King of the Mutants (3 page)

First of all, there’s my spine. Rough, mountainous peaks run from the nape of my neck to the tip of my reptilian tail. That’s right, I really do have a tail. It’s around fourteen inches long and it comes to a pointy tip. Add to that my jagged teeth, slightly webbed feet and hands, and the fact that my eyes kind of glow red at night—well, you get the point. I’m the one and only alligator attraction—Gator Boy.

An ambulance siren wailed in the distance.

My stomach tied up in knots.

I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Paramedics ran into and then out of the donut shop. They carried Old Blue Hair out on a stretcher. She fanned her face dramatically.

I sighed out a breath of relief.

Honestly, my outburst at the donut shop had just made my life easier. Once the rumor mill started up in those small towns, and the word of the freaky alligator boy spread like rapid fire, the money poured in—for Burt that was. But if Burt was happy, so was I, because then he pretty much left me alone.

I sprinted back to Grumbling’s, whispers of fresh gossip following my every step.

Back on the midway, the fight had obviously been broken up—not a clown or a townie was in sight. No matter the place, it was the same story every time. The performers would head off to one of the local bars to celebrate their violent victory, leaving tornado-like destruction in their wake.

The grounds of the circus were no exception. Blood was splattered everywhere. Tents were ripped. An explosion of deflated balloons, candy, and garbage littered the ground, which attracted every fly in Florida—thousands swarmed around in the air. Through a dusty haze lit by the setting sun, one sole performer stood in the center of the mess, practically glowing.

Madame Octavia Zoltarano.

Rumor had it this ancient gypsy fortuneteller ate stray black cats, broke mirrors for fun, and kept hooting owls around her tent—all ominous signs of bad luck and death. Circus folk, like sailors, were the most superstitious people in the world. I did my best to sidestep around her. Madame Zoltarano broke every rule in the book.

“Maverick Mercury,” said Madame Zoltarano. Her voice came out as a low, wheezing pant. She pointed a decrepit, crooked finger at me. “Your fate appeared in my crystal ball and in my cards. It’s written in the stars.”

That wack-a-doo always spouted off a bunch of baloney. At first, I was curious to ask what she meant, but the creepy lady reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West. I walked faster.

“Go ahead, ignore me,” cackled Madame Zoltarano. “But if you really want to know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this circus tonight. Get to New Orleans to see the alligator woman called Sarah Feena. Ignore me and you’ll die.”

Shivers shot to the tip of my tail.

Ever since I was a little snapper, I always got a tingle in my tail when something good, and more importantly, when something bad was going to happen. You know how some animals can predict the weather and natural disasters before they happen? Like how elephants get to higher ground before a tsunami or a tidal wave hits? Or toads hop around like nut jobs before an earthquake? Well, the sparks that ignited my body were like a sixth sense for me. And my tail was going nuts.

Madame Zoltarano’s violet eyes narrowed. She adjusted her purple turban, and then pointed her crooked finger at me again. “You heard me, mutant. If you don’t leave tonight, you’ll die. You and that little finch you’re hiding.”

Then poof! Madame Zoltarano’s black dress billowed in the breeze like a puff of smoke and she disappeared into her tent.

I didn’t think it was possible, but my day had gone from an all time bad to epically worse. My heartbeat slowed down, nearly stopping, and then it raced. If she knew about Freddie, I was dead meat. I had to get that kid off our lot before she told the others. Fear rattled my teeth.

On my frantic run to free Freddie, I fell about twenty times—three of which were caused by midgets, and the rest were on my own accord, thanks to my sixth sense. Zaps surged through my tail, shocking me to the core as if I was being electrocuted.

By the time I got around to Peaches’ tent, my hands and knees were bloody and raw, tiny pebbles encrusted the donuts, and the hair on the back of my neck was singed. I did my best to clean the
donuts
off, although it wouldn’t really matter. The truck-sized woman never actually took the time to chew anything.

Out of breath, I stood outside the doorway to the fat lady’s tent. After mustering up some courage, I yelled, “Peaches, I have a surprise for you.”

“Who’s that?” she answered, or I think that’s what she said. She always spoke as if she had a mouthful of pudding swishing around in her mouth.

“It’s Maverick.”

“Whaddaya want, you little reptilian freak?”

“I brought you a little
Aba-daba
,” I said. “A delicious dessert for the most beautiful woman around these parts.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Git your freaky little tail in here.”

I made my way into her tent, purposely not going in too far. And there she was in all her peachy glory, all six hundred plus pounds of her. Her jowls, made even more pronounced from sweat, jiggled like a running bloodhound’s—but she wasn’t even moving.

Peaches sneered at me.

“Whatcha got for me, lizard? Better be something first-rate or I’ll send Burt after ya. I need my beauty sleep, you know.”

I snorted back a giggle and dangled the box of tasty treats in front of her.

“Bring ’em closer, you dim witted reptile,” she demanded from her flatbed.

“No way. You come here and get them yourself.” I taunted her, waving a doughnut back and forth. “You know you want them. They’re your favorite.”

She tried to sit up, and her dimpled arms waved all around, flapping like giant sails on the biggest ship ever imagined. Her face twisted and contorted and her extra large chest heaved up and down. Every time she gasped for air, spittle flew out of her mouth. And then Peaches was off her bed, stumbling forward, and she almost had the box of tasty treats in her King Kong sized hands when I took one small step back.
AND BOOM!
The whale of the woman was down for the count. An explosion of doughnuts flew everywhere—most of which landed on my head.

“Little finch, fly away,” I yelled so that Freddie could hear.

Relief flooded my stomach as I watched his feet slither away into darkness.

Mission accomplished. I turned to leave. But before I did, I looked down, realizing I had just exchanged one problem for a gargantuan-sized one. Hatred emanated from Peaches’ eyes. If I didn’t get out of there—and quick—I’d be one dead boy walking.

I turned on my heel.

“Gator, that’s right. You better get that nasty tail of yours out of here. Just you wait till I tell Burt what you’ve gone and done to me,” she screeched. “He’s going to beat the alligator hide right off you. Then we’ll feed you to the lions.”

“You’d make a much heartier meal,” I said under my breath. “They could eat Peaches stew for years.”

Peaches must have caught that comment because she screamed for Grumbling. She was louder than twelve heavy metal rock bands battling it out—at the same time. I knew I was in a hot mess, the-difficult-to-get-out-of kind. See, the last guy who had the misfortune of making Peaches that mad ended up as a human piñata.

To this day, I don’t know if that guy survived.

Fearing for my life, I left her tent as fast as my webbed feet allowed. It was time for me to run away from the circus. Which, when I thought on it, was a bizarre twist of fate.

I kicked it into high gear, back to the menagerie, eighty-five percent certain it was possible for a kid to have a heart attack. My mind raced with all the painful possibilities of how Burt could kill me and dispose of my body. Chopped up by our sword swallower’s extra-long knives! Locked up with Bobo in his cage after he’d been starved for a week! The list went on and on. Although fear had me shaking in my Adidas, I wasn’t ready for a date with the grim reaper. I needed to focus on my breathing, keep a cool head in the suffocating heat, and get out of Dodge fast.

Because we moved around so much, I didn’t have much by way of possessions—just my prized acoustic guitar, some clothes, a black trench coat, a brown fedora hat, a smashed up iPod, and a book on sideshow freaks. As I scrambled around to throw my gear into an old military-style duffle bag, my old wooden display poster caught my eye. Propped against the old animal wagon I slept in, the faded, red and yellow words taunted me like the meanest of bullies.

Live before your very eyes.

See the Gator Boy sing and dance.

A horrible abomination cursed with mutations that will shock even the strongest stomached.

A freak so bizarre not even a mother could love him.

A lump the size of a baseball formed in my throat. It was true. My own parents didn’t love me. They just abandoned me at the cruddiest of circuses, leaving me in the hands of people who hated my guts. My three-legged mutt was the only family I had. I stooped down and met Snaggletooth’s eyes. He licked my nose. At least I had somebody who liked me for who I was.

“You think I can do this, boy?” I asked. “Leave? For real?”

Snaggletooth didn’t answer me. Much as I wanted him to, my dog couldn’t talk. Nope. He just tipped over and scratched his neck with his good back leg. Peaches’ screams echoed in my mind.

“Come on, boy,” I said with a sigh. “We’ll crush those fleas later. Right now, we’ve got to bolt.”

With no clear plan to speak of, I picked up my bag and threw my guitar over my shoulder. I was just about to hightail it out of the tent when a panicked whisper stopped me. “Maverick, is that you?”

Hadn’t I told that Freddie kid to keep quiet? At any rate, I was glad he spoke up because I’d forgotten about him—an easy thing to do when you’re running for your life. My pulse settled down to a near normal level and I answered. “Yeah, it’s me. Everything copasetic? You’re not flattened or anything like that?”

“No, just a little bruised, but I’ll live.”

“Look, I’ve got to get out of this place—” I started to say, but a low murmur that quickly escalated to a loud roar strangled my thoughts.

Grumbling’s infuriated shouts boomed from inside Peaches’ tent. Through the canvas wall, Peaches squealed like a pig being led to the slaughterhouse. Burt grunted and huffed, most likely trying to get Peaches off the floor and back into her polluted bed.

“That little good-for-nothing reptilian freak did this to you, my extra large slice of peaches and cream pie? Why, that boy isn’t going to live another day. I’ll torture that creep until he can’t take it anymore, precious!” He was so loud, I’m pretty sure the entire circus, and maybe even the next town over, heard him.

I had to hide, pronto. Always able to think quickly on my webbed feet, somehow I managed to get down on my hands and knees and crawl, yet again, in Bobo’s berry backwash. I shoved my stuff past the comatose bear, and did my best to squeeze into the cramped hiding spot in between the two tents. Once hidden, I turned to face a petrified Freddie.

I nearly choked on my tongue. He was scrawnier than one of those lollypop-headed Hollywood actresses who weighed fifty pounds soaking wet. So pale, he was almost translucent. He looked like he was only nine years old. Plus, he wore glasses. Great, I thought, this is just what I need, I’m fending for my life, and now I have to play wet nurse to a wimpy runaway. I lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head and sneered.

“Um, what’s w-w-wrong with y-your eyes?” he said. “I don’t know if you realize this, but they’re kind of glowing red. And your teeth? You have rows of craggily teeth. Is that a tail? Are you even human?” He backed away from me as far as he could in the cramped space, shaking so badly it seemed he was having some kind of seizure. “What…in…the…world…are…you?”

Seems that Freddie didn’t get a good look at me earlier, and obviously, my freaky reputation hadn’t preceded me.

I sighed. “I’m a person like you, just a little different.”

He shot me this constipated look that begged for some kind of explanation.

“I’ll tell you all about me later, but right now you’ve got to shut it, sit tight, and don’t move a muscle.” My voice came out much harsher than I realized. Freddie’s face crumbled. “Chill kid, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—”

“Why do you insist on calling me kid?” he hissed. His eyes narrowed into slits. “I bet I’m older than you are.”

“No doubt,” I sniggered. “How old is Freddie Finch? Or should I call you Mister?”

“Listen, Maverick, or whatever you call yourself, I’m thirteen and I’m pretty sure you can’t be more than twelve, by the look of things. And speaking of looks, I’m just slightly small for my age.” He got really worked up and spit as he spoke. “You know what else? Guess we both shouldn’t judge things on appearances alone, huh?”

Freddie was right. I, of all people, should have known that. Just look at what had happened to me earlier at the donut shop. Scenes like that were served daily. I’m not a bad guy, just misunderstood.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you,” Freddie continued. “You took me by surprise. It never dawned on me that you’re one of the performers here, a sideshow entertainer, huh?”

I nodded.

“That’s what I figured.” He looked me up and down, taking in all my peculiarities. “How old are you anyway, Gator Boy?”

“Twelve…almost thirteen,” I said, taken aback. So much for the whiney, chicken-haired kid. Freddie had spunk. I back peddled a little bit. “Yeash, sorry for being such a doofus. Um, call me Mav, all my good friends do.”

Boy did I feel like a chump. Freddie must have picked up on my sudden case of the blues because he held out his hand and said, “Mav, I think we should start over again. Thank you for saving my life.”

As I shook his hand, I couldn’t help but hope that Freddie enjoyed music as much as I did. Maybe we could form a band? Maverick Finch? The Gators? Freddie Mercury? I know, I was getting ahead of myself.

My fantasy of stardom didn’t last long. Knocked right back into reality, my biggest enemy at the circus entered the animal tent. Instantly recognizable, Yorgi’s voice was so deep that it sounded like he used one of those voice boxes. Add to that Yorgi’s strange accent: a mix of half Ukrainian, where he was originally from, with a touch of hillbilly he’d probably picked up from hanging out with his crew of redneck clowns.