Moonmadness
Part 1
It's still morning, but not quite noon. Tonight, much like yesterday, or the two days before that, sleep has failed to claim me absolutely. I look upon the recently acquired pocket watch which sits comfortably in the palm of my hand. Ticking the seconds away. I'm still surprised at how cheap it was, a measly ninety cents. It came with a whistle too, matching the same brass colour and taste of the watch itself.
Ten fifty the watch reads. Still early morning, but late enough for breakfast to be considered only if one fancies having lunch late. Not that I found oatmeal and tea exactly filling, but I had breakfast, so I had time to consider what else I would buy off the money I had swindled off a millionaire, and what to say once I finally discovered the sounds of the commotion that might lead me to the one and only executioner from Naples.
I grimace upon remembering what I had given away to even get to this point: the insides of my jacket, my shoes, my bag from college, my shirt, my hair, and my limited edition copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude— my father's birthday present which I had taken borrowed off by bookshelf that evening.
Whatever had caused this owed me big time. I didn't even get to finish reading the damn book before I had to sell it off to even be able to afford paying this race and some basic commodities. The money wouldn't have lasted me more than a month.
Oatmeal, bread, coffee, and some sugar. That's what I bought, and that's what I know I can eat even if I might not enjoy it that much, for the first segment of the race. I also bought some candy and cutlery off the local stores. They were relatively cheap, and it's been some time since I last had traditionally cherry drops and carried around cookingware.
As much as I missed eating them, I'd would have rather not been spirited away to the 1890s to consume them again, even if I was helping a growing business…
After all those purchases, I was left with nothing more and nothing less than twelve dollars and forty-two cents. This first stretch had a forest, and grass growing nearby, so I don't think I'm going to have to spend too much on hay and other horse food. Almost as if noticing me thinking about her they turn to face me is the Horse... Jane Piddy. Such a silly name for an animal, but I had to admit the farmer had picked it well. Looking past my dislike of the animal, 'Jane' was a name that fit the mare quite well.
In one hour, the executioner from Naples, Caesar 'Gyro' Zepelli, and crippled 'Genius Jockey' Johnathan 'Johnny' Joestar would meet outside of the stall. I had plenty of time to kill, and several, minor, troublesome competitors to get rid of. The list of names included, Fritz von Stroheim, Cyborg from the German Empire and the oddly named Mrs. Robbinson, in reality a mister. He is a living insect colony with the abnormal ability to train these flies to do his bidding. I always wondered, was this a Stand? A psychic ability reflecting the nature of his soul? What sort of individual would even give birth to such a power?
These two, much like some others whose names I could not recall, are competitors who are problematic for a single reason: They would attempt to foul the race. Hurting their fellow racers, murdering them, even.
This would not do.
I had first woken up incredibly close to the 'Devil's Palm'. This site, for a lack of a better term, is cursed land. Many who go in don't go out, and alongside my awakening covered in an odd rocky substance I also had a companion. A dead man named Verdis Quo Williams. I stole his name, of course, and some of his money and even his clothes. The dead don't need the things the living need.
I no longer felt any empathy. I could fake it, sure, that's how I sold my clothing, with a sob story and pretending that my dear old, miraculous grandmother, who took magical things out of her sack, had died and vanished one day. That her house, and my belongings, had disappeared. The book that I owned and the clothes on my back were the only miracles I had left of her, and I would give them for a premium in order to make her memory
proud.
Usually, this would bother me. I detest lying.
Now? I couldn't care less. I felt this should unnerve me more.
It takes an active effort for me to read the stretched out expression of the mechanical Stroheim as his body is pulled and ground across the wall. Mechanical components moving… in all the wrong directions. Under my shadow the man can't scream. His mechanical limbs only break. Fumes don't move up, and the explosion of the bullets contained within his hand make no sound.
His face, brow pulled back, mouth opened, salty water running down from his face… His head tears and digs into his skull even more as a half-formed sob is turned against him even more…
I think he's in pain, but I cannot place myself mentally in his position to exactly tell as such. It's like poking at at a pet and watching them react.
Eventually, I can feel the second bullet detonate, buried within deep within his mangled, metal hand. The energy, transferred instantly, goes directly to his head.
I tried the stem first, but there was nothing there. So this time, the direction of the explosion and the sound and the force is transmitted to the bridge of his nose, digging deep…
The remains splatter into the wall, off my shadow, and partially, onto my face.
I wipe the grey matter off my face, leaving a red smear behind. Absolutely disgusting. Without any intent, the gears and pulleys and mother mechanisms cease to move, and they fall to the ground, splattering oil and red amongst the alleyway.
This is the loudest sound produced so far, but I have no doubt that it has gone mostly unheard. Scrap Metal clanging and a small, soft squish? By heavens, surely, it must be someone being sloppy in the kitchen.
It's still early for the event I was looking for.
I've got one hour to burn until noon arrives. Sleep can't claim me, so I think it's best to go back to my tent.
==============================
Of course the walk back to the tent couldn't be uneventful.
A figure quickly zooms past, from underneath one of the many tents, and the left pocket of my pants instantly feels less occupied.
The figure, male, is not particularly subtle. But he is fast, and I don't think I can grab him using my hands or trip him with a well-placed leg stride...
In that moment, I decide to use
it to stop him. The camp is crowded enough I don't think anyone will notice…
"「Instant Crush」…" Even before I utter those words, the name of the second shadow I have, the foot of the would-be pickpocket slides back as it impacts the ground, as the energy that would have gone into propelling the man forward via mechanical motion and friction finds itself doing the opposite of what it was it was meant to do: approaching the recent target that he stole from.
It's a simple movement, a deviation of the expected force, but it's enough for the would be pickpocket to pummel face-first towards the ground. His hands face a different direction than the one they were placed on. And for all that has happened, their face ends up merely covered in dirt and their nose bleeds profusely. A bright red split, provoked by an impact with a rock, runs down the middle, exposing cartilage…
"W-What???"
"Sorry.. but that money is mine." I know I shouldn't be explaining this to him, but if he reacts like how I expect him to, then… he shouldn't be able to tell anyone else. I didn't want to duel the man… but I dreaded practicing on the wild against people who were more than capable of harming me than he could. He is inconsequential in the larger scale of things; his face is not memorable. His clothing similarly so. If he were to die his body would be dragged away and I would be left with is the experience of taking a life and a scar in my psyche indicating that he existed, at some point or another.
I felt that a past, kinder, less rough version of me wouldn't want to do it, but I knew sooner or later others will show up, and they
will try to kill me.
I'd want to familiarize myself with this second shadow of mine even more before that came to pass.
"Y-You tripped me!" The man states, confusing the reason why his eyes are now watery and why his shoulders are scrapped for a far more mundane cause. "T-There ain't no shadow you just tripped me!"
It's obvious to me: it's covering the entire surface which he's sitting on. Is it obvious to him, however?
Can he see it?
I assumed because it was taking a mundane form it would surely be visible to everyone.
Did I assume wrong? Most likely, but it if came at my benefit, I don't think I mind it too much.
"I… did." The lie slips out surprisingly quickly, allowing me to play along and bury my earlier intentions. This man didn't have to die as long as he does not make a ruckus. I hope others will be like him... it'd make things far less annoying that they have any right to be.
"I'll have… I'll have you know…" The man stutters out a half-assed threat.
"
What, exactly?" I interrupt, "That you will try to
shank me?
Steal from me?" That shuts them up good. I guess they didn't expect me to pinpoint who exactly took my money, despite the relative lack of people crowding around. I dislike thieves, I needed the money as much as the next guy, especially since I had no reliable form of income, no job, and no qualifications to apply to any job. "Do you really think you can live for yourself stealing? How about getting a job instead? The local farms are hiring, how about you do that?"
I can feel his fingers squeeze around the bills that had been on the insides of my wallet a moment ago. Just like before, I feel my second self, the flat and formless shape stretch and I reach forwards as the man that attempts to scuttle backwards only seems to be dragged forwards even more as the friction works against him.
I look around… there's no crowd forming, despite the small scuffle. I should have expected as much from the competitor's tents- this is a restricted area after all. Did this mean that this good-for-nothing thief was a competitor too? It embitters me knowing as much- this man should have his own equipment and tools, his own funds. Don't invest what cannot afford to lose I've always known, so if he's stealing…
I snap at him, despite his terrified expression and helpless disposition, tearing the bills from his hands with a quick, assisted pull that works the pressure holding the bills against the man himself, "I'll… take these back- Thank you."
Ten dollars total. I'm still unsure how much buying power it had, but it certainly was good enough for a few day's rations.
The would-be thief is still on the ground. I had not let Instant Crush allow him to move away, it 'redirected' the movements, and energy. That's all it really did, no real strength of its own.
I look at the face I had described as 'unremarkable' not a moment earlier. Every crease, wrinkle and frown of that panicked face. The shaky breaths…
I extend a hand downwards and retracting my stand before my mind catches up with my body. I don't know what I was trying to do before, but I couldn't go around disappearing people. Sooner or later, the police would catch up. I knew Cowboy of Great Renown and Bounty Hunter Mountain Tim would be participating. I don't think I could beat
him in a fight.
It's just ten dollars. His life isn't worth that much. Not to me, and I hope that he thinks the same thing.
"Here," I extend my hand further downwards, feigning a friendly tone, "I'll show you somewhere that you could get some cash before the race starts."
The expression turns stunned, then perplexed. The fear is gone but the doubt remains. A hand partially reaches out, and I reach out half-way, pulling him up. "What's your name?"
Silence shortly follows.
"You don't have to say it right now, but I wouldn't want to keep referring to you as mister, don't you agree?"
"A-Ash Wilco." I smile, giving a nod.
"Verdi's Quo Williams. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ash, although I'd certainly wish it was in the race itself." A burst of nervous laughter escapes one mouth, mimicried, and he reaches inside of his pockets, I certainly hope it's nothing on the lines of a knife or a gun… but I'm making sure of it. I know pulled my stand back, but they can't see it, so I just… allow it back to slip over him. It's just a precautionary measure more than anything. I can feel the outline of a switchblade, but maybe he just keeps it in his pocket? I certainly hope he doesn't plan to use it. "Now, Mr Wilco. Mind telling me why you tried to run off with my wallet and threatening me when you tripped?"
"I uh, was robbed in my sleep mister." A bold faced lie, he came unprepared. He hopes this is his chance to get big, doesn't he?
Playing along, I ask, "So… you planned to shy away from that misfortune at me?"
A timid nod is the man's only reply.
"Mind if I ask why?"
"Because uhh, t-that's a r-rich's m-man jacket, M-Mister Williams," they state, holding their hands together and rubbing them nervously. I'm glad he decided to give a second thought to potentially using that knife on me, although I really should know better I assume.
"Drop the mister," I retort back, slightly annoyed. Was it really just my jacket that painted me as an acceptable target for thig guy? I'm not angry, just disappointed, and a bit irritated that I had to pass as a male for this race due to the social norms of the era, "I'm not rich. I just have a nice jacket… that's all."
They nod energetically, no doubt just going along because they can and they fear what I might do to them should I be further displeased. After all, from their perspective, they crawled closer to the guy whom they no doubt planned to steal from in their panic. Perhaps they see it all as a big coincidence. But I genuinely believe that I can make them friendly enough to not talk about the events that transpired earlier today.
"I've still got time," I state carefully focusing on the pronunciation of my words., "before I actually have to attend to something."
There's still a nervous silence permeating the air. A short giggle escapes the man's mouth. Nervous laughter I assume.
"Would you happen to have the card they handed you over to the registration office?" I proceed to ask [inquisitive here]. "I'd be good to see a somewhat familiar face amongst everyone competing, you know?"
"I t-think so- y-yeah! I do h-have with me!" While his response is still tinted with that deep-seated nervousness of earlier, my question (and hopefully my charming smile) seems to have allowed the would-be mugger to relax a little. Reaching beside the switchblade I felt earlier within his pants, he pulls out a card and a badge, he points them in my general direction "S-See? I a-am participating t-too."
"...one of the first?" I ask, examining the card which aptly read A-722 "I mean, first thousand at least. You'd be lined up on one of the front lines."
"Y-Yes!" they respond enthusiastically. While the nervousness may be gone, the stuttering remains. I do my best to ignore it. I had a stuttering uncle and cousins back at home. I could handle a racing partner who stuttered just fine. He may be a would-be pickpocket, and I may forgive him for attempting to run off with ten dollars, but I certainly wasn't going to forget that initial fact.
Who knows? Maybe I could help him with that stuttering of his. I had gone to speech therapy for mumbling after all. Maybe some of the tips I had gotten could help him along.
That is if they don't try to stab me in the back.
I have faith in him, however. He genuinely does not seem to be willing to harm me, even if it's out of fear. Perhaps... just maybe, he'd be a familiar face amongst all the other ones in the race. "Can I expect to see you in two days when the race starts? Establish a meeting spot or something of the sort?"
"U-Uh... yeah I c-can d-do that."
"Righto... Onwards! Towards the candy store!" either my exclamation went over their head, or something else happened because their concerned expression is one I'm sure they shouldn't be having.
"R-Really? W-Why a-are you heading t-there?"
"Yeah, they're hiring anyone regardless of skill, and if you help around for a couple of days, I reckon you could at least get something to munch on the way." I could attest to this personally, even if I had stopped working myself over at the store, in the days leading up to my registration I often helped keeping stock. For my troubles, I got a small bag of sugar, and a couple of cents. Something to sweeten the ever so bland oatmeal. The man managing the store is none other than a kindly old fellow by the name of Jerry Lee Lewis. It was nice seeing him again this morning, even if it was just to buy a jar of cherry drops...
"Plus, you've got quite the hairdo," I remember to add as we leave the tents after some meandering; even if his face is not particularly memorable his hair is something I could remember: brown, straight, and reaching all the way down to his shoulders. Kind of makes me miss my own mess of a hairdo...
"You could always sell it. Just like I did with mine, see?" I brush my hand against my shaven head, the hair pricking against my fingers in a manner that is uniquely hard to describe. As a response, he simply nervously laughs once more in respond to my friendly demeanor.
So it's not all bad. Not all bad after all. Perhaps I could really count on him to be a partner for the race.
..................................................
It's early noon. Twelve PM with thirty-two minutes to be exact. Ever since I took Ash to that candy store I've gone to work. After which, I've been waiting in front of the registration office for the race. If I remember correctly, something, in particular, was going to occur today, and as much as I disliked violence, it would allow me to recognize a pair of certain figures amongst all the others who were going to be racing.
A Neapolitan man by the alias of "Gyro Zeppelli". And the crippled jockey going under the name of "Johnny Joestar", referred to by announcers and newspapers as "JoJo".
As far as I knew, my best to get back home was dependent on the body of the 'Messiah'; also known as Saint's Corpse. Whether I liked it or not, I did not know how to traverse the Devil's Palm, despite awakening in such and somehow managing to escape the cursed walking landmark. I also would need copious amounts of aid if I was to remove the Corpse's Heart from the American President: Funny Valentine.
Because unlike what someone should be able to assume from such a figure, they were not just an armchair politician. With his ability to traverse dimensions, he had no doubt performed more than a single political assassination during his career. His ability is perfectly suited to leaving no evidence to be found.
That's why I needed to at least recognize the pair. If I could bypass the president's ability, either by myself or by proxy, I could potentially retrieve the Saint's Heart.
The problem then became how to extract the Saint's Head-
That's why I needed to at least recognize the pair. They alone, I knew, could bypass the immortality granted by Dirty Deeds Done Dirt cheap. That's the name name of the ability that allowed him to transcend death and travel through countless, parallel worlds. In much the same way I had named my ability "Instant Crush," other's had named their own after songs that yet did not exist. "Tomb of the Boom", "20th Century Boy", "Tubular Bells", "Cream Starter", "Hey-Ya". These are all a mere window into the no doubt large collection of abilities that will be scattered through the competitors of the race.
It just so happens that the retrieval of the Saint's Head is tied to one of them. "Ticket to Ride", the power to prevent harm to the user by coincidences and chance.
It's when my thoughts are broken up by the movement of the crowd. From my spot leaning against one of the walls of the establishment, I've once had a clear line of sight to the beach. Unfortunately, that line of sight was now broken by the collection of people now flocking towards the path. Was this
the duel? There's only one way to know, and that's to have a clear line of sight to the event that people were flocking to watch and comment on. Based on their mutterings, however…
This is probably it.
I never liked crowds, but I am pretty sure I could not get a higher point of view without invading private property. Amongst the mumbling of the people, the stench of old sweat and grime is particularly striking. I don't like it one bit, but a semi-circle had already naturally formed. It's when I hear one voice, stern, that I realize the urgency of my task.
"Pick it up."
I call out amongst the crowd. I
needed to see this, or at least, one of the people who were. I get grimaces, glances, some callouts even. Nobody likes being pushed. I certainly didn't. Even if I could avoid getting pushed back, which is something I could do with merely a whisper, I did not want to attract more attention than I already was doing by sliding forwards in the sea of bodies.
"If you're really going to bother me… pick it up. But, if you do… that'll be the sign."
More shouting, calls for a duel, a man in a wheelchair trying to push himself forwards with far less success due to his condition, and the sheriff and the on-site security, early for reasons unknown to me, makes his way across the
"No fights allowed on this beach!"
I could barely see the confrontation from where I had managed to squeeze myself into. Two figures stand (although to call the kneeling one standing would be a stretch) free from the crowd. Although I can barely see them past the heads of the people in front of me, I knew what they were wearing, and how they were dressed. The taller, paler man, an Italian, is wearing a hat that has had lines cut out across it so; resting on the hat is a set of hockey goggles (Or at least, I so assume). Green eyes that match the green highlights of his purple outfit. A rare color that if one could recognize as the trademark of European royalty, in this case, Neapolitan. However, green is (in my opinion) the far more important color in his outfit.
For even if I could not see it past the bodies of the ones in the front row, I knew that it's the same green in those buttons, that rests within the spherical objects on the sides of his waist: The Steel Balls used in the executions of Neapolitan prisoners. A method using a supernatural phenomenon to dull the nerves and stretch the muscles to allow for a humane death.
Tension rises up in the air. I knew what the Italian, or Neapolitan (for I wasn't sure of the state of the countries in the current time period) had done before: he had made a man --a pickpocket who had promised to annoy him in the race- duel him with a revolver they had taken from one of the police officers who were dragging him away.
I almost miss it. In a fraction of a blink of an eye, the second figure, wearing merchandise that was being sold on the many stalls surrounding the town that was hosting the race, is hit by a spinning, green ball. The same sphere proceeds to bounce back into the Neapolitan man's hand. Many people miss it, but I don't. I know what I'm looking for as I watch in-between people:
The transfer spinning of the green steel ball over to the pickpocket's body, twisting his muscles and skin in such a way, that if he decided to pull the trigger of the firearm… he'd blow his brains out.
"What's going on!? Let me through!"
A high-pitched, young voice shouts through the murmur of the crowd. I do my best to ignore it, preferring to observe the effects of the steel ball on the man's exposed arms.
Around the point of contact, the skin and cloth were wrapping unnaturally, carrying over the spin from the sphere that had returned to the Executioner with a single bounce. His muscles twist and turn unnaturally, but they don't creak, crunch, or twist. They don't sound at all; a nearly perfect transfer of rotational force.
"I'm not a nice guy. Let go of that gun… and see a doctor. Before lunch…"
This warning won't be heeded. I had considered how lucky I was to have met someone who was only robbing out of necessity and not willing to double down on attempting to antagonize me like this man was doing, for three bodies in a single day would be too much to hide.
Perhaps...
"
YOU BASTARD!"
I knew what was going to happen next. I avert my eyes, looking away and covering them with my hand, as the would-be-thief attempts to aim the revolver down at the Neapolitan again...
When the gun fires, I know it's not the Neapolitan the one that is hit by the round and blood rains on the ground.
A young lady screams. Or maybe it's a man. Whoever they are, they would seem to be particularly shocked by the turn of events wherever they may be. I am unwilling to see the mangled remains of the man's face, his muscles working against him due to the consequence of the 'Spin' being transferred to the man's arm. Not because I find it disturbing or unnerving, ever since waking up, I don't feel that anymore, but because I need to keep up appearances amongst the crowd.
'If he had dropped that revolver', I think, 'perhaps he wouldn't have died.'
The sheriff finally makes their way around to the front of the crowd. I guess his earlier callings to stop any potential fighting were ignored when the duel had started.
I knew what would follow. The screeching figure dressed in light blue would finally make their way in front of the crowd in order to follow-
"Hey, m-mister!"
I knew that stuttering voice, even if I expected not to see
him so quickly after I showed him the way towards the candy store, I barely even expected him to get a job, let alone greet me again with a smile on his face and just after the duel, to boot. "Ash. Did the confectionery already close?"
A timid nod is my sole reply from Ash, and his recently bandaged nose. I need to close this conversation now before I miss out on what's going to happen next.
"Well, what are you waiting for? I thought we were going to stablish a meeting spot in the race, not here." Did something, or someone, prompt him? Why the unfortunate timing. The now almost bald Ash Wilco, with his hair shaved to a fiery-patterned stubble, approaches me with a brimmed hat and a cheerier disposition.
"W-Well you see mister, there's this f-friend I have, r-right?"
I nod, barely paying attention to him,"u-huh."
"A-And, well, they were a-asking," he gesticulates wildly, doing his best to calm his nerves, "W-Well, if this mister is s-so kind, h-how come they d-don't give you their money?"
Of course. People like Ash didn't prompt things themselves, they are too insecure to do anything of their own, "Did you tell your friend off?"
"N-No." He raises a finger as if to interject whatever pissed off response I'd launch at him. "But I d-did ask t-them w-why."
"What did they respond?"
"D-Don't think about it, he said." Ash, useful fool, being played by someone else. Got to fix that before it gets me in trouble, although perhaps disappearing him might be more convenient, "Y-Yes yes that's what he…"
"Whoever doesn't want you to think is never your friend," I interrupt, bluntly. I remember doing a presentation on how cults originated, and how their dogma could brainwash people before I ended up here. It makes me slightly upset to know that even before graduating I already had to apply this knowledge.
No matter this, despite not noticing anyone in particular, whoever this 'friend' was he'd be a fool not to have someone follow Ash here. I'd be getting a visit tonight, I knew.
"W-Why?" He stutters nervously as a response, no doubt believing he had offended me in some way. I could tell by the way that he cowered that he was used to bowing down to people. Was he indebted to the local gangs?
"Because what do you gain from not questioning? Not asking questions?"
"F-Friends?" This response leaves me baffled. I suppress a sigh. I already heard the hollering of the ex-jockey Johnny Joestar demanding to be let though as the crowd dispersed. As much as I'd like to continue the conversation, I needed to end it at the moment.
"No... um, look," I state, already dreading losing the squeaking of the wheelchair as it pushes its way among the crowd "let's discuss this later. You know the soda fountain close to the bank? Meet me there, I'd greatly enjoy continuing the conversation, got it?"
"Yes! I will meet you there."
"See you around!" With this quick farewell, I begin making my way to Gyro Zeppelli, soon to be racer.
I already saw his face. How it looked like one befitting of a fashion model, and his purple clothing being accented by the round, green buttons, resembling those seen on his weapons and tools. Now… I only need to see the face Johnny Joestar.
And as soon as I did that, I would know how to pick them out of crowd. And I would know who I needed to stick close to as to retrieve the Saint's Corpse for my own.