The Pilo Family Circus (12 page)

A lot happened in the next few seconds. First, Mugabo snapped and took the bait. He was suddenly on his feet, hands raised overhead like guns ready to fire.

Just as quickly, Gonko leapt backwards and pulled his hands from his pockets. He seemed to be reaching for a weapon, but found only a handful of lint. He stared down at his hands with a look of dismay. JJ missed whatever happened next, for the crystal ball lit up with a blinding flash of white light. In the distance he could faintly hear a
crack
ringing through the air, like a car backfiring. Once the light in the ball had faded, JJ saw Gonko hightailing it out of the tent, running for his life. Behind him, Mugabo chased for a few paces, hands still raised, shouting something. JJ could faintly hear his voice screaming over the background noise. Mugabo gave up the chase, calmed himself and strutted back to the stage, triumphant.

JJ took his eyes from the ball for a moment, trying to work out what had just happened. He remembered that Gonko’s hands had been in his pockets the whole time, as though he’d expected to find something in them to defend himself. Exhibit B, the rock-climbing picks. He’d had nothing in his pockets when he put these pants on, he was certain of it. He then thought back to all the things he’d seen Gonko whipping out of his pockets: hatchets, blades, and so on.

About the time he connected those dots, he heard someone directly below him screaming at the very top of his lungs. It was Gonko.

‘
If I find the motherfucker who took my pants —
I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE: CLOWN, ACROBAT, BELOVED FRIEND OR RELATIVE, AN
INANIMATE OBJECT …
AN
ASTRAL BODY … ME MYSELF … A ROCK OR A BOWL OF PICKLES … SOMETHING
UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE TO KILL,
LISTEN UP: I’LL
FUCKING KILL YOU.
I’LL FIND A WAY, IF IT TAKES ME A HUNDRED YEARS
… I’LL FIND … A … WAAAAAY!’

Each pause in speech was filled with smashing and banging — Gonko was, it seemed, killing a few things impossible to kill right now: tables and chairs and windows, and anything else within reach, anything at all.

Around then JJ crooked a thumb in his waistband and pulled it out until he could read a little white tag within: Gonko.

Minutes passed. Below, Gonko’s shouts had degenerated into incoherent screams issued through clenched teeth, punctuated with the occasional splintering of wood, crunching, smashing and banging. There was a thunderous rattle, which ever so slightly shook the very roof he sat on. Perhaps the card table had been hurled against the wall … Not a bad show of strength, that. JJ lay back waiting for peace and quiet. He fought back the urge to yell
shut up
. He grinned, thinking of how frightened Jamie would be when he looked back on this later.

He drew his finger across the ball, taking it away from Mugabo and towards some kind of commotion that had broken out on the main street below. A few tricks within earshot of Gonko stood, disoriented, like sleeping people disturbed by some noise outside. A few carnie rats gathered by the roadside, peering towards the clown tent, wondering what the commotion was. Bustling through, shoving them aside, was someone JJ hadn’t seen before. Still, he looked
oddly familiar — in fact, there was a touch of Kurt Pilo about him, mainly in the eyes, brow and lips.

It clicked:
George Pilo! Ahh, this is the other big boss type, Kurt’s brother.

The resemblance to Kurt ended at the face. George was
tiny
— he would barely clock four feet. For all that — maybe because of that — he was one angry customer. He headed for the clown tent, where Gonko was still making guttural howls and kicking things. As George rounded a bend in the road for the entrance, Gonko stormed outside, narrowly escaping his notice. George went inside and JJ could hear him cry shrilly, ‘Who’s upsetting the tricks? Is that Gonko?’ A muffled voice — it sounded like Winston’s — answered. George spat a rapid-fire burst of obscenity then marched off, his voice trailing away until it was lost in the bustle of the circus coming to life.

For three more hours JJ watched the exchanges between carnies and tricks, trying to figure it all out. The tricks laughed at the funnies, bought trinkets and souvenirs from the stalls, behaved themselves like sheep on Ritalin. The gypsies took their money but seemed uninterested in it — twice he saw them drop coins and notes on the ground without bothering to pick them up. He spent some time watching the acrobats rehearse and, despite recent events, he had to admit they had a slick routine. They bounded and flipped, walked fearlessly across the tightrope, flew through the air without looking for a moment like losing balance. He noted how easily one piece of sabotaged equipment would spell a death sentence.

He watched Mugabo’s magic show, too, and the magician performed the bunny trick with cheerful gusto, his gestures sweeping and flourishing — letting off some steam had done
him the world of good. JJ also spied on his fellow clowns. He saw Goshy sitting in his room, staring at the plant and not moving a muscle. Doopy was cheating in a game of solitaire and checking over his shoulder to make sure no one caught him. Rufshod lay beside his bed, dead to the world after knocking himself out by slamming his head into the wall.

The one thing JJ had been delaying, pleasantly afraid of what might happen, was a look in on Kurt Pilo. Now he shifted the image across the showgrounds, towards that abandoned northern quarter. As usual, only a few carnie rats were out that way, all walking quickly with their eyes down. He zoomed in on the little trailer, through the roof, and from overhead he saw the owner and proprietor sitting at his desk. Kurt leaned forward with his shining bald head bent over a Bible. In his monstrous hand was a highlighter pen — it seemed he was colouring in his favourite passages. His trout lips were twisted upwards into the smile that seemed his stock expression. On the desk beside him was a large bowl of what JJ at first thought was popcorn. On closer inspection he saw the tiny white objects were teeth; big ones, small ones, pearly whites of all description. Kurt reached into the bowl and popped one of them into his mouth, sucking on it like a lolly. JJ winced as his jaw crunched down, then he swallowed.

‘You’re one creepy sonofabitch,’ JJ whispered as Kurt turned the Bible’s pages gently. As JJ said this Kurt’s head came up and he appeared to be listening for something. He peered directly ahead, frowning in puzzlement, though the smile still lay on his lips like something dead. Then he slowly and ominously titled his head upwards until he was gazing right back at JJ through the glass. Kurt’s eyes widened. So did the corners of his lips. JJ’s heart missed a beat and his breath
caught in his throat. Slowly, Kurt raised a hand over his head and gave a little wave.

JJ quickly jerked his hand sideways over the glass, away from the trailer. He let the image rest on the funhouse, where an empty cart sat on the rail.

Don’t sweat it,
he thought as his heartbeat gradually slowed.

Down below he could hear Gonko wandering around, still worked up but no longer erupting. JJ supposed it was time to get down there and hide the pants. He ran to the edge of the tent and surveyed the drop — far enough to break something, quite likely, but he was in a hurry. He dropped to his backside, braced himself for pain and slid down the steep wall clutching the crystal ball in one arm. He was right not to worry; the pockets of his pants ballooned out, puffing into two small parachutes which caught the wind and slowed his descent. Once down, the pockets folded themselves back into the pants.

He ran inside. The ruined debris from Gonko’s rampage was absolute. Back in his room JJ wrapped the ball in an old towel, stiff with sweat and blood stains. Off came the pants, folded into a neat bundle. Back out in the parlour he slid them under one of the larger pieces of wreckage. With a little luck, Gonks would think they’d been there all along.

He looked at his watch — one o’clock. From memory, Yeti would be doing his glass-eating show now. JJ sprinted through the showgrounds in his boxers, past the tricks and carnie rats, resisting the powerful urge to swat and spit at them. At the freak show tent a crowd was milling around Yeti, who sat sadly on the floor, a group of colourful glass ornaments spread before him. Steve stood beside him with a syringe and towels in hand, and he nodded in greeting as JJ
pushed his way through the onlookers. Steve looked attentive and proud to be of service to the show — JJ had to hand it to him, the guy had more spine than Jamie.

After a moment Yeti slowly lifted a blue glass penguin to his mouth, closed his eyes and chewed, moaning as blood gushed down his chin. JJ burst out laughing.

Steve frowned at him as he kneeled to wipe at the blood with his towel. The onlookers murmured, and some cringed and turned away from the spectacle. Tears streamed from Yeti’s eyes as he fumbled for a bright green glass tiger. ‘Chow down!’ JJ yelled happily. ‘
Bon appetit
, ya big hairy fuck!’

Yeti’s eyes fixed on him sadly — then anger sparked in his face when he saw it was a performer taunting him, not a trick. He bared his teeth and got to his feet, growling. ‘What?’ said JJ, looking at Steve, who stood by shaking his head. JJ turned to the onlookers. ‘That’s his job, right? It’s a show, I can say what the hell I want! You think I won’t get heckled when I’m up on stage clowning?’

Yeti took an unsteady shambling step towards him. A hand yanked JJ’s shoulder back through the crowd. Winston and Fishboy shepherded him out the door. ‘Wait a sec!’ said JJ. ‘I wanna see the rest of the show.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fishboy said sharply.

JJ raised his eyebrows. ‘Aw, come on!’ he said.

‘No. I think Winston’s ready to escort you back to your tent.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, JJ,’ said Winston, pushing through the crowd of tricks. ‘It’s Fishboy’s show. His rules. Let’s go.’

‘What’s his problem?’ said JJ as he and Winston made their way to the clown tent.

‘You gotta understand, Fishboy actually cares about his freaks,’ said Winston. ‘He’s not like Gonko. Fishboy’s got a bit of compassion in him. Think you upset him, the way you were laughing at that poor bastard.’

‘Poor bastard?’ JJ cried. ‘What about me? What about
my
rights?’

Winston grabbed him by the shoulder, surprising him into silence. ‘Poor bastard is right. Spare a thought for him. He used to be a normal person. Now he’s gotta do that every show day. Understand? Every show day, for years and years and years. You’re damn lucky I pulled you away from him — he would’ve taken about a second to tear your stupid head off.’

Winston let him go and kept walking. JJ tried to get his drift, sympathy-wise, but he simply couldn’t. It still struck him as hilarious — more so now. Thinking about it, he had to battle not to laugh. Winston looked at him sidelong in disgust.

They came to the clown tent and Winston paused to stare at the destruction. He whistled low and said, ‘Wouldn’t wanna be whoever took them pants.’

‘Yeah, me either,’ said JJ, waxing innocent like a pro. Then, ‘Hold on. What? What do you mean?’ Winston walked off. JJ raced over to block his path. ‘What do you mean by that, Winston? Why the I-gots-a-secret vibe?’

The old clown stared at him for a moment, then nodded towards JJ’s bedroom. They went in. JJ sat on the bed, trying to read Winston’s expression. ‘You get a feel for types of clowns,’ said Winston. ‘And for types of people. I seen ’em all before. Some are dangerous to know, like Gonko. Some aren’t dangerous to
know
, but they’re dangerous to trust.’ Winston looked him in the eye. ‘I’m neither type, just so you know. I don’t know about you though, JJ.’

Winston planted those pants in here!
JJ thought with sudden certainty.
This BASTARD put those pants in here. On purpose.

‘There’s been clowns like you before,’ Winston went on. ‘I have seen it
all
, young JJ, believe you me. I know what happens when the likes of you run around unchecked. Now. You might see some things, some things about me and certain others I associate with. These things, if known, may just land me in a sling. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that you, JJ, would spill any beans you came across, if it suited you. So … it never hurts to be careful. Never hurts for a man to have himself insured.’ Winston stood to go. ‘I’ve spoken to you straight,’ he said. ‘Means you can trust me.’

He left. JJ sat staring after the old guy with his mouth open in shock.

He spent the next hour thinking long and hard. Winston was right — JJ would have stabbed him in the back just for chuckles — had in fact been searching for a way to do it. He supposed the old guy was off-limits for now, whatever he got up to in his spare time.

Of course, JJ would endeavour to find out precisely what that was.

Day became night and the showgrounds were bathed in gloom, broken here and there by bursts of flashing light over Sideshow Alley, some so bright the colours flickered through the window in the clowns’ parlour.

Around seven the other clowns became nervous and jittery about the coming show. Doopy was complaining about anything and everything. Rufshod seemed to be in competition with Doopy to get on everyone’s nerves. Goshy drifted about the place with a look of vacant alarm on his face, whistling like a budgerigar. Winston kept to himself, stretching his hamstrings in the corner, avoiding eye contact with JJ when their paths crossed.

Out in the parlour JJ saw Gonko for the first time since that morning’s eruption. The clown boss was in a foul mood; he’d collared Doopy and was threatening him for some infraction or other. There was a giant scorch mark on the back of Gonko’s shirt, part of which had been burned away, leaving a hellish purple stretch of blistered skin.

Gonko turned and saw him. ‘JJ!’ he snapped. ‘Just where the hell have you been all day?’

JJ held his hands up and hunched his shoulders in fright,
invoking Mr Don’t Hurt Me; there was some conviction in the act this time.

‘Cut the horse shit!’ Gonko roared. ‘It’s an hour till show time. You’re going to watch it, you’re going to like it, you’re going to learn something. No more sneaking off or I will staple your balls to the floor. Where’s Rufshod?’

Rufshod bounded into the parlour, marched up to Gonko and said, ‘I took your pants, boss. It was me.’

Gonko stared at him sourly.

‘Hit me,’ said Rufshod, dropping to his knees. ‘Please …’

Gonko turned away, shaking his head in disgust. Doopy took it upon himself to do the honours. He made a fat round fist and threw a clumsy punch which looked, perhaps, the way the Queen might throw a right cross, but it did the job; Rufshod fell back on the ground with his nose gushing blood. ‘Gee, I’m real sorry Ruf,’ said Doopy. ‘I didn’t mean ta, wasn’t s’pose ta, I just, I —’

‘LISTEN UP!’ Gonko screamed. The clowns listened up. Gonko gave everyone in the room a look of revulsion. ‘All right. Tonight, it’s going to come off right, or some of us will be very badly hurt — by me. I am undergoing some executive stress. It would give me great joy to stomp the shit out of any one of you. Great joy. Bear that in mind before you fuck everything up again. Let’s go.’

Doopy shuffled over to Gonko and whispered something in his ear. Gonko nodded and said, ‘Yeah. Also, congrats to Goshy, who’s gonna be married soon. Don’t let it change you, Goshy.’

The other clowns patted Goshy on the back, and he peered at each of them with curious eyes, as though he’d never seen them before in his life. In a mood of sombre determination the clowns departed for their stage tent.

They passed the acrobats’ stage tent, which had had extra rows of seats brought in during the day, removed from the clowns’ stage tent. Gonko struggled visibly to control his rage. The acrobat show had already begun, and they could hear
oohs
and
ahhs
from the audience as the acrobats defied death high above the ground.

Backstage in their own tent, the clowns were accosted by George Pilo. This was JJ’s first sight of him up close, and he felt an instinctive dislike that was a far cry from the awe he’d felt for Kurt. From the height of Doopy’s navel George’s eyes glared while his mouth smiled. Gonko stiffened and his shoulders twitched, but his voice was gentle when he said, ‘Why, hello there, George. Come to watch us? Maybe have a laugh or two?’

‘No,’ George replied, and his voice was at once condescending, whiny and sneering. ‘I’ve come to remind you you’re still on notice, and you’re due for a
perfect
show tonight. Nothing less whatsoever. Did you notice what’s been done with the seating? With the
amount
of seating?’

‘Yes, George, we noticed,’ said Gonko.

‘I took three rows from your tent and put ’em in the acrobats’ tent,’ George pointed out anyway. ‘They’ve got a bigger audience. They’ve earned it.’

‘Thank you, George, for bringing that to my attention,’ said Gonko. ‘Tell me, George —’

‘What’s more,’ said George, taking obvious pleasure in interrupting, ‘I’ve been looking for you all day, Gonko. I could hear your little spat halfway across the showgrounds. You upset the tricks. You distracted them.’

‘George, there was an incident with the magician —’

‘If I have to put you personally on notice, don’t think I
won’t do it. I know you’re in bed with Kurt, but
I
don’t like you, Gonko.’

‘I had no idea, George.’

‘I don’t like any of you,’ George cried, waving his arm around like a chimp. He shuffled closer to Gonko, so close his face pressed into Gonko’s belly, and his voice became muffled. Gonko stared down into the pair of wet white eyes glaring up at him without blinking. ‘Things are changing around here,’ said George. ‘Changing. You hear me? For some of us, the party is over. For some of us.’

‘Thank you for the advice, George,’ Gonko whispered.

George Pilo glared up at him for a moment, then abruptly stormed off, lashing his arms at anything in his path.

‘I don’t
like
George, Gonko. I don’t
like
him!’

‘Shut your fucking word hole,’ Gonko snapped.

A loud burst of applause broke out from the acrobats’ tent next door. ‘Show time,’ Winston murmured.

Their own audience could be heard talking quietly and JJ felt excitement ripple through him; the thought of being up there in front of a bunch of strangers, making an idiot of himself, almost made him wish he hadn’t skipped rehearsal.

Gonko motioned for everyone to gather around. ‘Get your heads on,’ he said. ‘Like we rehearsed, lead with Doops then Ruf. Start with the stealing his hanky routine. I’ll come out and play copper. Milk the first three minutes for all it’s worth, but it was piss-weak in rehearsal, and if they ain’t giggling I’m coming out early. Out comes Goshy when I clap the cuffs on Doops — Winston give him a push up the steps to make sure he goes when he’s meant to. Doops, if he blows it tonight I’ll give him something to whistle about. JJ, you watch, pay attention, and if you sneak off I will break your fucking skull. All right. GO.’

Doopy stumbled up the steps and onto the stage as the lights came on, flooding the stage in heat. Whatever he did out there drew a brief laugh, and JJ climbed up on a crate to watch. Rufshod took a huffing breath and bounded onto the stage, all his mania uncoiling like a spring, each step a leap taking him high into the air. The audience seemed to draw breath at the bouncing cartoonish apparition, a blur of bright colours flashing through the air. Doopy put on a look of sorrow at losing their attention, gazing mournfully at Rufshod, waving his arms, trying to get the spotlight back. Rufshod mocked him, pointing in triumph at the audience —
ha ha, they’re watching me
. A forlorn figure, Doopy shuffled to the back of the stage, then paused as though struck with an idea. He pulled down his pants and stood in his striped boxers, arms held out like a composer. The spotlight beam switched back to him and Rufshod stopped still, mortified, as Doopy blew kisses at the crowd. Striding over to Doopy, Rufshod plucked the handkerchief from his shirt pocket in revenge. Doopy waxed indignant, pants still around his ankles. He put up his dukes clumsily and drew a laugh. Turning to them, Doopy bowed, forgetting all about the fight and, while his attention was diverted, Rufshod kicked him in the backside.

Backstage, Gonko muttered, ‘Rusty as shit, but it’ll do.’ He’d slipped into a British copper’s uniform, with a sheriff’s badge and billy club. In a bizarre goosestep he strutted onstage, pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it. Then everything went wrong.

As the whistle rang out shrill and loud there was a popping sound from the rafters above, followed by a hissing as smoke began to billow from the floor. A thick grey cloud soon enveloped Rufshod and Doopy. Gonko stopped dead and stared around in alarm.

JJ turned to Winston. ‘Is this part of —’

‘No. It isn’t,’ said Winston grimly. ‘It’s sabotage.’

Winston motioned to Goshy and the pair of them stepped onstage. Goshy’s arms were locked stiff at his sides. He wandered towards his brother and was soon lost in the smoke cloud. JJ last saw Winston kneeling on the floor, pawing through the smoke to find its source. The cloud got thicker and before long the audience was coughing as smoke wafted over the rows of seats. JJ’s eyes watered and he felt a rough tickle in his throat. Onstage, Goshy began the kettle noise in his distress:
‘HMMMMMM! HMMMMMMM!’

There was a muffled: ‘It’s not …
funny …
’

Gonko bellowed at the top of his lungs: ‘
If I find
…
the dirty motherfucker
…’ but he had to stop there, caught by a coughing fit. The audience, too, were hacking up a storm. There were panicked confused shouts, then the sound of people climbing over plastic seats and stampeding to the exits. The clowns staggered off the stage, spluttering and hacking, except Goshy, who kept up the kettle noise. The group of them made for the door and stood outside, gasping for air. Still squealing, Goshy looked about in alarm, his face doing the same grotesque contortions JJ had seen earlier that day, all the flesh peeled back into thick rings. ‘Go
shhhh
-
eeeee
,’ said Doopy, stumbling over to his brother and holding him by the shoulders. ‘They smoked us out, Goshy. They gone and did it … They smoked us all out!’ Doopy embraced his brother, trying to calm him, but the kettle noise just wouldn’t stop.

Next door, the acrobats were enjoying thunderous applause.

The clowns sat quietly around their new card table, which Rufshod had stolen from the woodchoppers. Quietly was not what JJ had expected — he’d expected fireworks from Gonko at least. Instead, Gonko leaned back in his chair with a speculative look on his face. Winston was doing the talking. ‘Smoke bombs. Can get ’em from the joke stall in Sideshow Alley. They’d give you a hundred for a few grains o’ powder.’ He held one between his thumb and forefinger, a small object like a black ping-pong ball. ‘They burst open and puke up smoke if you whack ’em. Must’ve dropped a few dozen from the roof onto the stage.’

‘How’d they get ’em to go off when Gonko blew his whistle?’ said Rufshod.

‘That I’m not sure. May have just been coincidence. Maybe someone had a carnie up there on the rafters with a bag full of ’em. Have to ask that gypsy who does the spotlights if he saw anything.’

‘Whoever did it, they’re fucked,’ Gonko said. His voice was tranquil. ‘I mean to the hilt. They’ll need a mop and a band- aid, I kid you not.’

‘Any way we can find out?’ said Rufshod. ‘I know! We’ll just look in the —’

JJ cut him off with a violent coughing fit and a pointed glance. Rufshod got the message. Winston watched the pair of them closely and lapsed into thoughtful silence.

‘Look where, Ruf?’ said Doopy. ‘Look in the where?’

‘Ah, we’ll … look in their tents,’ said Rufshod.

‘Whose tent, Ruf?’ said Doopy.

‘Whoever done it.’

Doopy pondered this carefully then cried, ‘Yeah! Yeah that’s a swell idea. Let’s do that, Gonko, let’s look in whoever done its tent and see who —’

‘We all know who it was,’ said Gonko. ‘They wear tights. They wished us a good show yesterday. JJ threw mud at them, God bless his little heart. And do not fear, there shall be comeuppance. But all of you listen and listen good. No revenge attacks yet. No lines to read between, I mean it. For now, we play nice as custard and pie.’ Gonko squinted around at each of them. ‘None of us is going to forget tonight any time soon. There is
no
hurry. For now we take it on the chin — and they fucked us pretty good, you gotta hand it to ’em. But we’ll fuck ’em back. This will be a steady campaign of fuckery, but we gotta do it just right. Coming up now is the foreplay. Nice and slow.’

‘Knock knock!’ came a voice from the door.

‘Ah, here we go,’ Gonko muttered.

George Pilo marched in with someone at his heels, a fat man with eyes so close together it looked like they were sharing a socket — it appeared the matter manipulator had decorated his face. This, JJ guessed by the suit and tie, was the Pilo’s pet accountant, and orchestrator of the clown-versus- acrobat competition policy. Beside him, George looked absolutely gleeful. ‘Gonko!’ he cried. ‘Let’s have what you might call an open dialogue about tonight’s show. Do you feel you lived up to your own expectations, first off?’

‘A little rusty, to be honest, George,’ said Gonko serenely.

‘A little rusty!’ George echoed, beaming. ‘I like that. No wonder you’re in charge of this crew, you’re a funny guy. Roger and I were just doing some sums, what you might call a cost-benefit analysis of your show. Tonight, Gonko, your show cost us the lives of nine tricks. Nine whole unharvested tricks, dead in the stampede. Now, most crowds boo when they don’t like a show, so I suppose a suicidal
stampede indicates “a little rusty” is dead on the money. What does nine tricks equal in powder, Roger?’

Roger the accountant dropped his briefcase in the furious rush to pull a calculator from his pocket. He punched in some numbers and said, ‘Nine bags, Mr Pilo.’

‘Nine bags!’ cried George, grinning his head off. ‘Nine bags, Gonko. Roger, what were we going to pay the clowns for tonight’s performance?’

The accountant punched in more numbers. ‘Nine bags,’ he said.

‘Right!’ said George. ‘And what is nine minus nine?’

Roger did the maths. ‘It’s, ah, zero, Mr Pilo.’

‘Right you are! A nice round number. What do you think of that, Gonko?’

Gonko opened his mouth to speak and shut it again as George slapped a piece of paper down on the table. He gave it a disinterested glance and said, ‘What might that be, George?’

‘Notice of suspension!’ George cried.

Gonko sighed. ‘What if I were to tell you our act was sabotaged?’

George feigned a judicious look and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘If you were to tell me
that,
I would ask you to bring forth the mountain of evidence you presumably have on hand to prove beyond doubt your wild allegation.’ Gonko held up the smoke bomb. ‘Bear in mind that what constitutes doubt,’ said George, and Gonko threw the smoke bomb away. ‘I’d then remind you that each performer is solely responsible for their act, including upkeep of their performance facility and, or, if applicable, their stage. That’s what I’d say, hypothetically, if you were to, hypothetically, make such a claim. An appeal could of course
be made to a manager, but said manager’s ruling would be final and binding. And said manager would be … me, Gonko.’