On any other given day, this tunnel would swallow all light and sound. Today, however, the echo of shuffling feet and the melancholy wail of brass and strings reverberate around as dim lantern light bobs against the walls. As the glow brightens, and the cacophony rises, a silhouette smudge of crimson and gold cuts through the oppressive gloom.
The Doctor-Professor leads the way, a red cape hanging limply over his right shoulder and a fan of black feathers tucked into the pink, silk band of his top hat. A hint of white accentuates the high points of his face, framing a sinister rictus in contrast to the atmosphere his troupe is creating.
Unfolding behind him, the procession is a surreal splendor of costumed performers marching with precise, exaggerated steps. Their faces, like Monty’s, are painted in stark contrasts of white and black patterns, skulls, cracked grins, and weeping, hollow eyes.
Carts and wagons are adorned in mourning colors. One cart, pulled by a horse painted up like a skeleton, drags a wagon with a huge pipe organ. The organ wheezes out a waltzing dirge, keeping time as the revelers march. The procession is equal parts haunt and jubilation, with the occasional trombone, trumpet, or tuba belting out with deliberate discord. Violins keen, while cymbals and tambourines clang in time.
Every so often, the Showman pauses, spreading his arms wide, his fingers curling as though weaving an invisible spell. Each member of this crew freezes in place when he does, and the dirge swells to a crescendo before falling silent. A few, tense moments pass, then, on some unspoken cue, the procession springs to life again with renewed vigor.
One of the Cabinet members, a thin woman wearing the classic, diamond-patterned Arlecchino costume and a plastic buskin mask steps from the arrangement. A trumpet is attached with a thin string that hangs from her shoulder. She begins a slow, elaborate dance, the cloth and instrument swirling as she moves. A swirl and the movement stops as suddenly as it began, her hand on the chin of the mask. With a final flourish, she removes the mask, revealing the Scorpion Queen, Jaclyn Pierrot.
They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. Chaos and order. Good and evil. The same muscles in your mouth that you use when you cry are the very same muscles you use when you laugh, it’s just the difference between a smile and a frown. This means that despite how hard we scratch and scream against the status quo, we are merely part of the established order.
Happiness. Sadness. Joy. Pain.
These are just words we use to try and explain these primal feelings we have inside and to justify the actions which we have chosen. But they’re all simply the same - the soul screaming to break free from the ordinary. The chaos inside, raging against our aging flesh. Fighting the losing war against time as we see substance in the soul. But what if there is none - it’s merely a big cosmic joke.
It’s as sad as it is funny, but I guess that’s just life. And so what we, the agents of chaos, if not simply the heralds of the storm. What then can we say that you can believe - do we spread a message of hope or fear? Either way, it’s noise just the same.
The clown holds the trumpet up to her lips, blowing a loud honk before pulling the mask over her face, then slipping back into the crowd.
It isn’t really a funeral, but the air of ritual, a strange reverence entwined with a barely-concealed glee, makes it feel like an unholy celebration. It’s as if they’re honoring some ancient, buried thing that has surfaced once more.
The Mothman pauses again beneath the cavernous ceiling, his arms spreading wide as before, and the procession dutifully stills. Before them looms a massive stone staircase, its steps uneven and crumbling, leading upward. Above it, a rusted iron sign hangs precariously, its letters weathered but legible:
HELL, MICHIGAN MUNICIPAL WORKS
The Showman turns to face his followers, smile sharper now, eyes glittering. He taps his cane once against the ground, the sound reverberating through the tunnel like a thunderclap, then leads the Cabinet up the steps…
—
A symphony of chaos and charm! A masterpiece of mistaken identities and deliciously tangled webs! It’s all set against a splendid 1930s backdrop kissed with sepia.
Imagine, a man accustomed to wielding power with an iron fist, who is suddenly thrust into a delicate ballet of decorum and civility, after deciding to go legit. He desperately strives to reform himself while the universe–and everyone around him–conspires to unravel his every effort. The story is brilliant in its orchestration—a farce of timing, the characters are conducted like players in an elaborate stage performance.
Sylvester Stallone, normally a typecast titan of schlocky action, sheds his rugged Rambo persona to don a more polished veneer and become Angelo Provolone, a mobster navigating the treacherous waters of legitimacy. Inspired casting, if ever I’ve seen it.
But Oscar is a personal favorite, not for the humor, despite it being exceedingly clever, but for the unrelenting embrace of theatricality. Each line is delivered as if to a live audience, each twist and turn exaggerated to operatic proportions. It’s a love letter to screwball comedies while being a story about the absurdity of transformation.
Oscar is a rare gem—a carnival of contradictions and a testament to the art of controlled pandemonium.
—
Montague: How will our opponents spin their win this time around the gyre?
The Mothman stands at the foot of the spiral of iron, diamond-plate stairs, watching as half his foot soldiers ascend through the waterworks, and the rest set up camp in the subterranean cavern.
Montague: Perhaps they’ll point out the lack of consistency, the starts and stops, the never-quite-gelling Cooperative team Jacky and I have held together on the purest of basis; a real friendship, something The E of C profess to understand as well as we do.
He winks at Jacky as she steps out of the crowd and removes her mask to take her place at his side.
Montague: What will really get my goat, so to speak, is that it will be implied that we’re not participating up to our potential, not putting in the time and work that once carried the both of us through the Global Challenge and to memorable reigns in both the World and Cross Hemisphere championship divisions.
The Showman and the Ragdoll share a nostalgic look, remembering the Season fondly.
Montague: The simple truth, the one that some simply can’t accept, is that not everyone hopes to become the next Lucy Wylde or Sebastian Everett-Bryce.
Montague rolls his eyes, and Jacky makes an exaggerated gagging sound.
Montague: I’m not shaming anyone who does… it’s not a stretch to assume that Sebastian is the best in the industry, and has been for a while. And Lucy, well… If there’s a single competitor during this decade of UGWC that could compare to the Hastings, Somers, or Morgan-Baal of the previous one, it’s her.
He shrugs.
Montague: They’ve worked hard to arrive where they are; they’re talented, experienced, driven, and have years left in their careers, if they don’t decide to retire as living legends next year.
Jacky fixes Montage with a look as though an entire gallon of spaghetti sprinkled with cheetos just dropped to the bottom of her stomach. She’s had all the bootlicking she can take, and takes her turn ascending the staircase.
Montague: I admitted that they have my professional respect ages ago; I simply have no quarrel with them anymore.
He raises a long, well manicured index finger on his left hand.
Montague: That being said, their journey simply isn’t for everyone. They’ll call that lazy, or fear, or complacency. Let them, because it vexes them that I’m comfortable finding my challenges and distractions in other pursuits.
The Doctor-Professor snorts.
Montague: I’ve proven my talent in the past, I’m satisfied. What interests me far more is finding ways to poke at the most successful. How to take Lucy Wylde and Sebastian Everett-Bryce off their nearly perfect game. The challenge of ending their historic Cooperative streak is far more satisfying than defending the championships will ever be.
Monty quirks his mouth and shrugs, as if to say ‘that’s how it is, take it or leave it.’ He falls into step with the rest of his endless troupe, rising up from below the town of Hell…