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Feb 12

The Court Jester --The Freak Circus Fanfic

WARNINGS: No Pairing. Just a fic about Jester's origins and The Ringmaster. Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, alludes to sexual assault but none described.

You must be 18+ to read. Minors and folks not into yandere VNs plz DNI both here and in the fandom. ~~~~~WITH SKETCHES and FULLY COLORED ART BY ME AND THE AMAZING @nekoboydreams ---THERE'S EVEN AN IMAGE WE COLLABORATED ON TOGETHER :3 HOWEVER---this is just a FAN project, nothing is endorsed as canon!!! Thank you to @darthsuki for beta reading <3

Summary:

The TicketTaker has taken it upon himself to create a guide on how to survive in the human world. It's a book that details Jester's rise and fall to power including the first meeting with their mysterious benefactor: The Ringmaster. For Monster Eyes Only--read at your own risk.

(NOTE THE WARNINGS ABOVE)

CHECK IT OUT HERE! on A03 (leave comment/kudos) --must 18+ to read!

or below the cut

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It was like this every day. As such, The Jester grew bored while watching a droplet of beer slowly slide down the peeling walls of the trailer.

The deep color stained what was once bright and gaudy orange paint inside the shabby kitchenette. Jester's tough flesh was marred somewhat against cracked tile as he knelt before the man who had just moments ago thrown a bottle near his chained person. Head tilted downward in forced submission; unflinching and calm, as the monster had to be in the presence of this self-imposed king.

Jester’s amethyst eyes cast away from the pitiful man, plotting…..waiting.

Soon the horrors will be over, as it would be every time this happened. The comforting monotony of such a response was something The Jester used to rejuvenate himself while counting every passing minute in his head; tick by tick. A skill our leader was forced to learn as the kitchen clock had been smashed ages ago from yet another stray bottle during some past fray. This tantrum however, as said before, was fully expected. Especially so whenever ticket sales didn't meet the insatiable human's quota for his dying circus. It was inevitable—thus, Jester remained still, as he always did, like a frozen fish in arctic water.

Grabbing yet another bottle near him, the red-coated Ringmaster ignored the creature sitting with regal grace before him. Sipping without a care as Jester, a leader in the making, stared at him….waiting….wanting to strike back with the rage of a spiteful and wronged god.

Oh, but we are getting ahead of ourselves aren't we, dear reader?

As one is often to do when recounting a heroic figure’s lengthy origin. Stories of adventure, tales of woe, and epic poetry demand an audience's rapt attention. Knowing this, I urge you to listen to what I’m about to say.

Truly listen.

I'm sure it will further interest you, dear reader, that even we, who now run The Freak Circus as you know it, did not begin our success story with ease. As you already are aware, fellow kin, our kind knows more than any other how horrid humans can be. This story is not for them, but rather for your sake, dear reader. It is my hope that learning of our struggles will show you that it is possible for monsters to have both a full life and a full belly, even in this difficult world. I know quite well how hard it is to hunt for food consistently. To be forced to ration the meager marrow of a sickly woman’s collar bone to last for days, hoping you won’t collapse from exhaustion before you’re lucky enough to stumble upon a proper meal. Surely your stomach is growling right now at the thought, so forgive the poetic subtext. Hunting in the shadows for a mere piece of human flesh to sate our unending hunger is a sad reality we monsters face and that, my kindred soul, is what led to our downfall and eventual rise to power.

So once more, I urge you to stick around, my monstrous fellow, in the hopes that you will gain something of use from The Jester’s story; if only to make your daily struggles a little lighter.

Some rules, however, need to be mentioned before we begin.

For one, the magnificent creature whom this story is about was not always known as The Jester. He had a different name back then, but for the sake of both relevance and personal preference, we will use the names we gave ourselves that fateful moonless night instead of what they actually were at the time. Nothing, if you are aware, is ever truly accurate--certainly not history. Even the artists commissioned to draw the illustrations you see in this booklet will be doing so using our current dress, instead of the patchy rags and archaic figures we had back then.

Sadly, it does not help that my knowledge only extends to what I personally witnessed during the time we were under The Ringmasters thumb, and what was told to me later in confidence. Even with our long memory, monsters are more than capable of rewriting certain scenes of the past to further embellish a hero’s strides. Humans, after all, did not invent imagination despite that they’d like to think so. Thus, as a warning to whomever reads this, I urge you to take my recounting of this tale with the usual grain of salt.

Oh, but please do not fret, reader! You will hear the story in its entirety; perhaps not as it was, but rather as it's meant to be told. All I ask is to bear this in mind as I recount our tale with a heavy bias towards an amethyst god and his fantastic rise to excellence:

Jester knew, before any of us, that this was too good to be true, yet it was difficult to argue with the results.

A human corpse, fresh, leaking, and raw, sat out in the open one autumn morning brush we monsters used to hide in. The strong and seductive odor of human flesh began to push away any doubts the starving group of creatures had when discovering such a feast. Still....it was far too convenient, too strange, even in a dying forest full of ravenous monsters.

The Jester cautiously circled the mysterious pile, keeping us all salivating at bay like a hyena circling a body to make sure it’s dead and ripe enough to eat. Checking carefully while trying his best not to breath in the alluring scent for any traps or signs of foul play. Wondering with great worry how this could happen? After all, none of the humans in the nearby town dared to venture in their woods thanks to one too many nightly ‘visits’ from the hungriest among us. Then again, we were a tad…distracted at the time to care about answers. Our stomachs growled in desperate need, claws digging into claw, eyes begging our leader to finish his inspection. The Pierrot even, had to be held back by three of us until Jester gave the signal. Soon enough, the purple creature took a long, hard whiff, a weakness he has never forgiven himself to this day. Making sure to claw his stomach enough to bleed as to hold back from ravaging the tempting treasure before him.

However, the gesture was futile, done much too late….Our leader’s doubts and endless queries slowly began to melt the longer he studied the tempting sight before him. Out of necessity, for us as well as himself, he gave the order:

“Eat."

And with a nod, we did just that.

For weeks, our bellies were sated—not always full, mind you, but it was far closer than we’d been in years due to one or more bodies showing up in the wide but dead forest we resided in. Our mysterious benefactor blessed us with treats, big and small. Humans of all sizes found their way to our forest over the next two weeks. Some days a corpse was left by the entrance, other times they’d been by a lake or an old abandoned well (a problem as it nearly poisoned our fresh water supply, though even The Doctor wasn’t sure if such a thing could truly affect us in the way it does humans). Locations of the bodies seemed to be at random, but what did that matter? We thought. For once, monsters ate like kings of old, though unlike most monarchies the lessons of starvation had taught us to savor every bite and let nothing go to waste.

The Jester, as expected, was far from satisfied no matter how much he ate.

It became an obsession of his you see, to know where the source of our blessings had come from. So, in his great wisdom, our brilliant Jester mapped out the parts of the forest where the bodies were left behind—discovering what none of us dared to see: a pattern.

With this knowledge, our leader brought us together and formed a plan to find out who this anonymous donor truly was, and finally confront them. As you could imagine, reader, this was not a popular choice amongst the group. We monsters know full well the risks involved in approaching a human, any one of them, so openly. The Harlequin even argued the merits of knowing who it was; accepting that some poor idiot dropped their 'waste' and we'd all just gotten lucky enough to reap the benefits. Another reason, of course, that we hesitated in going along with The Jester’s plan was the fear of risking starvation once again.

Starvation....

A common end to our kind. There are many tales I could tell of acquaintances who never lasted long enough to be friends. Whose faces I only remember were as shriveled as their stomachs. Our circus troupe, as it is now but not then, had not always been this small, you see. However, The Jester found wisdom even in our losses. As fewer creatures around often meant more food to share among those who remained. For, as you already know reader, it is a kindness when we monsters must leave our families behind upon reaching adulthood. If we go, then they have a better chance to live, to find food and shelter and survive. After we leave them, we find our own ‘packs’, create our own families, breed with them, and send the children off when they are old enough to find their own way just as we did. Though I must confess dear kin, on occasional cold and dreary nights I often wonder if those who birthed us were able to eat well after we left since there is no true way to tell…

(Editor Note to Myself: perhaps leave out my personal feelings regarding our families and their well-being as it takes away from The Jester’s point of view.)

Regardless of how we felt about the strange piles of food that appeared every other day, we all eventually gave into The Jester’s demands and staked out the area. Specifically, where our leader predicted where this strange benefactor would leave his next ‘treat’ for us to eat.

And reader….shockingly enough, we found him. The man….who was ‘helping’ us live.

There stood a human dressed in a once but now faded bright red coat and patched-up top hat stood over a delicious smelling corpse; eyes full of sadistic glee, serrated knife in hand. At first, we were unsure as to what was happening. After all, why would a human want to eat one of their own? Surely that’s why he was cutting him up ---we reasoned; not quite understanding that food was nowhere near the man's true motivations. Still, the familiar alluring scent drew the monsters close enough to see the whites of the murderer's eyes finally widen in fear at the sight of us. However, once that delicious smell drew us in, focusing on the live meat before us became a secondary priority. You see, reader, it was incredibly difficult that very autumn for us to hunt regularly. Too many villagers talked to one another, spreading the word of beasts in the night and weaving cautionary tales as tall as we were. Sadly, such antics worked, and we almost starved due to their fear of coming into the woods. Our bodies thin and feral from hunger intimidated the man with the knife enough to make his frame shake. Easy prey, we thought, two for the price of one! It seemed as though our prayers were answered!

Slowly, we cornered him, ready to pounce before he could scream for help.

Yet the man did no such thing.

Instead, he did something we monsters had never witnessed up close. Something we'd only seen obscured by the blanketed darkness of the forest that protected us from their kind.

The man…..smiled....and laughed?

His arms drew wide enough to pull at the weakened seams of his coat. Dropping the knife and then to his knees, crying praises of our magnificence in reverent abjection.

As you could imagine….we had no idea what was going on.

The monsters looked at one another as the human continued. Only growing more confused upon hearing the pathetic human’s story. How he'd been searching for us, how his partner wanted to do bad things to us and he, the human who once held the knife now dropped, had valiantly stopped him. For our sake. It was surreal, fantastical even. Though only one of us had the courage to speak to the seemingly kind stranger, claws were still in view, making sure to catch the light of the moon like a mirror in a darkened corner.

"You are here to kill."

How magnificent.

The Jester never asks questions, but rather demands answers, you see.

"No, no—no--not I—well now you, anyway—-I’m your good friend? See? The knife is gone, vanished, I promise!—-D-do you understand what 'friend' means?" Sweat began to bead on the man's brow with every distressed word. "I am here to help the creatures of these woods the folks nearby talk about, honest!"

Another moment, one none of us had experienced, made silent and felt like an eternity to reply. I remember it as all of us frozen, even the pitiful human, unsure what to do or say to this….madness…..No one, not even our Jester, had any idea what this was. But one of us, another gentler source, stepped forward, closer to her leader and stood by.

"Perhaps he is being truthful?” The pink monster spoke up, voice soft as a feather, quiet enough only for those of us near to catch.

Still wary, the rest of us did not move, watching instead with close and hungry eyes how the man now gestured towards the other dead human; eyes pleading, shaking like a heavy sound rippling the edges of a glass of water.

"You eat meat—right? Human meat? I know you do! You must have loved the….uh—gifts, I left you all this time, yeah?" the human urged, words smooth like silk.

The Jester eyed the man, but did not move, allowing the human to finally stand. With an arrogance we would come to know later, the stranger brushed away the dirt off his already dust-ridden pants. Back straightening, the man finally stands in front of Jester and the angel, mouth no longer trembling, eyes still and reflective as amber. Flecks of mud still stuck between the piping of the worn corduroy he wore, yet the human carried himself as though wearing a cape of sewn jewels and gold.

"Where are my manners? I am The Ringmaster of a poor traveling circus,” boldly he extends his hand, still ridden with dirt, towards The Jester’s clean palm. “Let me be the first to thank you for your clean-up. Things got a little….messy….as they often do in my line of work. Though I’m sure a gentleman as fine as yourself would agree no doubt.”

The scene was comical, surreal. To this day reader, I doubt my own memory, wondering if it had truly happened or if the mist of that early morning had somehow been tainted by the poisonous flora that surrounded us. What kind of person….really….a human of all things, would walk up to an unknown creature and extend their hand, not expecting it to be bitten off? What made him so unafraid of us, then?

Well….herein lies your first lesson, dear reader:

Humans will do anything, risk life and limb, if it means getting what they want.

Putting his hand down, this ‘Ringmaster’ seemingly took no offense at our caution and continued smiling: A tactic you must be very aware of, reader! Keep these lessons close to your heart---Why do you think our masks have smiles on them? We learned well, the ways to lure prey to come to us rather than the other way around. Sacrifice out of necessity .A lesson that hangs over us like the legs of a dead bird tied around our thick-skinned necks.

“Well,” the human began, still with that grin, “introductions can wait, I suppose. You all must be hungry!”

The Ringmaster moved aside, presenting the dead body as only a showman would. Eyes darkening, showing their true nature for just a moment before saying proudly:

“By all means….Dig in!”

Before we could stop him, The Pierrot rushed forward, sinking his teeth into the heart of the feast. Sadly, our silent clown cannot be fully blamed here, though Jester was less than amused at his rash antics later that day, as Pierrot had given most of his rations to our weakest member in order to give her some strength for several weeks then. A ‘kindness’ that made Harlequin’s envious poison stew to a boil while glaring at the red clown’s blood stained face in a combination of personal disgust and unsaid longing.

The rest of the monsters then looked at one another again, unsure of what to do. A situation like this had never happened before, something they could never have prepared themselves to deal with. This Ringmaster was the first human most of us ever spoke to, at least not for longer than it takes to silence a scream. But it was that smell again, that intoxicating scent of fresh meat, permeating the clearing we all stood in that sealed our fates; Jester was no exception. Even gods succumb to temptation you see....or at least ones humans base off our likeness seem to. Thus, The Jester relented. Not easily mind you, we tested the 'generosity' of this stranger by allowing him to leave (while one or more of us trail him), making sure he came back with more food the next day.

Strangely however, this man actually did seem to keep his promise. Day after day, he brought us food. At first, he dragged a body or two to us, though that proved inefficient and slow.

Still, we did not care if we had to wait for more meat, surely not! All that mattered was that we would not risk starvation that winter. We'd all survive. The Pierrot, most of all, was grateful to the stranger for his ‘kindness.’ His love, the one he’d snuck much of his food too, had caught ill more than once that winter, but the steady supply of food helped her recover in full.

Though most were won over once The Ringmaster brought out his Viola de buriti one night to play for us.

Before then, I’d only ever seen someone use instruments from afar so it was quite the novel experience to witness up close. This type of viola in particular, regrettably, I always thought made unnecessary noise and had a crude vibrato. However, the way that strange human strummed with those calloused fingers peeking through ripped gloves of his made smoother sounds than any of us could have expected to come out of the carved instrument. It wasn’t still my favorite type of music, mind you, but by far the man was more skilled than anyone I’d ever heard mindlessly plucking their strings on that Viola. The way Ringmaster’s fingers glided across the music, making the air seem far lighter, the moon more graceful, the water rippling to his beat—such joys and magic surrounded our small camp like a misty cloud of one’s visible breath in the winter.

We were captivated, reader, truly; awe-struck rats to a piper.

Other instances he’d play a jaunty tune on that old thing while regaling us with stories of his travels. Something The Doctor in particular had an interest in, though I suspect it was because he was merely curious about the many flora and fauna the human had encountered in his travels. Places he went that we hadn’t seen, new potential subjects to study.

The human claimed he’d built his instrument from the dried bark of a buriti palm himself, though I often had my doubts. Especially after having seen him cut himself numerous times while attempting to whittle small sticks The Pierrot gathered for him. A task he soon made the naive silver-haired creature do for him after receiving one too many splinters—a cruel yet profitable joke it ended up being.

Another story with a lesson you should note when we get to it, loyal reader.

Yes, the Viola de buriti was an instrument that didn’t produce a sound I personally liked, though his skills were appreciated just the same. Despite this, much to my surprise, the one who had become the most mesmerized with The Ringmaster’s playing was none other than Jester himself. Jester truly believed in the magic of the human’s music, such as it was. Thinking that the sound he’d made had power and potential for more. One such night where the clouds covered the moon, we all gathered by a fire in the woods. Not that we needed any light to see in the dark, but it helped ‘set the mood’ as our new…companion…insisted during every visit. Only then, did the subject of The Ringmaster’s talent come up again.

Jester leaned forward, eager and with large eyes, “Your chords…I’ve never heard them played that way. Play it again! I wish to understand how you moved your fingers from one end to the other.”

The Ringmaster laughed upon hearing that after, “Looks like I found my biggest fan! Sure thing. Anything for you, my sharp-toothed friend, how could I refuse?”

The rest of us stared at the man, blinking, before looking at each other, unsure. Unknowing….though The Pierrot answered before we could even think

“F-friend?” Pierrot’s eyes grew wide.

Our angel smiled calmly, placing a hand on his arm to calm the monster at those words.

“You were serious, then?…You would,” I looked at the man, eyes narrowed but shining amongst the lone campfire light, “want to be friends…with a monster?”

The Ringmaster laid down his instrument gently on his lap, hands on his knees and grin as wide as ever. Strange now, thinking back on it, how much he smiled at us in the beginning. As though he knew he’d already won his coveted prize with that very question.

Naturally, he answered full of confidence and oily guile dripping down from his tongue to his throat:

“Of course I’m serious! I’d have to be some kind of idiot to pass up this opportunity!”

For some time, the man sat with us. Playing cards with The Harlequin, gifting me an abacus. He even ‘found’ prettier clothing for our angel to wear, gave nods of approval and praise to The Pierrot, strange floral subjects for Doctor to study, and so on and so forth. The Ringmaster had seen many things in his travels, as had we monsters. All of us laughed every night, talking, and enjoying the opportunity to share our experiences with someone new. However, looking back on it, I notice only with the heaviness of hindsight the way this human’s face changed as the weeks went by. How he grew more and more wary of us upon realizing that his assumptions about what monsters were had been incorrect.

Mistakenly, The Ringmaster thought I had no knowledge of using an abacus nor of general mathematics—only to realize that I could divide fractions and was well versed in advanced arithmetic (a skill I’d learned the few times we were able to enter a new town and purchase items with human money). Additionally, the man grew unnerved of Doctor’s unique ‘discoveries’ with poisonous fungi, humbled more than once by Harlequin’s superior wit, frightened of Pierrot’s strength, and embarrassed by the angel’s infectious charm. Yet it was The Jester, we all noticed, who made the man the most…wary—especially so when they began playing chess with one another time and again. A game the two regularly tied in, no matter how many times they’d played through the night. Sadly, this is something even The Jester believes to be a great folly of his:

The fact that he played a game of strategy against a human, in earnest.

Another lesson you must take, my reader, is that humans are used to being on top of the food-chain. Breaking the illusion where they are the apex predators is detrimental to our survival as a species. Knowing of our existence, no matter how small, could cause them to think differently and in less predictable ways. Which, as the true predators of this world, we cannot afford for our quarry to become wise to their lower evolutionary status or we risk extinction as a people.

Hide your intelligence, dear colleague who is reading this tale, keep your skills from the humans—or they will take notice and their envy will peel the uniqueness from you like the thick yellow membrane of a banana only to discard everything you were by throwing you to the ground.

All of us were eventually gifted new clothing as well; fitted, shiny, and slimming, to distract from The Ringmaster’s bruised ego. An oddity given his own ragged attire, though I’d always suspected all of the ‘gifts’ were from the very food he’d culled for us. Our current purple leader welcomed the tribute however, as we all did, and for once found someone who could provide a steady supply of books as well as conversation and above all, food. At the time, we all thought we had done the impossible: found an ally…or a friend…in a human. Something amazing, unheard of. So new that we thought ourselves high above the rest of our kind, arrogantly assuming we’d done what no other could.

This of course, I beg you to forgive us our hubris, dear reader, for we did not know then what we do now.

“Perhaps this is a sign,” our angel said quietly with hopeful eyes and clasped hands; all while admiring her new pink dress. “That we could live together with humans…in relative peace.”

The Pierrot nodded, smiling as wide as he could in agreement.

“We could be free from harm with such friends…finally, truly safe.”

None of us had the heart to disagree with the two sweet yet naïve souls openly. Especially as we were all confused by The Ringmaster’s kindness. For once, we monsters believed that such a dream could come true, but it was just a dream all the same. This routine, as unconventional as it was, became our reality for nearly two more months where we would eat, play games, discuss many subjects and above all enjoy each other’s company.

“Who was that man?” Jester suddenly asked one night, gesturing to the half-eaten corpse on the ground at his feet.

The Ringmaster at first seemed like he hadn’t heard him, focusing on making the log he sat on a little more comfortable. Eyes locked on the cut stump where their game lay, determined not to lose again to Jester’s superior playing.

We had never thought to consider where our food came from or why. Only Jester managed, and cared, to weasel out of some information one cool night the two played against each other using dominoes from the nearby dead man’s pocket.

“Him?” Ringmaster stared at the black spots of tiles before him, not sparing Jester a single glance once more. “Some lowlife who takes money from good, honest hard-working folk such as ourselves. Not worth a dime, really.”

“Ah,” was Jester’s only reply.

Naturally, we’d already suspected that he’d killed merely to cover his own debts, but it certainly was not a problem for us monsters. The Ringmaster, as we’d come to learn later, had many enemies both in and out of the circus. Ones we were all too happy to devour—so please understand, reader, we were in paradise for a time. Things were nice, pleasant and calm, for once we had a home and a friend to count on. Please then keep this in mind before you blame us for accommodating The Ringmaster when he began taking back the many gifts he gave us.

Once we had a taste of the concept of safety and what it meant to have a home, we were far too addicted to the idea to go back to hiding in the shadows once more.

Soon enough, even The Ringmaster himself began telling us tales about whomever we were eating just for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Several more nights he’d amuse us, always while drinking, with stories involving a tax man who had punched him in the face (a meal we had only two weeks ago), only after Jester had asked. Another victim was someone at a bar he owed money too, or a snooty noble whose heir promised to sponsor The Ringmaster’s show if they ‘took care’ of his father. Pile after pile of corpses all full of fascinating origins that kept our bellies full and nights entertaining.

Even now, I look back on those stories and miss the times when they’d make me smile.

All human issues should remain human, which brings us to our next lesson: Do not involve yourself in the affairs of man, not even when it’s convenient to you. The fewer ties, the better, just as when we leave our parents to help them, and us, find food more easily. More than a few times, Ringmaster ruined ties with those of higher rank because of some drunken bout, one whose money and resources could have helped the business in the long run.

All was fine and merry with our new friend and the food, as well as entertainment, he provided. Until one day, when The Ringmaster came to us, for the first time, without any gifts or smiles to spare. An expression so pitiful, our Jester even placed a hand on his shoulder, asking what was wrong, as though genuinely concerned.

“My circus is dying, friends,” he gathered us in a circle to tell us his tale of woe; glycerin-stained cheeks, crushed hat in hands. “This is my last day here. If I don’t make any money soon….they will take me away. Lock me up till I’m old and gray….”

The words made our hearts sink in both fear and sorrow. A strange combination, a horrible mistaken sense of pity to a man who had no soul or real tears to spare. Another lesson, reader, do not trust those the woes of man—for their pain is often self-inflicted; a sickness they cannot help but spread it to others in shared misery like a plague.

We were stupid. We know better now, but at the time….we asked him a question.

One that haunts and hurts to this day, one that I asked specifically—oh Jester, forgive me.

“Is there anything we could do to help you, friend?”

As though on cue in the climax of a play, The Ringmaster lifted his head towards us, rays of sunshine adding to his performance as the threads of our fates were pulled, closing the seams.

Suddenly he spoke up again, not a choked sob to be found, “My show…if I could get more people to come, more customers….they would…it would save me from prison. I could feed my family…like how I fed yours…”

“You mentioned a son once,” Jester muttered under his breath to which The Ringmaster began pointing at him in glee.

“Yes! My poor son! My boy! He’s off to boarding school far away, but if I had some money….maybe I could bring him here. Have him meet all of you.”

The idea of such was absurd enough, of course, though absurdity had become a regular visitor in our lives upon meeting this man. His suggestion was far from the strangest thing to happen to humans and monsters in a nigh abandoned forest, after all. For me at least, as I can only speak for myself in this story, it was all very vexing. All I could think of was what would we do next? How we as a small group of beasts would have to hunt, survive, and lure prey from the shadows all over again. How our short time in paradise, knowing for once what it was like to have regular meals was nearly over made me want to sob back then. I felt bad for thinking this at the time too, reader, as logically I should have been worried for my friend instead of my own woes. So, like a fool, I bowed my head to him, ashamed.

New lesson, reader, empathy is a gift of monsters to man, but seldom does it ever go the other way around. Guilt is a powerful sword they use to stick in our chests, do not fall for it and re-read this sentence as many times as you need for it to sink in.

Mimicking my shameful pose, The Ringmaster then took off his patchy hat and bowed, matching my movements like a reflection in a mirror. I remember that day every time I set up my tent or adjust the ribbon of my hat. When I think of him attempting to be a reflection of me, hatred coats my heart like a blanket of snow over what once was a warm sunny field.

“If my son were to meet ya,” his eyes descended slowly to the ground, uncovered head nodding towards us in performative reverence, “then he could continue feeding you after I’m gone…I would make sure of it. You’ll never grow hungry again.”

Jester then, for the first time since I’d seen him, faltered at that. I remember looking at him, almost immediately, eyes wide as the gears in our heads began to turn. Once his purple gaze met my own, we both knew, agreed silently, at how well this could work out for us. That perhaps, even after our ‘friend’ were to die, we would be…..safe.

“A circus,” the man licked his lips, eyes still to the ground as though measuring his words before speaking. “A circus….is a family, you know? And you all? I would take care of you, like one of my own.”

We believed him.

His promises gleamed like pyrite, the inside just as worthless.

“Come with me,” he said, eyes still as water, pretty as a sunset, “and you will never go hungry again.”

And so, the string was pulled, a twig snapped, and together we were all trapped in the box our captor made, carrot and all. Perhaps, some of you blame us, think we decided our fate that day. That we were far too naïve because we agreed to his terms so readily. You may even feel that the pain inflicted later upon us was of our own doing. I’ve heard it all, my kin I’ve felt it even now, knowing that some of you reading this will not empathize with our pain.

All because you feel it was our fault to begin with, our fault in trusting.

However, in my experience, to blame the one on the ground bleeding over the figure holding the stone shows a lack of empathy for those who have suffered in ways you have not.

I am not asking you to change your perspective reader, certainly not. This is after all a cautionary tale to hopefully assist you in the next hundred years or so in the outside world. To help you live with less fear and hunger while providing weapons which are sharp enough to fight against those hardships. Certainly my goal is not to change your perspective, all are welcome. Despite this, I will ask you to politely set aside your biases until the end of our tale. Come back with me, reader, to a time where you believed in the trust of others as you did in childhood; where you willingly swallowed the lies told about human love and friendship like a sweet elixir. Empathize with us, as I know you are capable of, even if you may see us as a group of foolish monsters who made their choices out of fear of starvation and a naive hope for a new life.

There is only one villain in this story, after all.

Or more accurately, one type.

Luckily, dear reader, you know the end to this sorrowful saga. You are well aware that the circus comes out of this well. Consequently, if you do choose to go on, to feel our pain as though it were your own, do not fret about our well-being. I have a cup of boiled viscera near me, a lamp to keep warm, quill in hand, and thick tented walls for shelter—our ending is a happy one, but it was hard-earned.

I write this out for you, my faithful colleague, so that you may have a satisfactory conclusion too, as long as these lessons are adapted well in your lives.

May you never know what is to come. Therefore, let us continue, shall we?

The floor of a cage without alfalfa is stickier than you may realize, reader. Which is not difficult to imagine should you think about what’s thrown at you during a show and what you have to do in it each day. Even the blood of our ‘feed’ they gave us coated the black metal bars with a thin jellied viscous layer, so sticky it often ripped the hair from our bodies with even the slightest movement.

Before the cages, however, there wasn’t much to complain about really.

Humans threw things at us right as The Ringmaster introduced his new ‘act’, sure, but it hardly hurt then. The few workers he’d hired scattered about, avoiding the red-coated man like bugs skittering away from a foot. We never understood how the circus kept going through employees like scraps of paper, but we also never asked. Still, the cages were temporary, as we were led to believe, used only for showtime he told us. The Ringmaster would say that it helped to sell the idea of our ‘superior’ humans capturing the ‘stupid’ and ‘fierce’ monsters—made things more ‘fun’ for everyone. At night, in the beginning, we were always let out. Roaming freely in our own roomy tent to do as we pleased….that was of course, until the rumors began to spread.

“I saw it! The monsters! Running around at night!”

“So hideous! How could he put us all in danger like this!?”

“Is the circus part of the devil’s work? How could they let them out of their cages!?”

Thus, for the sake of ‘human safety’ and to keep suspicions low, we were meant to be kept away, hidden. Our tent was no longer large enough for several beds as it had been, but rather a few small dirty cages always locked for the public’s ‘peace of mind.’ At times another important human called ‘mayor’ would come in, for the more paranoid cities, to make sure we were put away ‘properly.’

Ridiculous, all of it, of course, but at the time such precautions made sense to us, especially after our benefactor sold the idea well with his seemingly heartfelt words and kind eyes.

“This is what a family does for one another,” The Ringmaster said with an almost apologetic look on his face as he tugs on the chains of the cage, making sure it held. “Sacrifices have to be made, you know? It’ll pass when we move to the next town, I’m sure of it!”

Jester narrowed his gaze, saying nothing but never taking his eyes off of the man.

“And…..food?” Weakly replied The Pierrot.

To which The Ringmaster suddenly perked up, bowing as though we were another group of passersby waiting in anticipation for his next show.

“Of course, of course!….Although,” he hesitated with a sharp edge to his voice, “there isn’t as much this time. Only a few were dumb enough to fall for the usual tricks—but I promise, the next town will be different.”

The Ringmaster then grinned, shiny teeth of a cornflower hue reflecting in our eyes with only a thread of hope keeping the peace we’d all longed for steady. As you could imagine my faithful colleague, the next town had ‘similar’ issues and the town after that, so on and so forth. Always with the excuse that The Ringmaster simply couldn’t find any humans deemed ‘eligible’ for feeding. Additionally, I’d always found it convenient as well that word kept getting around about our ‘nightly’ excursions. How do YOU think, reader, every important figure in every populated area got a hold of this information? Do you wonder, or do you know?

Soon enough, even the privilege of being let out at night was taken away.

Time after time, town after town, day by day.

It must be maddening to read this story, isn't it, reader? You must be upset or annoyed at our supposed naivety. If so, please understand that it is our anger, our frustration that is far greater than yours. We know how you feel, we’ve lived it. It’s a great shame to be out-smarted by a man who couldn't divide fractions nor count past two hundred until I taught him.

How could we have fallen for The Ringmaster’s guile when either Jester or Harlequin always met his every word with sharpened wit and valid critique? But that isn’t the important question here, reader, but rather, how is it you can avoid the same fate?

If you wish to know: Read on.

The angel, as expected, was a different sort of interest to the humans, an attraction that even The Ringmaster hadn’t expected. Thankfully, due to some unforeseen and desperate circumstances she was spared the tortures promised to her, though that detail is saved for the latter half of our story. This is The Jester’s tale, if you recall, hence we must focus on one tragedy at a time.

As I said before, at first the cages were temporary.

In the early days, our mornings, we acted like animals as the humans desired to see and at night we all played cards, eating our fill. They were fun nights, freeing even, despite what it turned out to be. We had even gotten along with the few human staff who dared to walk by our tent, if you could believe it. Though none of them ever helped us when The Ringmaster began his reign of terror. Most either disappeared or were given to us in pieces. Regardless, their lack of assistance during our times of need drained away any and all pity I might have had for those poor souls.

Being in charge of the finances even then, it was shameful just how much was used on booze and brothels by our new ‘friend.’ Money that could have been put to better use in repairing the lights, ripped tents, cleaning our cages, or hiring new help. The most intriguing thing however, was that I found no money being sent to the boarding school where The Ringmaster’s son was sent to. Jester, as I recall confessing this to one autumn night, agreed with me on the seriousness of these matters. Even going as far, though I hadn’t intended this reaction, to confront our ‘friend’ about it—all of it. He told me that it would be easy. That things would get back on track and we could easily afford better accommodations once Ringmaster saw reason.

“All it will take is some of that brown liquid he likes and getting him to rant about Steinbeck’s prose,” Jester said, confident in his plan. “Things will be different.”

A conversation that seemingly had no effect as The Jester came back late that evening and refused to speak with any of us for at least two days.

Failure, as I surmised to be the reason for Jester’s silence, must have been difficult even for our leader to accept.

Things then went as they always did, and a new normalcy was adapted. We were accomplices to our Ringmaster’s crimes, business partners, all while being animals in cages. Performers in a circus held back by chained puppet strings, and, supposedly, a family, his family, all at the same time.

Family being something Jester would emphasize to us regularly both then and now.

A word we never truly understood the meaning of until after we freed ourselves from The Ringmaster’s grip.

Even as we first left that small town with its dying forest through the cracked walls of an old boxcar, watching the trees blur into the gray sky as we began our journey on the road, our group truly realized that home meant being together through thick and thin. What happened to that town? Those woods? Well, it’s a city now, I believe, one we may be visiting again quite soon from when I’m writing this essay.

However, I heard that the forest is no longer around, a shame, but hardly unexpected.

Not a lesson, dear reader, but rather a fact you are well aware of given the forced nomadic nature of our kind: human progress destroys as much as it creates. I am grateful, of course, for the conveniences we have now as opposed to then, but every home is temporary because of this inevitable truth—nothing is permanent, though that is why we move.

Keep going, dear reader, even if you hate this story and learn nothing, then at least take this one truth to heart. Anyway, back to our tale:

Chains are harder than you think, they’re meant to be of course. But even for our rough skin, they will chafe and cut deeply given enough time. Cuffs can reopen even the oldest of wounds while the cries of ridicule keep them wide and raw. Jester however, remained still, even as he was locked up from head to toe, asking questions the rest of us were too afraid to try.

“Who is this for? Surely you don’t think these meager bonds could hold us.”

The Ringmaster clasped the chains with a wide grin, not meeting The Jester’s eyes, “It’s just for the audience’s sake. They’ll pay more if they think you’ll attack them at a moment’s notice.”

Jester’s mouth twitched at that, unimpressed, “Then why not tell them a story.”

The man finally looked at him with a raised brow, “What? What are you-?”

“Set the stage,” the purple clown’s gaze narrowed, a wide grin returning. “Create the story you know they wish to hear.”

Jester then leans forward, voice as quiet and low as a dark ocean, “Lie to them. I know you’re capable of that much.”

We all stiffened at his words, most of all, the human who our leader had dared spoken to in that tone.

“Your hair.”

Jester blinked, looking at The Ringmaster with a shocked expression. Unsure what to say at the sudden change of subject, mouth slightly open. A look, if I must be frank dear reader, I’d never seen on our leader’s face since.

“It’s too pretty,” the man’s dirty gloves then touch the god’s purple strands, not waiting nor caring for permission, twisting them between chewed nails like a miner crumbling a diamond free from coal.

“Far too smooth….Unnatural…..Freakish…..like all of you….”

Jester still had nothing to say. None of us did, not at least, until The Ringmaster yanked his hair, nearly pulling it from the scalp, his head hitting the front of the man’s belt, face scratched against the metal. Harlequin would later say that his eye had nearly been poked out from the force of his grip, claiming that our leader, Jester, even began to cry, holding his head. Though as a fellow witness to the scene, I assure you that our Jester was fine.

But he would remember.

Unfortunately, however, this was one of the few times The Jester was wrong.

When he told our benefactor about the chains not being able to hold us, he wasn’t lying but the human proved shrewder than expected…All monsters know what I refer to here, how the strength we gain from devouring human flesh is both a blessing and curse. Though what species doesn’t gain more energy from eating? Food is a power source for our bodies, or at least I’m certain that’s how The Doctor would describe it. Still, The Ringmaster knew this, clever as he was—soon enough the chains that we were told were ornamental became truly binding as the food we were promised became as scarce as the times the man spoke to us with kindness all that time ago in our forest.

Even during good days when The Ringmaster would request Jester for conversation, myself to count up the earnings for the day, or the angel to his side often ended with us in bandages. Smartly, the human made sure to avoid The Pierrot for his strength, Doctor’s unsettling ‘uniqueness’, and Harlequin’s scathing bite when it suited him—or at least that is how I saw it. Sadly, we know that my perspective is limited so I will leave that part up to your interpretation, reader.

The switch, you may ask, from friendship to nightmare is one I cannot describe in a way that makes sense to those who haven’t experienced it.

To me, you see, it all seemed to happen so smoothly, so quickly while staring between the cracks of poorly patched tent through the drilled holes of my cage; though the hunger could have contributed to our poor judgement, I suppose. Cravings of meat were the price we gave our freedoms up for, all so that we’d never experience those empty pains in our stomachs again. How ironic that The Ringmaster would starve us regularly, putting us in the worst position we’d ever been in since those days in our old forest.

Perhaps you are still thinking about our foolish choices, reader. Those thoughts of it being our own fault must be rattling around in that eager mind of yours. Well, if you must feel this way, then at least learn from it. Though I’d urge you again to not discount yourself among the fools of this world, no matter how smart and clever you may seem to be. Why? Because no one, not one creature on this planet is immune to the seductive allure that is the promise of success.

It was this very desire of success that The Ringmaster himself wasn’t willing to compromise his own ill-gained luxuries for. One of many vices of this particular human.

You would think that going from being a tutor of math, to my new human friend (I as someone who has the intelligence to discuss philosophy and literature in several languages), to being forced into a cage far too small for my body couldn’t make sense to you. Why did we scrub our own cages with burning lye and frayed brushes by hand you may ask? Why did we seemingly accept our new fate when it clearly had taken such a drastic turn for the worse? To answer: fear ….naturally. The idea of disobeying was so frightening, reader, that I would have scrubbed a hundred cages with a mere tooth brush just to avoid another day where my arm was forcibly bent into the opposite direction. The desire to never see the edges of my tongue blacken with thirst again was the only wish I had during those horrible times.

How can I somehow describe to you, make you see, my dear colleague, the reasons we obeyed him so readily? There is nothing I can do but beg for your empathy in a way that humans are unable to give.

If I could provide a map on the correct roads to avoid such circumstances for you, reader, I would, but until then this story will have to do. Maybe now, as you read and re-read what I’ve written here, you will see that things were always meant to turn out this way.

From the beginning, The Ringmaster was a cur who had no heart and soul—though, like the teller of histories I warned you about before, dear reader, this is a bias I am afraid I cannot let go. We found out, as you likely already surmised, that he had no son, or if he did then that child was at boarding school far away from here; perfectly happy with someone who had the ability to care for them. It should come as no surprise that the man lied about many things, everything really, but that is a truth so deeply ingrained in our lives as monsters that it hardly counts as a lesson to be learned.

Jester was closest to The Ringmaster, out of everyone, the betrayal devastated him the most.

The Ringmaster in turn also had a fondness for our leader, it seemed. Though being in the presence of such a superior being such as Jester, how could he not? The Jester, as you have either already met or at least heard of, has a certain air to him doesn’t he? Grace with every movement, words coated in hot silver, eyes as dazzling as gemstones. The Ringmaster wouldn’t be the first human to be drawn to such perfection, as you could imagine, not that any of them are worthy of our leader’s attention. No matter how much our jailer hated us, hurt us, and used our bodies for ridicule and other such demeaning demonstrations for the sake of ‘entertainment’—the circus owner, of that time, was fascinated by our people just the same—Unfortunately, his curiosity only extended so far. This, strangely, I cannot blame him for. After all, now that one has discovered a species far superior to their own said person likely would not want to find more of their kind. Then we’d be far too much trouble than we’re worth to them, and we were worth a lot, reader. At least, as far as I could tell given that I was in charge of the finances.

My skills, while of use to The Ringmaster were something that Jester noticed with sharp precision and appreciated in ways the humans could not. To this day, Jester tells me how important my role has been in maintaining our circus, so I urge you as well, reader, to keep up your studies. You never know whom they may help or what you can create with knowledge alone. The Jester did exactly this: learn. Learn by shadowing Ringmaster everywhere and anywhere he went; noticing the cracks in his business structure as well as the strengths. No matter where or when, Jester always found some excuse or reason to entice the man with honeyed words to spill his secrets:

“Where do you print these tickets? I’ve never seen such fine material. Is it a rare paper from overseas?”

“Ringmaster, sir, your tents are always so immaculate, however do you maintain their luxury?”

“You’re so clever, friend, far more than we, lowly, monsters. Yet I’ve seen you draw-in a crowd with only your top hat and the twirl of a cane. Surely, that must have been a fluke.”

“Yellow tents are for families and orange ones are for the other….salacious shows? So resourceful! Brilliant even. However did you come up with it?”

Jester, over time, through seas of hardship, and with the patience of a newlywed nun, stayed by The Ringmaster’s side for this reason only. Even when humans were carving scars into his back or other such places the now torn purple robes the man had gifted him would hide. All this, for our sake, for our freedom—Jester had a plan unlike no other. The skills Jester learned from the humans atop the ones he already had made it so that our circus thrives to this day. Humans can burn our homes, take our loved ones, and autonomy, but as long as you keep learning, you see, rebuilding what you’ve lost becomes easier over time. Although, perhaps this is insensitive to say. After all, many of you reading this have lost much to get to our safe haven here in the circus. Though again, I urge you, my monstrous kin, to press on. Listen to the whole story and judge after:

Sacrifice, of any kind, is never in vain when it helps to achieve your goals.

Once again, reader I must confess to my own biases here. You see, I always believed The Ringmaster’s ire originated by how threatened he was by our beauty and intellect. We monsters are not the ‘dumb animals’ that he sold to the foolish masses, yet our cages were filthy just the same.

What led me to this conclusion, at least one of the reasons, was how The Ringmaster would look at us a certain way. An oddly lingering gaze similarly seen whenever the human would measure our angel for a new pretty dress to wear; presents she received, as I now note looking back, with less enthusiasm over time.

(Hm….Editor’s Note to Myself: discuss with Jester about whether or not this inclusion is an assumption or fact. It is important to warn our brethren of all the dangers they could face, no matter how unlikely or cruel.)

“What is that?”

Jester eyed the book Ringmaster held in hand. Old red coat now gone to nest rats in some back alley, replaced with a vibrant jacket, lined with gold, boots polished and new now scuffing the human’s freshly cleaned (As I had done before) coffee table of his tent. A tent you see, he had all to himself, as we six shared our space together, cages becoming beds far too small for our bodies to fit comfortably.

The Ringmaster squinted his eyes, lying lazily in his chair, looking at his book but never sparing Jester a glance, “This? It’s a book, you know that.”

Our leader didn’t dare reply to such a demeaning answer, as he recounted to me later, and the silence cut the human like a knife to the head. Next lesson, reader, ego is as much a weapon as it is a weakness, use it. You see, The Ringmaster was a performer, an actor, so to have his audience be silent was simply unacceptable to a showman such as him.

Sighing, the human glanced at his monster ‘friend’, pointing to a painted picture in his thickened novel, “Just a story, kid, there’s a king, here—a duke, princess, knights—“

“And that one?”

Jester then pointed towards the large hatted figure, head tilting, having never seen such an outfit before, “The one that dazzles the room. All eyes are on him…”

“You mean—?” The Ringmaster frowned, creasing his brow at the image.

“His outfit…it shines more than any hand sewn gown or gaudy cape this so-called monarchy of yours wears. A lovely shade of purple….it’s…fascinating.”

“Oh, him,” he chuckled, teeth gleaming in a smile wide enough to show off the man’s gold fillings, “well, he is far more powerful than any king, nobleman, or law man can be.”

My leader then tilted his head.

“And?”

The Ringmaster barked a laugh, “Idiot! That’s just The Court Jester! He doesn’t have any power, ya fool! I’m surprised at you! Able to take my queen with two pawns on the chessboard, but you mistake a servant for royalty? Set your eyes elsewhere, monster, you got a show to rest up for.”

The air stilled with new change and rising ideas.

“Does a Jester,” the purple one continued despite the ridicule of the human, “sit with the royalty at all times?”

With a sigh, The Ringmaster knew this subject would not be let go so easily.

“Yes, I suppose, Jesters even entertain visiting dignitaries and the like, stick around to keep them company, but just to play and perform,” the human picks at his teeth, pulling the book away from view. “Nothing important.”

Jester then paused at this, brow furrowing.

“Isn’t what we do important?”

Ringmaster then paused, shoulders stiff and fingers bending the corners of the hard cover novel into triangular curls. The Jester’s eyes roam over his form, to the book, the chair, the fancy coat bought from the money we made for him, and up to the man’s tired face.

“Of course it is,” the human’s voice closed along with the book in hand, a tone we all knew to indicate the end of a conversation, “as long as fools exist and booze is cheap.”

From there, Jester’s plan grew, smiling widely as he silently left the room, chains rattling on weary ankles. And now we come to one of the most important lessons you see, faithful reader, one you may in fact already know but it bears emphasis:

Learn from your enemy.

If a mere ‘Court Jester’ was allowed to sit with dignitaries, overhear important conversations, and be educated enough to use this information wisely….well….

Oddly enough, our Ringmaster did have a point about something that day:

Fools, or at least the idea of them, are pivotal in helping one achieve their goals.

“Smile,” Jester urged the poison of our circus with a strained grin. “Never forget that, Harlequin. You must keep smiling.”

The green one grimaced, “Oh, ‘must’ we? What difference does it make? They’ll still shove those pointed sticks in our ribs either way thanks to that whimpering idiot over there.”

“I didn’t know…” a weak voice mumbled, looking away from us, shivering in their slightly larger cage. “I swear I didn’t!”

Jester stared at The Pierrot with an empathetic gaze, reaching out to brush a strand of silver from the sad creature’s eyes.

“We know. He told you to gather firewood, didn’t he?”

The Harlequin scoffed, frowning, “What a fool…didn’t it seem strange to you that he asked you to sharpen those sticks too?”

“I—I didn’t—he said it would burn faster—I…I’m sorry…”

I sighed, removing a splinter or two from my injured forearm, “They paid a lot for those sticks….perhaps he’ll be in a good mood later and feed us something fresh this time…”

“All of you,” Jester stood, well he stood as well as he could in a cramped cage, “keep smiling. Particularly when the humans are around.”

“That will likely hurt our faces after a long period of time,” The Doctor spoke up.

Ah, Doctor….expertly, even then, he did what he could to bandage our injuries despite only being able to work with the dirty rags of what was left of our clothing. Unfortunately, our dear Doctor couldn’t always help as he was often bound with far more chains than any of us due to his frightening appearance.

Another word of caution, reader, for those of us who have larger statures and less, what they cruelly call, ‘human’ features, will always be regarded with more fear and hatred than anyone else. At times, The Ringmaster wouldn’t let our Doctor out of his cage for any reason, simply because he often unintentionally scared away paying customers with his magnificent figure. It’s difficult to say whether or not this has affected The Doctor to this day though he is seldom found outside his tent. Often refusing to shop with myself and the rest of the circus, but, at the same time, The Doctor does love his experiments and now has the freedom to work as long as he likes. So, who is to say what is habit or traumatically learned behavior, really?

Oh right, where were we?

“W-where is—I have to—?” The Pierrot suddenly noticed the absence of his angel and began to panic.

Harlequin turned away from the whimpering creature, “Must you always have your eyes on her? You know where she is…”

“…Oh.”

Jester however, as superior and wonderful as he is, kept us focused on task. The angel was of no concern just yet, he told us, but again emphasized the importance of a smile. At the time, I admit my own ignorance into his plan—then again, I was rather distracted with a few stab wounds to tend. Essentially however, Jester made sure we all kept smiling even during the worst pain….and reader…..dearest reader…. You must believe me when I say:

It worked.

There is a reason our masks are usually in the form of a smile, for you see, to grin when faced with danger is something that would unsettle even the boldest human.

Thus, we began our coup of The Ringmaster’s reign, with a smile.

Smiling with our teeth and strange faces kept people from getting too close. Unlike The Harlequin’s strategy, who used to growl and taunt the humans behind his barred cage, this was effective. Harlequin’s mannerisms, that admittedly I and the others used to employ, seemed to only bring the humans back—worse yet, with anger and revenge in their hearts. How ironic though, that Harlequin became the one who smiles the most out of any of us now in the circus, though I could not say so for under his mask.

It is possible then, that a smile can be a shield as well as a sword at the same time—if nothing else, then let that be the lesson to take here.

Ah and here we are, my monstrous companion! If you have made this far, then you know we are at the climax of this epic. The moment of all moments, where myth destroys all human concepts of reality—fiction and truth are blurred and we become: The Freak Circus of Horrors. For you see, The Ringmaster, horrible man that he was, decided after months of us driving customers away with our unsettling smiles and strangely calm demeanors in the face of their wrath, to get rid of….most….of us.

Us..The very creatures he promised he’d treat as family. Looking back, perhaps the human did treat us in the same way had his own blood-related family as shown by a lone picture that laid buried and torn in the breast of his coat pocket. Fitting, though, that the one record of the pitiful man’s old life eventually burned with the rest of his belongings when we were done eating our fill.

Once our fates were decided, The Jester came up with a plan, a brilliant means and an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice that burns in my heart to this day. But dearest reader, I find it important to keep the end goal of our actions in mind as I tell you truly what happened that moonless night we took back our lives through force and sacrifice. More than a recounting, this is a confession, an origin of our family as we made it without the need of human support.

That day, or night, rather, I remember being cold, starved, kneeling on the sticky floor of our cages in barely enough rags to cover my naked form. Only for the next morning to reek of burnt flesh and singed grass as sunrise gently caressed our Jester’s body in a halo of gold. A sight that was so mesmerizing that I could not help but kneel to our beneficent god after everything had happened in awe; giving him the title of leader which he accepted either out of obligation or the desire to make things right—A fact, I admit, I do not know.

But I am getting ahead of myself, patient reader. You wish to know what happened, how we finally became free and a true family and the difficult choices that were made along the way. It all began—

“Bil, care to explain what it is you’re doing in the main tent at this hour?”

The TicketTaker jumped in his seat, quill in hand slightly scattering the ink he’d just dabbed into the nearby well on his desk. Turning, though less surprised than before, there stood Jester, standing tall, arms behind his back, magnificent as ever in the blue clown’s vision. Amethyst eyes narrow at the piles of paper on the ticketer’s makeshift desk, as though silently repeating the question TicketTaker knew wouldn’t be asked again. Every query was an order given by The Jester, and to show your devotion to such a wonderful leader was simply to obey.

“Y-Yes, apologies,” the ticketer stood from his chair, adjusting the seat before facing his leader, back straight. “Harlequin’s tent is closest to mine this season, Jester, and, well, the poison recently brought two fools inside—Ahem, he’s being rather loud so—“

Jester hummed, knowing, “Of course, I will be sure to have a talk with him later then. But you didn’t finish answering my question, did you now?”

The TicketTaker stiffened at that fact, shame coloring his face while holding back a smile at how sharp his wonderful leader was. Jester never was one to miss a beat.

“I was writing a rough draft,” the blue one answered calmly, “of that guide, the one I spoke with you about the other day, for the black tent guests to use.”

“….I see,” Jester sighed.

“Yes, I-I know you weren’t originally too keen on the idea, Jes,” TicketTaker began to clasp his suddenly sweaty hands behind his back. “But many of our kind have wondered how we manage to survive and thrive in such a human-dominated world. They have questions….”

The amethyst clown held back another sigh, walking towards his ticketer with long and even strides. Stepping softly as a dancer would on the edge of a stage. His eyes glanced downward at the pages on the desk, the latest one still wet with ink, though this hadn’t deterred Jester from picking up the pile just the same.

“If they have such burning queries, then simply direct our more ‘curious’ guests to my tent. I will take care of the rest,” Jester said with some finality in his voice before softening it at the end. “You needn’t shoulder all the burden, old friend.”

TicketTaker’s eye then shot directly to Jester almost desperately.

“I-it’s no burden, really! I—forgive me,” the blue clown caught his enthusiasm. “I acted hastily, but….You are just…so inspiring, Jester. Your story has power. Perhaps, if we could teach the newest generation the means to survive out there from your good example. Then, perhaps, things could be easier for some. Naturally, I would burn the documents if you still didn’t approve, but--”

“But?” Jester raised a brow, gaze narrowed but steady.

The TicketTaker winced at that, knowing that such was the main reason as to why Jester hadn’t approved of the idea originally.

“I..made sure to keep things vague…”

Gripping the documents in hand, Jester’s claws brushed against the edges of the paper, eyes raking over the text with a long and steady leer.

“Do not speak of this to anyone, Bilheteiro,” he said with finality, not facing him. “Your actions were done out of kindness, my friend, I know, but it is simply too risky to have such documents around where any lone rat can find.”

The TicketTaker nodded, feelings not hurt as they could never be; Jester’s logic was always sound, always had purpose. So, for the blue clown, his leader, his god, could never be wrong. Bowing, he listened carefully to Jester’s words and silently allowed him to continue.

“Those under our care will have to settle for the stories our performances tell, or you will direct those who are unsatisfied with such to me. That goes for the rest of our group as well.”

TicketTaker straightens his back, “At your command, my leader. Would you like me to burn the pages, then?”

The Jester looks over his loyal follower up and down, slowly. A glance that made Bil feel some heat under his mask at the thought of being such an object of focus from his idol. Still, The TicketTaker was nothing if not a master of hiding emotions, though he knew deep down that Jester could always see right through him—hesitant, embarrassed, or otherwise.

“I will take care of it, meu Bilheteiro. It’s late,” Jester says while calmly laying a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Go. Rest for tomorrow where you will be needed at your best.”

TicketTaker’s heart sped upon hearing his full name said in such a way, immediately calming himself, knowing he must control his emotions, be the person Jester needed. Noting idly with one pearl white eye, the ticketer saw his leader hold the documents, now fully dry, to his chest, and nodded.

“Anything you wish, Jester,” The TicketTaker bowed before walking out of the tent only after the purple clown gestured again with his spare hand, signaling him to leave.

An autumn wind blows a few leaves inside as the flapping of the cloth entrance is the only sound available when The Jester is finally alone. Glancing over his shoulder, the leader makes sure his companion has truly left, a pleasant flowery scent no longer near before turning back to the pages he held.

“Still writing with quill, hm?” Jester notes, amused. “Perhaps, I should get him a proper fountain pen…”

Turning off the last spare lamp, the leader made sure to have a talk with The Harlequin and his noise issues. Fools were amusing, of course, but not at the expense of one’s good night sleep. Light wasn’t necessary for their kind, but it provided a nice atmosphere for writing, surely, as Jester noticed the sheer amount of pages his TicketTaker wrote. Sighing again, he exits the now empty tent, heading towards his own private quarters that had a nice pit for a small fire to burn the incriminating documents.

On the way through the circus, just to glance, surely, simply to amuse, Jester began reading the story Bil composed. Only to raise a brow at some moments, frown at others, and remember things the leader tried daily to forget. Occasionally, Jester found Bil’s word choices amusing. Of course, The TicketTaker would compare him to an epic hero or a god of all things. The thought was truly flattering, even if a part of him knew the praise was a tad overkill. Knowing that the blue clown’s devotion was true as ever filled Jester with a deep sense of satisfaction, however. A god? Perhaps he was, depending on who you ask. It was a comfort, to be sure, that sort of reverence. The type of power that never ensured he’d be on his knees again, chained, and at the mercy of another. Jester decided just then, with a small smirk, that he liked Bil’s words as it seemingly justified his proverbial throne in this circus of freaks. Never again would the purple clown allow someone else to hold the reins, not when the leader of the circus incessantly wrapped that leash tightly around his arm enough to cut off the circulation. In fact, Jester would rather give up that hypothetically bound limb rather than be under someone else’s power….never again.

However, certain moments in the tickter’s story….were a little too close to home, something Jester noted with another frown, while passing by the pink tent in particular.

It also stood out how The TicketTaker assumed much about the way Jester felt in certain moments; emphasizing how deeply the purple clown must have hated his jailer. Naturally, Jester did…he does... Their shared rage at The Ringmaster’s gradual betrayal was surely never in question, but the writing brought back memories. Such as the sound of the human’s cold voice mixed with his honeyed words struck Jester to stop dead in his tracks in the middle of the circus. Feelings The Jester had long since buried began to slowly crawl out of him, though his figure remained still, not betraying the strength it exuded even then. Smaller details, such as referring to Columbina as merely ‘the angel’ was both a tribute to her sacrifice and innocence as much as it was an insult. Jester knew this, of course, why Bil wrote things the way he did—Why he avoided talking about her, despite the angel being the catalyst of the leader’s coup.

Regardless, it had to be done—a thought that helped the clown push back those old feelings and began walking to his tent once more, bones chilling under toughened skin. The Jester was not sorry for what he had to do, he wasn’t. To this day, however, he wasn’t sure if he was sorry that it happened at all.

“Bil was right about one thing,” the amethyst clown muttered under his breath, still walking with pages crinkling in hand. “The reader of this tale could never truly understand….”

However, the words his subordinate said mere moments ago echoed painfully, annoyingly as well, in The Jester’s mind:

‘Your story has power.’

Biting his lip while smiling only to curve downward into a frown, Jester began fighting his own mind to prevent another memory from resurfacing—a far more potent one. The leader of The Freak Circus was an intellect, controlling everything, body and mind. Nevertheless, there were some things his brain wished to go back to that Jester had no control over. Bracing himself, eyes now glazed and somewhat lethargic in stance while forcing himself to the front of his tent, did he succumb to the torture his own mind wished to wrought. Nostalgia and old pain rattled his bones like wind against a planks of rotted wood as the world around him began to change to what was rather than what is.

For a moment, before another memory took over, Jester recalled the beginning of Bil’s written story.

That day…where The Ringmaster pulled on his hair, nearly taking Jester’s eye out with a belt. Mercifully, The TicketTaker didn’t describe what actually happened, or perhaps, as the amethyst clown wondered while using a free hand to grip his chest, Bil hadn’t remembered. Thank goodness….

Jester recalls being pushed to the ground, in front of everyone by his once friend, eyes wide and in shock at what had happened. The dull burn of his scalp ached even now in the present day. Arms coming around, papers forgotten but still in hand, as the leader of the circus recalls being in the same position in the mud; staring at the human he trusted with a gradually sinking heart. How he looked up at The Ringmaster, curling into a ball like a tiny weak pill bug—a shameful pose but he couldn’t help it. All Jester could do was instinctively shield himself from the continuing assault, waiting to be struck again.

And he was…

Over and over….

Rough patterned skin matted to the clay of the ground, sinking his body deep enough to cake his legs in the stuff for days to come.

It seemed that this however was omitted from The TicketTaker’s story, but Jester wasn’t sure at that moment whether that bothered him or if he was actually thankful for the considerate nature of his oldest friend.

Once more however, the leader’s treacherous mind began to play another scenario.

The scene of the dark, comforting circus soon melted away to the warm lights of an interior that made Jester’s body stiffen as though he were preparing himself to be struck by a thick glass bottle even now. Funny that, the way the past can still make you feel as though it’s still happening despite knowing it couldn’t again—Jester’s final thought before the scene floods his vision, blurring into the circus as he knows it and knew it, his mind plays a story exactly as it was, one he had no interest in recalling ever again:

It was nighttime still, at least this he was certain of.

The Ringmaster always asked for him at six pm on the dot, every day, no exceptions. Refusing to let the monster go until ten at the earliest, personal evenings lost because of this selfish demand. It became so instinctual to be taken from his cage at six o’clock that even in the present day circus would Jester, on occasion, feel an itch in his skin; as though knowing he needed to be somewhere else. Rubbing his wrists to make sure the chains that were once there had been taken off, knowing logically of course that they weren’t still on his wrists though the memory showing them plain as day hardly helped his current frantic state. It had become such a natural thing in his formative years that the feeling of rough iron always returned whenever he saw another human face.

So many faces Jester sees during every performance, so much iron….the taste of blood not helping.

In this memory, while sitting in the tent of his once friend near a human who was every bit as cruel as The TicketTaker described in his story, there was one detail about The Ringmaster that made Jester’s heart ache in ways he refused to admit. The fact that their shared enemy, the man who hurt, lied and imprisoned them, could have been so much more—the loss of that potential is something Jester mourns with every strum of a stringed instrument in his tent. A human, not of high intelligence nor means, but a lover of books, an artist, musician, and above all a tragically pathetic figure. Not that Jester cared, not any more….but the lingering sense of pity his body seemed to recall made him want to vomit in the midst of this memory his treacherous mind forced him to relive.

“Have you made progress on your newest song?” the amethyst clown had asked.

The Ringmaster however, finishes his drink, at first ignoring Jester’s question; tongue out digging in the neck the empty bottle as though a drop more would satisfy his unending thirst.

“Why bother?” The man groggily responded. “There isn’t any power in my music—no one has good taste anyway.”

An answer he often gave to silence the topic of his skills that society ignored. The monster however refused to obey Ringmaster’s wishes this time. Determined, with one last strand of hope in his chest to return to those days where they were happy, singing, and merry by a small fire in the woods.

“You have power,” Jester lowered himself, kneeling on the ground in front of The Ringmaster’s chair as he knew it was the only way he could be heard by the arrogant man. “We are performers, Court Jesters who stand by kings, queens, and nobles, but they do not mind our presence. We can use this invisibility, friend! Take us out of our cages, let us monsters tell stories with your songs to accompany. Such a show would shake the Earth itself, can’t you see? Draw a crowd no other; making those kings who rejected you reflect on their errors in judgement—like that play we read together.”

“Hamlet?” Muttered The Ringmaster who fingered the empty bottle in hand while never breaking eye contact with his favorite monster.

“Naturally, it won’t have the same ending,” Jester’s fingers tap against the chair the human sat in like fingers on a piano, restless, ready to compose the most beautiful of songs if given the chance. One of many talents the clown mournfully knew his companion was capable of should he have tried.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, Jester reaches out with a clawed hand. Palm facing upward in a silent means to indicate to the human that he wouldn’t hurt him. Waiting patiently, The Ringmaster allowed it, and Jester held his free hand with a calmness he vowed to never bestow on another human again.

“Our story won’t become a tragedy that ends in bloodshed. We could…make this circus grander; your story has power after all. A play within a play. The entire circus could be a stage where we could all be safe, sated, and…free within its tented walls.”

The Ringmaster scoffs yet he holds Jester’s hand only a fraction tighter, “And what do you know about power? About running a damn business like this?”

“I know,” The Jester’s throat is dry but voice steady, “from your good example.”

Grasping the human’s soft hand in his own, Jester as we know him now recalls his warmth with sickening dread; feeling it still in his palm as though the man were still there. Round human pads against roughly clawed skin, one would never have thought such a lesser species could have thrived more than monster-kind—or cause far more scars in their thick hides than any other natural beast on this planet. Ringmaster then looked at Jester with some clarity in his drunken eyes, a glance that once filled the clown with foolish hope that his words had reached his old friend.

Though the human’s sobering gaze had also been part of Jester’s plan back then as well.

At times, the clown carefully diluted some of the man’s beer bottles with water—mostly, of course, to avoid yet another drunken beating from Ringmaster but worst of all….Jester was…..worried, annoyingly so, at the health of his friend. As though he wanted to preserve him for as long as possible. Why? The answer was too grotesque for the clown to admit, even to himself.

Leaning forward, the human is now a breath away from Jester who remains still as untouched water, waiting for a response. Wanting more, and hungering for their conversation to continue, until…

“Get me another,” The Ringmaster says plainly.

And Jester’s heart began to sink before coating the last bit of its flesh with hard steel.

Naturally, the monster wasn’t surprised at this response, but disappointment and failure were emotions Jester would come to associate with this sack of useless flesh. Horrid man, what a fool! Did he even listen to Jester’s words? The opportunity he’s squandered? The fate he just sealed? No…of course not. So much power, this human had, potential…lost. A waste of a man.

“Have you written any music lately?” Jester asked, clinging to faith even as it just let him go as he hung on the edge of a cliff. “Those songs on the Viola de buriti you showed me in private last month, there is so much you could be doin—“

The man clicked his teeth, head gesturing again, angrily at the bottle he’d asked for.

Jester seethes while he stands, and eventually hands the man his coveted prize, with a glare. Carefully, Jester pries the empty bottle from the human as well—more out of concern for his own safety than The Ringmaster’s now that all hope was truly dashed. Worse off, nothing else could be accomplished this night other than getting out of the human’s tent in one piece. Though the chances Ringmaster had accepted Jester’s idea were slim to begin with, the monster had been hopeful his words reached him in some way.

Useless creatures these humans are. If they would only obey The Jester, or any of monster kind without question, then they would be able to be of ‘some’ use at least.

“Tell me about how you like Steinbeck’s pretentious prose,” the man’s voice grows hoarse, mouth drying which only feeds his need for him to drink more. “You always have such high opinions of the man. I suppose you had a point before….uh?….About his biblical references…but the guy never shuts up about those damn mountains!”

Jester stays still, standing in front of the sitting pitiful human, noting his disheveled outfit and sprawled knees almost angrily, but happy at the same time. Angry at the potential wasted, the power this man had over him—happy….however….because now Jester had the freedom to go through with his plan to escape his cage. Now that The Ringmaster had graciously showed him that there was no hope for humans and monsters in this horrid circus, Jester had nothing left to lose.

No regrets, hope for more, no more pity.

Though for now, Jester would pretend to revel in literary discussion with The Ringmaster. He may even be able to change the human’s mind regarding Steinbeck and Kafka, but it was foolish to think he could do so in regards to how the man ran his struggling business. It would be difficult however, to just pretend to talk about novels and plays as though things were normal. Every word in their conversation would feel like hot lead in Jester’s belly, but go on he must—for now, so that the plan would work.

“I…would be delighted to, Ringmaster,” Jester ended with some venom in his tone.

The Ringmaster’s wrist then flicks in Jester’s direction before the monster can begin speaking again, and the sinking feeling returns ten-fold in the now dimly lit room. Reality finally bringing out the clown as we know him in present day. Slowly slinking back to his familiar circus of horrors instead of the human’s oppressive tent, right as the Ringmaster’s last order echoed like a fading alarm in the back of Jester’s mind.

“Get back on your knees, fucking arrogant creature. I’m the king of this castle, not you.”

The monster’s jaw clicked at that as he knelt by his human’s side, ever the loyal Court Jester, fulfilling the role given to him by a lost and mad king.

That night, certain fates had been decided and finally Jester was back in his own reality, mind finally freeing him of the shackles of memory.

Autumn leaves cracked under the leader’s boots as he finally entered his tent, finished with The TicketTaker’s story, ready to watch it burn. So there he stood, in a dark room, not needing the light, grabbing some tinder and throwing it in a pit. Only one lone claw against flint caused a spark and suddenly the tent grew as bright as his jeweled eyes, sparkling, waiting to be fed. Fire and monsters were so similar weren’t they?

Never satisfied, always hungry.

As The Jester tore the pages of his would-be biography he first reached into his pocket, grabbing a lone lighter and singing the edges of the paper before sending it into the fire. Eyes lingering on his name, the man’s name, the inaccurate illustrations of what was, a thought occurred to the leader just then. Head then tilted to a piece of large parchment on his desk, a map of destinations for the circus, places they’ve been and yet to be. Jester’s smile fades as he notices in that tent, during autumn, under a moonless sky, the next city their circus was destined to visit in a month or so.

“Ah…how nostalgic,” arms then cross behind his back as he turns back to the small pit of fire, expression neutral and cold.

That fateful night when the group of monsters surrounded The Ringmaster who betrayed them under the very same cold, moonless sky. The background which was strangely outlined by the smell of fire and the cinders of a lost dream. A dream that Jester had wished to see accomplished with all of his heart, if only the circus had not been run by an absolute fool. Irresponsibility and cruelty made this happen, not the monsters who would be blamed; it stoked the flames behind the figures as they stood in that clearing, standing tall and strong while everything The Ringmaster worked for crumbled. The remaining humans either laid on the ground, their useless forms read to be of some use in nature, or scattered about from the disaster their group wrought. How poetic it was, that day, to see humans resemble squirrels in the forest running at the slightest sound.

Nothing felt truer to life ever since to the monsters then–animals pissing themselves out of fear.

What could be more natural than that?

Jester recalls with clarity, while putting his lighter away after a few clicks, the man’s expression on the ground; his own claws covered in blood, teeth glowing at night, and hatred hot enough to melt the iron chains that used to bruise the monster’s wrists. It was cathartic (how could it not be?) to see this ‘king’ trembling with fear, the same fear he’d seen when they met. What was wrong then? About all of this? What did he feel? Hatred yes….but worst of all….

Jester mourned.

“O que poderia ter sido,” he swallowed heavily with a growl.

Is it even possible to cry over someone who both lifted your spirits and spat viciously in your face in one breath? Does it make sense to care about what could have been when you overheard the one you cared about brag to his friends and audience alike about how ‘clever’ he was in tricking those ‘mindless beasts’ into their cages? How much it burns the edges of your eyes, knowing that he was right?

Why did he call out to Jester at the end? Why bother?

Did he truly expect mercy after everything?”

“My…..my…?!”

The Ringmaster could only say this, reaching out to him, to the monster he used to love playing chess with. Only for Jester’s calloused but clawed foot to lodge deep into the man’s sternum, keeping the human heaving on the ground. Leaning down, the once great Ringmaster could swear he saw a light outline of Jester's hovering body despite there being no moon to be found; beautiful, terrifying in his stance. Staring at the once great Ringmaster with glee, delighted in the spoils of his victory. Finally, Jester was the one standing tall while he sank deeper into the mud. A grin, wider than humanly possible appeared on the purple monster’s face as he said:

“No no, not ‘my’ but rather ‘ours’, friend. You do know what that word means, don’t you?”

What was the point in forgiveness if the person who hurt you never intended to change until it finally suited their needs?

“Please—wait! I’m sorry! SORRY!” He cried.

It doesn’t matter how badly Jester wished he could hear his songs again, revel in those memories without wanting to scream…the days he only remembered under the covers in a travel cot, coated in the dark. Cold nights brought back painful recollections to Jester, ones so haunting that he wanted to pull at his eye lids and gnaw at a rod of metal until his teeth left pointed dents all over.

Amethyst eyes locked on the human that night, full of rage, chest puffed, haughty and delighted in his victory. Creatures of all colors except one bore into the human’s shivering form on the ground. Dewey grass soaked into their jailer’s once fine clothing before that along with his flesh and bone were torn to pieces after one word from the monster’s new appointed leader:

“Eat.”

Victory however, was not as sweet as the monster thought it would be.

The first thought Jester had as his teeth dug into Ringmaster’s neck were their games of chess of all things. Confusion, anger, fondness, as well as a rising ball of bile in his throat is all he could feel as the monster tore the man’s esophagus out, crushing his once talented hands with heavy claws.

Every sip the human took of that vile brown elixir, every cracked bone Jester endured, the endless sight of blood pooling atop broken glass, the feeling of salt in his throat, the stains, and the ripping of skin from the sticky metal floors of his cage all mixed together in that moment creating a gray blob of batter. As though his mind acted as a chef putting too many incompatible ingredients in a mixing bowl hoping for the colors of a rainbow and instead getting a pile of blobby mush.

Memories of The Ringmaster’s few kind words and gentle promises as he killed him were one of the reasons why softness something The Jester could no longer stand. A sword far sharper than anything he used to hurt his enemies and lovers alike.

It was best, was it not, to break soft things until they learned their place in this world. Until they realized that if they’re not strong enough to think for themselves then The Jester would happily set them on a far more…useful path.

Light, though low, from the small flame inside his private tent illuminated what it could with its now dimming embers. Small sparks touched the edges of the bells on Jester’s boots, reflecting his bed, chest, and desk as well as the few other possessions he kept nearby.

Resting behind the large box by his cot, almost hidden if one didn’t look closely, was an object that caught the leader’s attention as soon as a bit of flame reflected in its shiny strings. Arms stiffening, Jester’s skin bristled under his tight gloves at the sight of the eerily familiar object—

How could he have forgotten? When did he take it out?

Walking towards the chest, Jester opens it with ease, carefully placing the object inside, so as not to accidentally tear the wires attached to it with his sharp claws.

Eyes narrowed further as his other hand grasps the lid of his private crate, closing it slowly with a low creek as the fire finally dies out; all traces of The TicketTaker’s story travel upward in the air before becoming ash in the ground. With the box finally shut, Jester knew immediately that he wouldn’t get any rest that night. Pulling a key out from a hidden pocket in his coat, the purple clown finally locks the box with the Viola de buriti now safely tucked inside; making a mental note to have the instrument stored elsewhere once the circus arrives at their next destination.

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A/N: This story took a lot out of me, emotionally speaking, drudged a lot of personal experiences and placed them in this story haha. Not everything of course but man I was drained for dayyyys. Special thanks again to DarthSuki for beta reading and Neko for being the amazing person he is <3 greatest friends ever tbh. <3333

Remember, this isn't canon!!!! But have fun either way. I'll add warnings to it if you guys think it needs though! enjoyyyy

moona-montelbraide

this got me through a lot of emotions....LOVE U DESTINY!!!!

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