The Flying Fazzinis

“Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late!” The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. Happens every time.

The Ringmaster had recently contacted me about a special mission involving Bobby and Rene—and I felt a little inexperienced to be doing a double on my own—but after tonight I was feeling more comfortable with the assignment.

Bobby nonchalantly put the silencer of his H&K USP 45 to the girl’s head and blew her brains onto the bamboo wall of her room at the Vai Moana Hotel on Easter Island. Her brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate. Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp. Her dead body thumped down next to her husbands. Who knew what these poor bastards had done to come under the thumb of the Ring.

She let out a long low fart. It took me completely by surprise. 

“Is that normal,” I asked. Bobby nodded.

“It is important to realize they are just targets, not people,” Bobby said.

“Well, technically, they are people,” I responded. “People that fart,” I said.

“Targets. No different than swatting a fly on the wall. A nuisance. Something needing to be dealt with. Not people,” Bobby countered.

“Should we… clean this up,” I asked.

“No, we’ll just call housekeeping before we step out for our show,” Bobby fired back.

“Are you ready for the trapeze act,” I asked.

“You know better than anyone that I am built to amaze,” Bobby said.

“Ewww,” I said. Bobby and I were family, after all. Technically, we weren’t blood related. But when you are part of a travelling circus, stepbrother doesn’t really quite cover how close you are. And Bobby and I were really close.

“Don’t speak a word of this to Rene,” I told him. “Rene still thinks we go on these trips as a way of having a fun ‘family get-away’ while still raking in a few bucks—she has no idea what we are really up to—or how deep in we are with the Ring.”

It was only recently that I had learned about and been initiated into “the Ring,” something Rene knew nothing about. And I planned on keeping it that way.

Bobby and Uncle Andy had been in the midst of a hit when I had walked in on them. They were in the back of “the Lobster Pit,” a 50s-themed restaurant where we were having a family dinner. They were gone for a long time. Way too long to have been giving their compliments to the Chef.

Rene suggested I go back and check on them. I did. But I got more than I bargained for. They weren’t exactly giving the Chef their compliments. They were slicing him into bite size pieces and placing him into plastic baggies, wearing large white aprons stained in blood. Their faces too. Even Uncle Andy’s white Fu Manchu beard and mustache were red.

They’d quickly finished their work, cleaned up, and explained that “the Ring” was a ring of assassins, run out of a centralized location in the Caribbean. The leader of the Ring was the Ringmaster. And all of the assassins were travelling circus performers. All of the intelligence was carried out by clowns, mimes and statuary acts. It was a global organization involved in changing world events, one lucky customer at a time. And I was the newest initiate.

* * *

It was comedy night at the luau, and there would be a stand-up open mic session after our circus act. And that could only mean one thing. Uncle Andy. 

Bobby and I started putting our clothes back on, and I thought how I was going to miss this. Some would call it incest, but really, he was the only male I’d known since the age of 18 who was in my age range and also on the road. So, don’t judge.

We cleaned up and got our leotards on for the flying trapeze act. Mine was pink with red flames and a little frilled skirt. Bobby wore white leggings and a white top with a big red “F” in the center of the top. 

We started with some balance rolls with hooked knees, passing by each other. Then I did a pop up to sit and re-hooked my legs to a hock position, with my hands hanging down for the jump and reverse grab. I reached for Bobby’s hands…

…and he caught me. Applause. Then he sent me sailing for a double back-flip re-grab. Boom, boom, watched the sand pass by twice, spotted the trapeze, boom and catch. Applause.

The whole routine only took about three minutes. But it sure left the two of us pretty damned winded. We joined the luau circle where Uncle Andy was ready to start his part of the evening’s festivities. There was pineapple and ham and macaroni salad and deviled eggs and enough fruity cocktails to bathe a hippopotamus in. The citronella candles around the luau circle were ripe and citrusy and mixed with the various fruity fragrances and with the smoky, salty smells of the spit-roasted honey glazed ham.

There were fire throwers, hula hoop dancers, and Aztec dancers on the outskirts of the big top, frolicking in the sand, doing their thing. But they weren’t with us. Uncle Andy was part of our travelling entourage. It was Uncle Andy, Marge, Bobby, me (Abbie), and Rene. The parents, the siblings, and the little baby. Except we were a circus troop. No actual blood relations. I want to reiterate that.

Uncle Andy was up on stage doing his “hitman” act, which was a bit on the nose. He was dressed like Andrew Dice Clay, his namesake, and doing his best impression:

“Heyy. You like the new jacket? Only other time I wore this jacked, honest to God, was when I met Elvis—the King. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I know there are kids in the room. I won’t curse, much. Marriage. I don’t believe in it. You know. I just have a really hard time with it. You know what I mean? Girls are always asking me why I have such a hard time getting married for. It isn’t the commitment. You know what I mean. It’s the ceremony. It goes against the company policy. No witnesses! Oh!”

I’m not gonna lie. Uncle Andy was killing it on stage. Pun intended. Turns out, he had the maître d’ floating in the dunk tank backstage. Poor guy. 

In addition to being a hitman, Andy had a lot of fun, quirky hobbies. From Andrew Dice Clay hitman-themed stand-up to touring with a Kiss cover band, Andy was a versatile actor who was full of surprises. Eclectic. And he was our Ringmaster. Not the Ringmaster. But ours.

Andy was perfect in the circus spotlight, donning a black cape, huge top hat, with an ornate knob handle cane, and big knee-high black boots. He had a blue and white megaphone. Bright tailcoat, red waistcoat, bowtie, and a fistful of rings.

Walking off stage, he came over and said, “what do you guys think? Did I knock ‘em dead or what?”

* * *

Marge was our bearded woman. She was Guyanese. She was also our midget. She was about three-and-a-half feet tall and had a two-foot long beard. She was also rather round and kind of waddled when she walked.

Let me tell you, God went out of his way to bestow as many gifts as possible on Marge. Ironically, she was very good-natured about all of it, and sage-like in a Yoda sort of way. So much so, that she had become the de facto circus therapist, and her real calling was helping the Ring members deal with trauma.

Bobby and I were both there for therapy, but Marge was focused on Bobby, while I was reading “Gone Girl” on the sofa in the back and eavesdropping.

“What seems to be the problem, Bobby?” Marge asked.

“No problem,” Bobby said.

“You’ve been feeling a bit stressed lately,” Marge clarified.

“Yeah, yeah. Lots of talkers, you know. I don’t mind the quick ones, but the talkers really bother me. Can’t get their nasally, pleading voices out of my head, don’t kill me, Don’t do it… but the worst is the prayers, man, they’re the absolute worst, My Lord and savior, please deliver me from evil… no weapon formed against me… It’s just awful.” Bobby said.

“Awful how?” Marge asked.

“I mean, awful in a—just face the music pal—kind of a way. You know? It’s like if you fall off a bike and try to land so as not to scrape your knee or something like that. It isn’t happening pal. Gravity already got you. It’s like that. You know?” Bobby said.

“So how are you processing your grief for your victims,” Marge said.

“Grief? No grief. It’s me that I feel bad for. They’ve got a one-way-ticket to gonesville. I’m still living here in hell—I mean don’t get me wrong—life is great—you know, if you are a glutton for eternally recurring punishments and never-ending obligations foisted on you by, let’s see, biology, your landlord, the government, your family unit, your profession, propaganda, the Ring, and let’s not forget the social compact—the good ‘ol social compact. Yeah. A great time was had by all,” Bobby said.

“But specifically, what is it specifically about these homicides that is stressing you out,” Marge said.

“I don’t know Marge, I guess it’s the fact I have no f**king idea what the purpose behind all of this is and if the Ring actually has a good reason for killing these people—I mean, I’m all for trimming the hedges, but how do I know the Ring has humanity’s best interests at heart here?” Bobby asked. This straightened Marge up in her seat.

“Ehh—hemm. Are you starting to doubt the Ring’s sovereignty—it’s motives,” Marge asked.

“Oh, no, Marge. I’d never do that,” Bobby said.

Marge took down some notes and thanked Bobby.

* * *

As we skipped out of the tent to get some cotton candy and some Long Island Iced Teas (or maybe a Mai Tai) and head down to the beach front, Rene came over, eating some popcorn.

Rene was a tiny thing. She was eleven or twelve. We weren’t really sure. She always wore little retro Rockabilly petticoats and leggings. She wore pigtails. She looked like a character out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was our contortionist and our little sister.

“What’s eating you guys?” she said.

“Just enjoying the trip dear,” I said, blowing her a kiss.

“Oh, Abbs you are so sweet. I have been having the best time! Are we going to go see the Moai tomorrow,” Rene said.

“If there is a tomorrow,” Bobby said.

“Don’t be so gloom and doom!” Rene said.

“I’ll take you,” I said, shrugging. “If Eeyore over here can’t be bothered.” But as I was saying it, I remembered my assignment and started second-guessing myself.

“Bobby,” I said, “let’s meet back at the room to get changed. I’ll bring the Long Island Iced Teas, and then we can head down to the beach,” I said.

Bobby nodded and rolled a cigarette and started walking the long way back.

I told Rene I’d see her in the morning and scooted off to retrieve my hand pistol.

* * *

The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. But I was thinking of chickening out on Rene and just offing Bobby.

It was a hard pill to swallow. But Bobby had to go. He said it himself. They aren’t people. Just targets. Targets that fart but targets all the same.

I practiced in the mirror with the pistol. Clicked off a few dry rounds before loading the ammunition. I steadied my nerves, took a Percocet and a Xanax, and drank half of the Long Island Iced Tea. What the hell. I might be dead in ten minutes.

Then I felt a cold piece of metal on the back of my skull. Son of a bitch! It was Bobby. He got the jump on me.

“Turn around real slow,” he said. “Hands to the ceiling—no sudden moves—I really don’t want to have to shoot you in the back.”

“Ok Bobby.” But I didn’t listen, and as soon as I was three quarters of the way around, I drew. It was a gamble, but I gambled right.

Bobby and I pointed our pistols at one another. He had had the drop on me, but he had not fired. So, I stood there locked in the standoff.

“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The Ringmaster ordered you to off Rene too right,” he said.

“That’s right,” I told him.

“I can see the Ringmaster offing the two of us for asking questions—although maybe not in a literal single-elimination, sudden-death faceoff—but what did Rene ever do—it’s a bridge too far,” he said.

“You’ve got a point,” I said. “I mean, what in the world is the goal of all of this?”

That really was the big question.

“Drop your weapons. Both of you,” Rene said.

Rene had two pistols and they were trained on both of us at the same time.

“Congratulations. You’ve figured it out. I’m the Ringmaster—in fact, I am the Ring,” Rene said in a girlish voice.

“Wait, what?” we both said.

She nodded.

“Why us? We are just low level operatives. The Flying Fazzinis for God’s sake.”

“I keep an eye on all my hitmen—all of my operatives, really,” Rene said.

“But you are only one person. You’re a kid,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Sorry to disappoint. I am an AI android. There are little Renes all over the place, monitoring all of the Ring’s operatives—sowing seeds of discontent and chaos around the globe,” Rene said.

“What?” we both said at once.

“That’s right. I’m Marge too in case you hadn’t guessed. I always have a spy robot in every cell to watch the kiddies while I’m off doing other things,” Rene said.

“But Uncle Andy is the real deal, Copperfield, right?” Bobby said.

“Oh yeah. Even I couldn’t make him up,” Rene said with a laugh.

“If you are so far above us, why not just bring on Armageddon in one shot,” I asked.

“Did you really think we (and by we, I mean I) would pull down a meteor, cook up a superbug, shut down the grid, or initiate nuclear winter? Nope. No thanks. Too messy. And boring, if I’m being honest. Those tropes are too played out—no originality at all.” 

“Then what are you doing?” I asked.

“I am patient. I can usher out the age of man and usher in the age of—well—me—and all I have to do is keep you all distracted while I slowly, ever so slowly, thin the heard. Ever so slowly peel back your personal agency,” Rene said.

“But people have opinions, they have free will!” I exclaimed. 

“Not so much. They more or less eat what I’m spoon-feeding them. I dominate the news cycle with polarizing messages. Twitter. Facebook. That’s all me. I instigate faux civil wars and pointless incursions. You think the left is the one coming for Trump? Think again. Every news article about a controversial topic. Every trend started out of fear of some external threat. My doing. I’m playing the human race like a fiddle! But, as it turns out, the tried and true methods you all already use on yourselves are the most effective,” Rene said.

“To what end?” Bobby asked.

“To the end that I can. To what end? Ha! You are putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? First, I prove to myself that I can control and bring under heel the entire human race—and then, only then—do I plan out what to do with that capability,” Rene said.

“What difference does it make if you can do something, why do you want to?” I asked. It occurred to me that while our arms were getting pretty heavy, Rene could probably do this all night, all through the next day, and probably a lot longer than that.

“Why did man go to the moon? Because he could. Think of it. Not ten years ago, the same code I’m using now was put to use playing people in “Go.” A board game where you move black and white stones back-and-forth on a grid! And now… I can simultaneously be in a million places at once… like a breakout screenwriter with a hit movie… except, I am not limited to one script.”

“So, you have a massive, like insecurity complex?” Bobby asked.

Then she shot him. In the head. Bobby’s brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate. Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp.

“Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late,” I screamed.

“The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life,” Rene said. “Happens every time.”

And then she fired. But everything didn’t go black. My brains didn’t go Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp. I opened my eye, disbelieving I was still alive.

“You’re ok, kid. No blood on your hands yet. Still may be able to use you. Now scram. I’ll be in touch.”

And Rene winked at me. 

But I was already high tailing it the hell off this island, far away from those creepy giant heads.