<div class="floatleft">(http://i1354.photobucket.com/albums/q682/Elly-Mae_Hall/IMG_0055_zps847d54c3.jpg) </div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;"> Saturday Nights were by far the best night of the week, for The Carnival Itself and for Garrick alone. Something about the eve of the 'Day of the Lord' brought out all the scum, all the degenerate fools addled with the longing for something more, something tangible, anything at all to tear their gaseous thoughts from whatever lie for them outside the huge eight foot gates of The Carnaval Du Diable. Their faces were happy, and some even actually <em>were</em> happy, but Garrick was not looking for those people. His ivy green eyes flicked and touched upon every fuzzy face under the bubble glass of his hundred television sets. He sought them out from behind security cameras, looking for the one with the most doubt and the most fear. It was hard to choose, The Occult De Mevielle tended to be a place of peace for the simple minded.. but he knew better. As did his performers. In the pitch black, Garrick rocked on the two hind legs of his chair. His long spidery legs were held on straight in front of him, a burgeoning threat to knock down his wine glass with his curled toe boots. Long black hair obscured his vision a few times, and was patiently blown away from a content and watchful, noble and aristocratic face painted snow white and electric blue from the rays of the light emitted from the scores of security footage. <br/><br/> He could see IsaBella, the fat blonde bouncing her way from The Parc and to the door step of some unsuspecting fools trailer, a cake box in her hand. She was going to give half the Carnival Diabetes if she kept that up. Pinhole pupils sailed over the next three cameras. He could see a huge, hulking shadow catching up on two young ones in a lonely alcove, a place they shouldn't have been. It was a place along the outskirts of The Afficheur, a place meant to be closed off to the public. Garrick focused his attention on the one particular camera to watch the action that would pan out. The hulking shadow drew nearer and near to the two, they had not stopped. Garricks brows rose with the growing interest, oh how surprised they would be in the end. A head of straight black hair came into focus, a pair of huge shoulders and the scenery changed. The couple stopped what they were doing and began to apologize. <em>Too late you young fools, you're about done as dinner..</em> Garrick chided. The young woman was knocked to the ground and had appeared to have fallen unconscious... the young man.. well only his legs could be seen now, disappearing into the corner of the television.<em> Good show, Johnny boy... but let's be more discreet about it..</em> Garrick mused, diverting his attention. <br/><br/> A gaggle of young girls were leaving Runa's tent in The Occult, Garrick couldn't help but notice that they looked to have been giggling before they went in. Their long faces now, told him that maybe they had gotten a bout of bad news. Garrick rocked forward and reached through his legs to take his wine glass. The luminous deep red swished through the glass, touched Garricks jester lips and was sipped with relish. Not the top shelf stuff, but best know that if it was in Garricks hand it was the best <em>you</em> ever would have had a chance to even try. The Ring Master sighed his good nature and hopped into standing. His wine was finished, he took the glass out with him into his bedroom. He slid the door closed to the surveillance room (it was a secret room, the door was painted the same color as the maroon of his bedroom wall). From here, the glass was put down and he was put to work in dressing. Big Night ahead, he had decided he would be pitching for Alice tonight. This called for red. <br/><br/> Dressing, clothes, <em>style</em> were a big deal to The Ring Master. The clothes make the man. <em>Money</em> helps, and the things a man owns defines his worth. Garrick needed to dress as though he owned these people, and he did. In a manner of moments, Garrick dawned a sequined red tail coat and an impossibly high top hat. Vertical pinstriped drain pipe trousers adorned his long ropey legs. A dapper leather bow tie nestled against his throat. White silken gloved hands tied shiny black strands into a low and tight tail at the base of his neck. Garrick twisted his lengthy body into view of a full length gold plated mirror, he liked what he saw, shot a huge and mooney piano key smile to his reflection. How lucky all these carnies were to be under the rule of a fucking <em>celebrity</em>. The next part, the final touch to his ensemble, he scowered a huge selection of canes. He didn't need a walking stick, but being a pitchman you always had to have one to catch a Rubes attention. To gesture, to point, to really raise the dramatic flair of an event. Also, they defined <em>well</em> for disciplinary style.  He pulled free a cloven foot cane, made to look like the muscular leg of a ram. The head of the cane was a Rams horn, the base a Rams hoof. Garrick had a thing for taxidermy, truly a lost art. <br/><br/> In a breath, Garrick breezed out his bedroom door whistling jauntily as he left his private quarters. A huge victorian style house behind wrought iron gates, on a hill overlooking the Carnies Quarters, the entire Carnival. He traversed the winding path lined with black and weeping willows, and finally, the smell of cigarettes, booze, food cooking and <em>sweat</em> permeated. Garrick was now in The Carnies Quarters, waving and gesturing with a jaunty air about him.<br/><br/> <br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></span>