grounds that now served another 
purpose apart from performing. All sorts of giant phones laid strewn 
across these mini bubbles of scenery, wheel dials, cellular flip 
phones, and even poor quality cups-tied-to-a-string; some of these 
had never been Picked Up, and were now left to slowly fade and 
decay as the immobilized Fun-Lovers withered from Milk 
Deprivation. Others popped into a hub and winked out to another 
place within instants. The sounds of an exit were similar to a 
firecracker and party horn going off simultaneously. 


Bang-TOOT! 

Bang-TOOT! 

Bang-TOOT! 

Over and over. 

Bang-TOOT! 

Again and again. 

FWOOO-O000-OOP! ZING! DING! DING! DING! 


Or perhaps more like a carnival mallet game? 


In a pick-up hub resembling a deserted, dusty grassland, twelve 


dozen red phone booths sat alone and abandoned. They were all 
older models of Fun-Lover transportation. Very unreliable 
prototypes. Most of them were shoved away into this particular, 
funny graveyard; some still had the remains of an unfortunate rider 
inside. This particular joint wasn't even in service anymore; it was 
more of a dump than anything else. 


But, like any old phone number, there was always that one person 
who dialed something wrong and called it instead. 


FWOOO-O00-OOP! ZING! DING! DING! DING! 

A smoking, crackling, spinning scarlet rotary phone popped down 
out of thin air and landed with a resounding thud on the loose dirt. 
"Eugene, you're back!" 


WOWWEE! WOWWEE WOWWEE WOooowwWHEEE-ee-ee- 
C@eeeeeee Crackle, crackle, crackle. 


"Ack, Pius, stop groping me!" 

"Sorry, Eugene; you were just a ball of goop a few seconds ago!" 
"Dammit, it's dark in here. | can't see squat!" 

"Hold on! Let me help!" 

"Argh, Pius, not the spotlight! Not the spotlight! Tone it down!" 
"Sorry, Eugene! Here, I'll guide you to your seat!" 

"No, Pius! You're burning my eyeballs out, for Freak's sake!" 
"No, really, just let me—" 

"Pius, quit it!" 

"Eugene, will you—" 


Shove. Splash! 


Drip...drip... 


"...Dammit, Pius, this stuff stains." 


Eugene and Pius the Clowns sat facing each other in roller coaster- 
esque safety seats within an enormous phone receiver (also known 
as Mortimer the Fun-Lover) as Entry of the Gladiators played as wait 
music. Pius was rocking his head back and forth in mild content; 
Eugene was cringing as he tried to block out one of sixteen songs 
that had been looping continuously for the past five hours of waiting. 
He could tolerate "Pink Elephants on Parade" to an extent, but 
whenever he heard the electronic remix of "Entrance of the 
Gladiators" he wanted to fill his ears with Herman Fuller's Marvelous 
Molasses. 


The solitary scene resembled something similar to the bilge of an 
old ship; it was dark, echoey, and partially flooded. When Mortimer 
had landed, it had badly cracked the inner lining, sending Clown Milk 
fuel into the compartment. A leak was bad news for any Clown 
attempting to get home. The volume of Milk lost due to a leak proved 
disastrous for the window of time one could expect to be picked up; 
all Fun-Lovers broadcasted a waiting signal to the nearest available 
open pick-up line, and when the Milk dried up, so would the call. So 
far, Eugene and Pius had been sitting for nearly seven hours, sitting 
in the sweet, tarry substance, cramped, hot, and generally 
miserable. 


"This... stinks." Eugene wrinkled his nose in disgust as he continued 
to breathe the arid air of sour Clown Milk, a slightly sweet, but more 
noticeably rancid, stench of chloroform and rotten eggs. "Did 
Mortimer bust a pipe or something?" 


"Yeah, looks like," Pius said concernedly, moving his hand over a 
seam running through the right side of the cabin; black ooze gurgled 
through the crack, making thick splish-sploosh echoes as it dripped 
into the pond that covered the two Clowns' shoes. "Oh, Mortimer, 
what did you do to yourself this time, you poor Fun-Lover?" Pius 
talked to the ceiling. Splish-sploosh. Splish-sploosh. 


"When we get back to the Circus, I'm gonna get Mortimer Fine- 
tuned." Eugene groaned with exasperated malice. 


"Oh, come now, Mortimer's not deserving of that." Pius said. "He's 
just having connection problems." 


"What are you, a Fun-Lover sympathizer?" Eugene snorted. "Such a 
Progressive Pius." 


"Hahaha. You're so funny, Eugene." 


"| gotta be. It's in the job description." 


"What Hub did we end up in? Takin’ them a bit long, don't you 
think?" Eugene twiddled his thumbs. 


"The default line is the...Lake | believe?" Pius recalled. "But you're 
not getting seasick, and we're sure not bobbing, so we're probably in 
one of the Fields right now. I'd ask Mortimer for a ping, but he's still 
obviously broken, or malfunctioning, or whatever a Fun-Lover does 
when it has problems." 


"So we just have to wait now?" 
"Pretty much." 


"Okey-dokey then." Eugene eased the tension in his shoulders a bit. 
"Wheat Fields, eh? It's sure seen it's fair share of fiascoes. | wonder 
how Toby's been doing lately?" 


"Busy as ever, | imagine. Don't forget, he's in charge of the 
cornfields as well."