Match-faced Crabs

I got the name Match-face because I damn near burned my face off. So I decided to make a show out of it.

In a city of a million people, you have to make a living somehow, and I found making a fool of myself in public was the best way to do it. Near the bazaar, where the shopkeepers charm coins out of pockets, I worked to get a few patrons to part with a few coins before they blew their life savings on a rug worth less than a bucket of spit. Five jugs of oil, fifty matches, a torch, plus a party trick I learned, and I had what I thought was a pretty decent setup. And who doesn’t love a good fire?

It was a beautiful evening, with one of those sunsets that splash the clouds with lavender at first. And then bright vermilion. And then it finally burns out over the horizon like the last embers of a heavenly blaze. You got at least an hour of extra twilight out of it. More time to walk home before dark. More time to put money into the pot.

My spinning torches may as well have been twirling stars that fell to earth. I had everyone in the palm of my hand. There must’ve been fifty or sixty people at least, all with disk plate eyes staring holes into me. All I had to do was give a banger finale, collect my dues, and blow the joint.

But just then, my mouth dribbling with the last oil stream of the day, I saw an old man outside of the crowd. His wrinkly rump: exposed. His face: upside down, between his legs, and mocking someone I couldn’t see. He wagged his tongue in that position for one, two, three seconds. And then I popped.

The oil in my mouth reversed course to my nose. Two jets streamed over the torch. The oily booger bomb bloomed into a white-hot flaming mustache. Every follicle of hair on my face was burned off.

The whole crowd backed away like I’d summoned hellfire straight from my nose. Mothers held their children, husbands held their wives, and everyone held their shirts or scarves like they were gonna burst into flames just from being near me. The children clapped first, then the elders, and then, when they were certain hell wasn’t hiding in my sinuses, the remaining men and women broke into roaring cheers.

The shower of coins tickling my feet helped me laugh it off, but I knew I was lucky to get away with just a baby-smooth face, and a nose dripping with oil. Minus the facial hair, I was completely intact. But I never saw that wrinkle cheeked old man ever again.

It wasn’t long before I realized that everyone wanted to see that same trick again, and again, and again. But since my homegrown hair hadn't regrown yet, I decided the best thing to do was to wrap a match around my head and tie it just underneath my nose, so it looked like a mustache. But the match stayed, because my 'stache stayed gone, so that’s what I became known for. Match-face.

Popular as I became, and as much money as I got, my big break didn’t come from lighting my face-match in a death defying stunt. It came by accident.

It was a sizzling hot summer day. I’d set up shop in a corner of the main plaza, partly because I’d gotten so big that I didn’t need to camp near the bazaar anymore, but mainly because the shopkeepers didn’t want their businesses burned down. I was so practiced at twirling torches that I could do the routines with my eyes closed.

I wasn’t expecting much that day, what with the blazing sun overhead, but for some reason the crowd was oddly enamored with my performance. I certainly couldn’t tell from their expressions. They were flapping their fans, desperately trying to cool off their melting faces, or the makeup melting on their faces. They were a more snobbish crowd than what I was used to at the bazaar, less likely to show their feelings, or give any kind of reaction at all. But they always gave gold coins, probably to out-compete each other into poverty, so it was well worth coming out to perform that day, in spite of the heat. It would be the last performance I ever gave.

By the afternoon my performance had become a social gathering. Chairs were brought out, and people conversed among themselves as my torches waved and twirled. They were small pulses of heat that distracted from the sun’s scorching disk above. Everyone who came to sit down and chat threw a coin into my pot as an admission fee, even if they weren't paying attention. I wasn’t complaining.

And for the second time, I caught sight of a scene happening beyond the ring of spectators. I locked into my performance, a sort of auto-acting. The crowd noticed the increased speed, even if I didn’t.

Entering the plaza was a rotund man dressed in the most ridiculous outfit I ever saw. Purple tunic, black leggings, gold bejeweled bracelets on his wrists and ankles, and a bright purple, spiraling cap. To top it off, he wore a dark purple cape that flowed down to his ankles, embedded with sparkling, yellow, star-shaped jewels. It was like the Milky Way tripped and fell on top of him.

He was walking towards a simply dressed woman, who, judging from the speed that she’d been walking away from him, clearly didn't want to be near him. I couldn't blame her, but his pomp and tackiness wouldn't let her ignore him.

I kept twirling, and twirling, and twirling. My eyes were glued to them, but the crowd in front of me was too loud to make out what the two were saying. The Starry Ass pulled out a enormous bag of coins, big enough to spill over his hands, and tossed it to the young woman. I didn't think she had the look of a hooker: her red hair was cropped short, and her sand-brown robe was spotted with grease. Whatever he said after that, she didn’t take it too well.

She wound up, and threw the bag back at the Milky Ass, screaming:

“THESE ARE JUST STONES!”

He fell to the ground, the gold coins scattered, and if they were stones, then the coming crowd was a swarm of crabs coming to hoard them. Even I dropped my torches to take a chance in the stampede. It was well worth the wrestle. I came away with at least two-hundred gold coins. Having untied my tunic to hold them, my white sparkling ass was exposed, jiggling as I ran away. I must have had a fine ass, 'cause I caught at least a dozen people staring.

The next time I saw that plaza, five years later, I was a made man, with a town house and servants of my own. There were many performers there, copying the act I had once performed in the very same place. They were like clever crabs, pinching peoples pockets for a few gold stones. Same as me. But there was one thing I noticed right away.

They all had immaculately braided mustaches.