That score’s settled.
Baltimore Elite poked their heads out for a moment, only for the Astro Creeps to shove them back into their hole to rot. And then, having been forced to stand aligned with the Professional Phony, however briefly, Montague was able to step to the side while he received his comeuppance for poking the Bunnies. Somehow, even without their high society tokens, things continue to come up Creepy.
—
Daedalus is nearly bowled over when Montague slingshots around a corner and collides with him, the bag he’s carrying launching out of his hands to land ten feet away.
Montague recovers quickly, the adrenaline of his apparent excitement not allowing him to stay on the floor. He reaches down to offer a hand to Daedalus, who is just now catching his breath. Daedalus takes the offered help and gets yanked to his feet. Monty apologizes as he makes a token effort to dust off his friend’s suit.
Montague: Sorry about that, D, my mind is two thousand miles away.
The Architect casts a long look down the hallway in the direction Monty had been rushing.
Daedalus: I suspect your physical self will soon be joining it?
Pausing for a moment of confusion, Montague blinks into the void of the corridor. Realization comes over him as he turns back to catch Daedalus’ knowing gaze. He nods back at Montague, but before he can explain, the Showman holds up hand to stop him.
Montague: No… I’d rather not know. It’s more exciting, the not knowing.
Daedalus acquiesces with a smirk and a final nod.
Daedalus: I couldn’t agree more. Safe travels then?
Now it’s Monty’s turn to smirk. He claps Daedalus on the shoulder and chuckles.
Montague: What kind of fun would that be?
With a wink, Daedalus steps aside to allow Monty to pass, pointing toward the fallen satchel lest the Doctor-Professor leave it behind. Montague tips his hat and scoops up the bag before continuing his rapid march into the darkness, this time a bit more cautiously.
Daedalus glances up at the ceiling and gives a Kubrick-esque smile at the symbol painted on there.
—
Gold Mine, Oregon
In 1904, the indigenous Takelma people were driven from their lands along what would come to be known as Sardine Creek. This displacement, a sad American tradition, was taking place up and down the Pacific Coast thanks to hungry prospectors, and this particular serving of manifest destiny was signed off on by the Old Gray Eagle Mining Company.
An assaying office was set up on the slopes above the creek, but the proprietors had trouble from the start. None of their instruments for measuring the purity of the yellow mineral would function properly. In particular, the scales simply couldn’t calibrate, even with perfectly measured weights. The mines were plentiful, though, so the miners simply opted to ship what they stripped out of the earth to Portland for verification.
Six years after opening, the assay office inexplicably slid off its foundations and several feet toward the creek. It came to rest without the assistance of a tree, stump, or boulder, and continues to sit sturdy at a tilted angle a hundred twenty years later.
The physics-defying phenomena inside the invisible sphere can still be observed.
—
When Montague regains his self-awareness, he’s in the same forest in Southwest Oregon that he remembers from that morning. Now, late afternoon beams filter through the redwoods, reviving the glitter and glow that the region had colonized for.
He’s unsurprised to find a chestnut roan mare waiting for him. Slinging his pack over the saddle horn, the Showman hoists himself up and clicks his tongue to set off.
It isn’t long before the horse begins to whicker and snort, finally coming to a stop at the edge of the creek and stamping to express its discomfort. Montague dismounts, reaching into his bag to grab a handful of peppermints to reward the mare. As she munches away, Montague turns, the creek behind him, to mark his path.
Three hundred thirty feet is the diameter determined by John Litster in the 1940s, with half the sphere above ground, and the other hemisphere under the hill ahead. While he’s traveling upstream of Sardine Creek, his guide is a tributary brook flowing back in the opposite direction of the main stream. Shouldering his duffel, Monty begins trekking toward the slope ahead.
The first anomaly he notices is a resistance in the air. The closer he gets to the destination, the harder he has to push forward, as if he is already climbing the hill toward the shack. The terrain is fairly flat here, so it’s a little unnerving, but soon he reaches the foot of the slope. Strangely, once he’s actually making his way upward, his steps seem to get lighter. Curious.
Presently, he spots the dry, gray planks of a small, ancient building. It’s tilted, as advertised, looking as though it may collapse at any moment. What catches the Doctor-Professor’s eye, however, is the shape of the trees around the shack. On every side, the tall sentinels lean inward toward the building, forming a natural cone over it. With a grunt of interest, Monty steps up to the large deck that leads him to the front of the assay office.
Montague looks down at the planks below, and is shocked to find his feet far to the left of where he expected them to be. For someone as trained in balance as he, the sensation of involuntarily leaning at a 17° angle is somewhat offputting.
What an excellent place to train.
Unslinging his pack, Monty digs through it to pull out four wooden balls. He begins to juggle two of them in his left hand while stepping forward into the shed. In the center of the first room, he crouches and, with his right hand, places one of the balls onto one of the few level things in the room, a simple wooden bench.
At first, nothing happens, as expected. When he reaches out to lift one end of the bench, however, the ball rolls upward toward his hand. With a disbelieving chuckle, Montague stops juggling so he can lift the other side of the bench. Sure enough, the ball changes direction and rolls toward his left hand.
Satisfied, the Showman snatches the ball up again, then walks toward the center of the room. He takes a deep breath, and then begins trying to juggle from an angle.
—
We rejoin Montague in a different room of the shack. He’s standing on a crooked and petrified work table, leaning on his cane. Perplexingly, he seems to be leaning forward from the edge of the table, beyond a natural tipping point, but rejecting gravity all the same.
Montague: I don’t know what sort of game our Creative Director is playing, but I must confess a bit of intrigue. For the second week in a row I’m entangled with someone with tangential and strained connections to the co-star I prefer. For the second week in a row, I share a ring with Scrotie McBoogerballs–only now he’s felt the sting of the Scorpion Queen and will be looking for retribution.
The showman tucks the cane away and produces the four wooden balls from earlier. He rolls into a juggling routine as smoothly as you might brush your hair out of your face. The balls fly from one hand in a horizontal parabola, only to curve around and return to his other hand from the side. It seems like an illusion, but eventually he loses control of one of the balls and it plunks to the dusty floor below. Unfazed, Monty continues to juggle the remaining three.
Montague: While the tension builds toward Battleground, a decision has been made about our fates there; we’re both invited to join Tony Savage on the main stage. A sound decision, one that will no doubt fill the UGWC coffers as the three of us thrill and delight the loyal audience. But, the Dark Lady gets an early preview of how her destiny might manifest. For some reason, however, I’ve been given a proxy in that preview. Not that letting the Spider King play with them first isn’t an ideal development…
He considers this as another ball lands with a thunk, then rolls up the slope into the highest corner in the room. The remaining two continue to flip outward from and return to his left hand.
Montague: Instead, I am relegated to continuing to add to the frustration of both my opponents this week by handing them yet another frustrating appearance that doesn’t go their way. Zane will blame the booking team, and Maggie will blame… I don’t know. kismet? Anything to avoid admitting that a Creep is the better competitor.
Montague: Magdalena has eaten humble pie since her return, and she’s looking to turn the bright lights back on so she can shine like she once did. I’d wager she’ll get more aggressive as each loss goes by, until eventually she orchestrates some jaw-dropping showstopping operation that leaves everyone’s heads spinning. If I can compound her vexation with another ineffective at-bat–say, forcing her to take the loss without taking the pin, for instance–we move ever closer to her dropping the ‘oh shucks’ persona she’s currently wearing. That’s a guaranteed distraction for Lucy. I’m sure of it.
Another ball drops, dislodging a long, wicked splinter when it hits. Montague is now spinning the final one on the tips of his fingers.
Montague: I have learned that Caulfield has one redeeming quality; he’s an animal lover. Beyond that, however, he’s still a pouting mess with a chip on his shoulder the size of the UGWC Arena. If only he could turn that righteous fire into some introspection, he might realize that most of his ire is paranoia. No one’s out to get Zane Scott or tarnish his legacy. We’re just not that into him. By all means, let him continue to cry and gripe on Twitter. “What about Zane?” This is literally the most ineffectual Zane we’ve ever seen, and while he’s kicking doors and punching walls like a brat, he’s not nearly as dangerous as he could be. He’s easy pickings.
The final ball drops from his fingers, but unlike the three before, this one seems to fall in slow motion. It makes it halfway to the floor before it suddenly reverses direction and floats almost all the way back up to Monty’s hand. Back and forth it toggles, before coming to rest in mid-air between the Doctor-Professor’s grip and the floor.
Montague grins, and continues to loom uncannily over the camera as it fades out.