NEVER AGAIN SPAT THE DUMMY | John Travis ‘Hey, steady on there!’ said the left leg as it fell to the floor. ‘He hasn’t got a leg to stand on!’ Both legs, now two feet apart, wriggled on the stage like landed fish. ‘What’s that?’ shouted the man in the oversized striped suit, flipping his bow tie round and round as if it were a windmill. ‘He can’t hear you!’ with that, he pressed two small buttons in the dummy’s neck and the ears flew off into the front row, onto the lap of a woman laughing uncontrollably. ‘Hey, leave me alone you big bully,’ the dummy said with its gravelly voice. ‘I’m ‘armless enough!’ On cue the ventriloquist yanked at its arms and they landed one on either side of the stage, one finger on one hand and two on the other gesturing upwards. The audience howled and tried to applaud at the same time. ‘I’ve got friends in high places you know,’ the dummy said, out of synch with the ventriloquist. ‘I’m not just any old lump of wood. I’m made of better things than that.’ ‘Well, let’s see shall we?’ Slowly the ventriloquist started to turn the head of the dummy from side to side. ‘Hey! Get off! Leave me alone!’ The audience roared. On the eighth twist a great jet of red flew from the mouth and onto the first three rows of the audience. The head popped off the dummy and the torso was dropped to the floor. ‘I’d hate to be the cleaner in this place,’ the head said, the tape inside it still playing. ‘G'night.’ With a flurry of wobbly, badly-played organ music the curtain fell across the stage, the audience still howling and sniggering; all except one man. Two rows from the back, an old man sat with tears welling in his eyes, but for reasons different to than those around him. It was too much to bear. Getting to his feet he decided he wasn’t going to stay for the midgets. Standing in the queue for refreshments he saw the entourage moving slowly but busily towards him, a mass of smiling faces; in the centre a man signing autographs. ‘Who’s this for? Elaine. I’m going for a drink now, Elaine, would you like to c- and of course bring your friends…the dummy? Oh he’s patching himself up backstage…’ Another burst of laughter made the old man even wearier. He recalled the conversation he’d had earlier with Shulz. ‘Go on, see what he does to them, you’ll never believe it, it’s brilliant! He’ll not be here forever.’ Looking down at the programme he shook his head. “Witness an evening of auto-destructive anarchy – Benny Bruni, the world’s most explosive ventriloquist! IT’S NOT JUST HIS VOICE HE THROWS!!!!”. If this passed for entertainment these days he’d rather stay at home. He wondered if other ventriloquists did this to their dolls; it saddened him more than he could say. You could even see his lips move for God’s sake, when he wasn’t trying to distract you with his electronic gizmos. Pressing the collar of his overcoat to his throat, he stepped from the theatre into the rain-blackened streets. * The bell of the shop clanged and Shulz looked up from his paper. ‘In here again, Mr. Bruni? That must be the fifth time in two weeks.’ ‘You'll find it’s the sixth,’ said the ventriloquist, who walked so quickly he always seemed to have a breeze behind him. ‘Another one of your “finest” dolls, please…’ ‘You certainly get through them,’ Shulz smiled. ‘Doesn’t it bother you though? I mean, you don’t have much time to get attached to them, do you?’ ‘Blocks of wood is all they are to me, Shulz,’ said Bruni, taking money from a brown leather wallet. ‘I'm the star of the show, not them. Besides, I fill them with that many extra’s, well – they’re not worth getting to know, know what I mean?’ ‘I wouldn’t let my assistant hear you say that,’ Shulz leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘He only makes your dolls under sufferance, knowing what you do with them.’ ‘Well, they're useless without me. He should remember that,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Oh, he won’t hear you. Once he gets in there he's oblivious to everything.’ Only for once, the old man was listening. He was behind the door. He jerked back suddenly as there was a knock on it, right next to his head. ‘Mr. Rabinski?’ The old man paused before answering. ‘Oh, yes? Is something the matter?’ ‘No. I'm going out for a while. Keep an eye on things will you?’ Coming out into the front of the shop, Rabinski looked around. A worthless place. A truly worthless place. Shulz didn’t care for the art of puppetry any more than Bruni did; he was a money man, pure and simple. Not like his predecessor. No, Laslo cared. And he was good. Better than that idiot Bruni, resorting to cheap gimmickry instead of learning his craft. Laslo would be spinning in his grave if he knew- At that moment the world seemed to stop for the old man. Everything in his mind became very clear, very clear indeed. For the first time since Shulz had taken over the business Rabinski felt his face breaking into a smile. * As the curtain fell Bruni stood back, basking in the roar of the crowd. Another fine performance, even if he said so himself. Picking up the blasted torso by the front of its tattered shirt he winced as a splinter stuck in his finger. After picking up the head which had landed upside-down nearby, its jam-pot mouth open to reveal the tubing which led to the plastic blood capsule in the gullet, he grabbed the remaining limbs and walked to his dressing room with the big open fireplace. ‘Oi!’ a voice shouted at knee height. 'Watch were you’re going!’ Looking down he laughed as he saw that the leg of the dummy had clipped one of the midget troupe around the side of the head. ‘It’s not funny!’ the midget yelled, his face turning purple. Bruni laughed harder as the midget stamped off. In his dressing room he wondered if the crowd needed something bigger, better; you had to keep upping the ante – it took more and more to shock people these days. He had a few days off until the last show. Perhaps something more explosive was called for… One by one Bruni flung the body parts into the fire, watching as the small strips of paint curled off and the wood started to burn. * ‘'When can he have one ready? The last show is on Thursday.’ ‘Well, I’ll try and hurry him along, but he is a perfectionist. He won’t let me sell it until he’s completely happy with it.’ ‘I don't see why – I’m just going to smash it to pieces anyway.’ Bruni let out a sigh. ‘Look. As long as it’s ready for Thursday I really don’ care. Anyway,’ he said, smiling at Shulz, ‘After I’ve finished with it, it won’t be recognizable to anyone.’ Seconds after the bell clanged there was a knock on the workshop door. Shulz tried the handle but knew it would be locked. ‘Mr. Rabinski, are you okay? What are you muttering about in there?’ there was a cough and a thud. ‘Oh, nothing, just talking to…myself,’ the old man said. ‘That was Bruni, he wants another doll for Thursday. Think you can have one ready by then?’ ‘What, Thursday? Oh yes, yes.’ Rabinski said after more muttering. Shulz shook his head. He’d never really got on with the old man. Too fond of Laslo and his strange ideas. Took these puppets far too seriously, the way he cooed and crowed over them. He was looking for any excuse to fire him. ‘I notice you were late this morning, Rabinski…’ ‘Was I…oh yes! Sorry about that. I went to visit Mr. Laslo’s brother to look through some books of his.’ His brother? Thought Shulz. From what he’d heard he was even worse, into all kinds of odd things. He’d only met him the once at the funeral and he’d put the fear of God in him. Talk about an odd family. ‘I’ll work late to make up the time, of course,’ Rabinski was saying. ‘I've never been late before. Mr. Laslo would have told you that.’ Mr. Laslo, Mr. Laslo… ‘Yes, yes, okay. But have that doll ready for Bruni to pick up Thursday morning, you hear me?’ ‘Oh yes…’ said the old man in the locked workshop, letting his hands rise and fall above the block of wood before him. 'Don’t worry your head about that.’ * Finally getting rid of the old man at seven thirty on that Wednesday night, Shulz was curious to know what all the noise had been about. Even through the locked door he’d heard it, and got no sense from Rabinski when he left. The old man had looked flushed when he came out, in a way he hadn’t seen before. He couldn't work out if he was happy or in pain. Unlocking the door, he flicked the small switch at the side of the wall and looked in at the cramped workspace. So that’s what the old devil had been up to… On the shelf above the workbench were two dolls, one only half finished. So Rabinski was making another doll in case Bruni needed two… he must’ve overhead him the other day. Looking at the finished doll for more than a few seconds proved impossible. He wasn’t sure why; it looked pretty much the same as all the other dolls the old man made. But this one was ugly in a way he couldn’t define, as if it was about to jump off the shelf and grab him by the throat and yell in his face with a vile wooden voice… however, ugly as it was his eyes were repeatedly drawn back to it, like some weird painting where the eyes followed you round the room. ‘God what an ugly son of a bitch.’ Closing the door behind him the sensation was still there; he could feel, almost see those eyes. A shudder passed through him. If ever a dummy deserved to be smashed up it was that one, mused Shulz as he stopped in at the nearest bar for a stiffener. * Walking into the theatre that morning Bruni found the manager pacing up and down. ‘I’m not sure about this,’ he said. ‘It breaches every regulation we have. I mean – where the hell did you get it?’ Bruni took it from his jacket and hefted it lovingly. ‘You just have to know the right people, that’s all. Look, I’ll be aiming for the dummy. I’m a good shot, I’ve got the certificates to prove it. If I miss I’ll pay for the damage. And nobody need know it’s real – just say it was a stage prop.’ Eventually the manager agreed and Bruni went to pick up the doll. * In his delicate condition the next morning, even the sound of the key in the lock was loud. Shulz had only intended to stay for one drink to steady him, but he couldn’t shake off the image of that damned doll and its dead eyes boring into him. He knew he’d had too many when he started hearing a voice whispering to him in the otherwise empty bar; it irritated him that he knew the voice but couldn’t quite place it. Approaching the workshop he stopped dead. It was open. Had he forgot to lock it last night in his rush to leave? Switching on the light he saw that something had changed. On the workbench beneath the shelf one of the dolls was face down on the counter. Walking over to it he picked it up roughly by the arm and turned it to him. Rabinski wasn’t going to be happy; the doll must’ve fallen off the shelf head first, its face was smashed to pieces and one of its legs was almost twisted round the other way. Looking at the shelf he saw the other dummy, the ugly one, still grinning that rictus grin. ‘Should've been you that fell,’ Shulz said, going out to the counter when he heard the bell ring and Bruni call out. * ‘Well, I don’t find it very funny, Mr. Bruni.’ The manager of the midgets, a man over six feet tall, folded his arms and stared down at Bruni. ‘Look, if you’re dwarf’s can’t take a joke-’ ‘They are performers, people just like you, Mr. Bruni. You wouldn’t like it if they started to criticize you, or your “act”.’ ‘Hey wait a minute, that little shit said he was going to kill me! I'd get better manners out of that thing!’ Turning, he indicated the doll slumped in the chair against the wall. The manager looked at it distastefully. ‘Well, I shall be complaining to the relevant people. You seem to have as much feeling for my troupe as you do for your dolls!’ With that he stamped out. Bruni looked at the doll again. God, it was awful. But it was the only one Shulz’d had. Shoving it into a plastic bag it’d kept clacking against his leg on the way to the dressing room. He’d enjoy smashing it to kingdom come tonight. Nobody could object to that. Later as he was getting ready his mind started to wander. Damned midgets, scurrying around the place. He was glad he was leaving tomorrow morning, but disappointed that he hadn’t courted much in the way of controversy while he’d been here, here in the home of Lazlini, the great traditionalist… was nobody bothered anymore by anything? Ignoring the small thud behind him he continued to ruminate: maybe he could write some letters of complaint to the newspapers (anonymously of course) about the show – and a few jibes about the midgets in interviews should be good for a- something sharp and pointed dug into the back of his leg. ‘Don’t move.’ Bruni was about to laugh when he realized the gun wasn’t on the surface next to him anymore. His heart started to gallop; he laughed nervously. ‘Hey, if you're serious you'd better aim a bit higher up…’ the gun slid up between his legs. Breathing heavily, he tried to think what to do. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, okay? It was just a joke, that’s all. Heat of the moment stuff. I – always get tense before a performance, don’t you?’ hearing the click of the trigger he started to sweat, could feel his legs tingling, quivering. ‘You didn’t just offend me, you offended all of my kind. Your arrogance makes me sick.’ ‘I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!’ Bruni squealed. That voice…what was it about that voice? ‘You enjoy treating us like idiots, don’t you? Let’s see how you like it. You want to be the star of the show? Say “Gottle o’ gear”.’ Bruni began a nervous laugh until the gun was pressed painfully up into his groin. ‘Okay, okay! “Gottle o’ gear! Gottle o’ gear”.’ Through his rising hysteria he realized he had inched closer to his mirror. If only he could get a look at him, maybe that would calm him down. Balancing as much as he dare without giving himself away, he stretched toward the mirror. When he got there Bruni realized that he was right behind so he couldn't get a look at him. But the view in his mirror told him more than enough. The chair was empty. ‘Oh God…’ Bruni groaned, started to retch. There was a vicious little inhuman laugh behind him. ‘It appears you’ve had an accident. You’ll need a mop for that. I ought to blow your arms and legs off like you did with all those others. Instead, we’ll play a little game first.’ Hearing the gun’s chamber spinning Bruni screamed. ‘No! Help me someone! Leave me alone! NO!’ There was a sharp click, then another. And another. ‘Three chambers gone, Bruni,’ the voice said. ‘How’s this for entertainment?’ Before he had a chance to scream again Bruni’s wobbling legs gave way and he crumpled in a heap, his chin hitting the table in front of him, his eyes flicking shut. * ‘You’re cheerful this morning,’ Shulz shouted through to his whistling employee in the workshop. ‘Full of the joys of spring, in fact.’ ‘Ah yes…’ Rabinski said coming through. ‘I went out last night to see Bruni's show – it was cancelled. But the evening wasn’t short of entertainment.’ Handing over the morning paper he pointed at the review section, folded his arms and smiled. ‘Explosive ventriloquist act Benny Bruni’s final show was cancelled last night when the violent voice-thrower was found on the floor of his dressing room in a heap. When revived he kept yelling about his doll standing behind him pointing a loaded gun up at his…’ Shulz shook his head, ‘…trousers were badly soiled as he insisted that the puppet, which, to this reporter looked about as lifeless as a lump of wood can, was playing a deadly game of Russian Roulette with him…A spokesman for Bruni put the incident down to overwork…’ ‘I was there when they found him,’ the old man said in a gossipy tone. ‘Yelling like a madman. God alone knows what he’d been doing in there. If only the great Lazlini could’ve seen it!’ As Shulz continued to shake his head Rabinski went back into the workshop and closed the door behind him. ‘I wonder when the great Bruni will perform next?’ he said softly. ‘Never again,’ a voice answered him across the workshop, ‘never again.’