The Last Mask - Act 2 Slice 5

The Last Mask


- Act 2 -


- Slice 5 -

The small red booth stood in the middle of the desolate beach, as dark waters gently lapped at the shore, unable to reach this only remaining blight with their cold wet claws. This show looked like it had not seen any visitors in a long time, no happy crowds to gather around this now cracking, and stained stage. It was a solitary red box that only contained shadows of a past glory, and the presence of a hidden colourful crowd.   

The messenger traipsed across the sands, a lonely figure holding onto an envelope with hope, wishing hard that this would not be his last ever delivery, but knowing what awaited him.

Stopping in front of the booth, he looked at the sign above now caked with dirt and grime, and checked it against the name on the envelope. Unfortunately this was the place he had to be.

He made his way around the small red booth and peered into the back, instantly shocked by what lay within. The little booth didn't look like it would have been big enough to hide much, but when he now ventured inside, after getting no response to his knock, he was amazed by how many puppets and dummies were crammed into this small space. The booth was full to the brim with all kinds of figures, ones that resembled people and ones that resembled animals sat side by side with ones that didn't resemble anything he had seen before.

"Hello, and who are you?" said one of the dolls.

"What brings you to our tent today?" asked another.

"We don't get many visitors here," chimed a pair.

"No, none for a while."

"So welcome, whoever you are," sang them all, "and why are you here?"

The messenger was speechless, taken in completely by this collection, these brightly painted smiling faces all welcoming him to this little show. In fact he was so taken in by it all that he failed to notice the owner of these fine puppets rise from within them, another face among the many, but this one without a smile.

His two hands emerged first, each wearing a smirking button-eyed glove puppet, wielding a pair of shiny blades. And then their master joined them, his head covered with a blood stained sack, with two slits cut out for those glowing white eyes that burnt a hole in the messenger's back. Pushing his way out of this mass of smiling fake faces, drawing up on this stranger in his home.

The envelope had said it all on the front, and the messenger should have been wary. He should have exercised the utmost caution when delivering a message to someone called Murderglove. But he had allowed himself to become distracted, to let the ventriloquist take his eyes away from where he should have been looking.

"And who are we?" said the glove puppet on the ventriloquist's right hand, causing the messenger to turn with a fright, and fall back into the puppets behind him, many of whom complained with utter distress.

The messenger stared up at the ventriloquist who was now crouching over him, and stared into those glowing white eyes that were observing him so closely.

"Well, who are we?" said the puppet on the left hand, who wore a little bent jester's cap and a twisted smile.

"Yes, please tell," said the right puppet again, who was hatless, but had long bristly hairs stuck in the top of his cloth head.

"I am here to deliver a message to you, sir," said the messenger, ignoring the two glove puppets right next to his face, and addressing the man hidden under the sack.

The ventriloquist just mumbled something that was lost beneath the cloth.

"How very rude, I believe he is ignoring us, dear Dice," said the glove puppet with the little jester's cap.

"I believe he is, dear Slice," said the other one, "how rude, indeed."

"You are Mr Murderglove, sir?" asked the messenger nervously.

The ventriloquist mumbled a response again.

"Sorry?" said the messenger trying to understand.

"He said talk to the hands," responded the one called Slice, jumping right in front of the messenger's face.

"Yes, talk to the hands, stranger man," said the other glove puppet, called Dice.

"Ah yes, sorry about that," said the messenger looking at the shiny blades the puppets wielded, now so close to his face.

"So you should be," said Slice. "Well, who are you?"

"Right, yes, who am I."

"Don't you know?" said Dice, getting even closer to his face.

"I don't think he does." Said Slice.

"I am a messenger," said the messenger, plucking up some courage. "I have a message."

"A message, so we see," said Slice, moving near the envelope. "Can you open it for us?"

"Sorry?"

"The envelope, can you open it for us?" Said Dice nodding towards it.

"Yes, can you?" said Slice. "As you can see, we are not very good with our hands at opening things like envelopes."

"I suppose I could." Said the messenger, cautiously looking at their little shiny blades. "It is against regulation of course."

"Well, we won't tell if you don't." said Slice with a smile.

"So if I do that, you won't kill me, will you?"

"Me kill you?" said Slice, moving back in front of the messenger's face. "Now what do you take me for. Of course I won't kill you if you open the envelope for us, I promise."

"Alright then." Said the messenger carefully sticking his finger under the flap of the envelope and opening it, as the ventriloquist and his two glove puppets looked on in silence.

"Now hold it up so we can see," said Slice.

"Ah yes, of course," said the messenger, unfolding the letter and holding it in front of him.

The Glove puppets ran their button eyes over the letter, and the ventriloquist let out a little mumble of glee, obviously very happy with what he did see.

"Can I go now?" asked the messenger, having completed his role and eager to be away from this strange freak show.

"What?" said Slice, peering around the edge of the letter.

"Can I go, you said I could go, can I go?"

"No," said Slice.

"But you said you wouldn't kill me."

"No, Slice said he wouldn't kill you," responded Dice, peering around the other side of the letter, "But I didn't say so."

The messenger dropped the letter, which gently fluttered to the ground, as the right hand of the ventriloquist ended the messenger's life without a sound.

And the small red booth stood in the middle of the desolate beach, as dark waters gently lapped at the shore, unable to reach this only remaining blight with their cold wet claws. And a twisted, solitary figure made his way across the sands accompanied by two killers, one worn upon each of his hands.


The Last Mask Copyright ©2010 Stephen Winterflood