The ringmaster fastened the final golden button on his collar, just over his throat. He could hear the motley chorus of pre-show sounds echoing from the stage, a cacophony of shouts and discordant snatches of music that were as familiar to him as his own hands. He smiled. His crew always put their full effort into every performance, of course, but this evening there was no denying the extra buzz of excitement. A peal of laughter cut through the noise, reminding him of something that needed doing. With one final adjustment to his collar to ensure it was perfect, he left the dressing room.

  The dazzling, showman’s grin he wore at every public appearance settled onto his features automatically as he picked his way through the chaotic backstage corridor, tipping his hat at anyone who acknowledged him (most were, thankfully, too busy).

  The main tent was massive, a point of pride belonging to the circus for at least two hundred years. It was set up non-traditionally, with the stage a half-moon shape on one end and the house seating in rows of risers arranged more like a theatre auditorium than anything else. Behind the stage a wide corridor ran all the way around, dotted with doors that led to various storage rooms, costume closets, dressing rooms, and a wider one that led to the animal staging area.

  Where the back corridor ended on each side of the stage, there were hallways that ran out like spokes from a wheel, leading to a cluster of smaller, satellite tents. It was towards one such tent that the Ringmaster headed, breathing deep as the scents of fried foods and butter replaced the sweat, paint, and booze perfume of the backstage corridor.

  Briefly, the sound of the waiting crowd could be heard drifting out of the main tent. Overlapping conversations as the audience waited for the show to begin. It was a sound that called to the Ringmaster like siren-song, but he made himself ignore it. There would be plenty of time for schmoozing later.

  Now at the door of a smaller tent, two security guard brutes with faces only a mother could love nodded The Ringmaster through. One of them growled his stage-name, Zephyr, by way of greeting.

  “Gentlemen,” Zephyr responded with a bow. The guards were not people he interacted with enough to know well. He thought one of their names started with a G. Luckily, they neither knew nor cared that their boss didn’t know who they were.

  Warm, smoky air rushed out of the door as it opened. This tent was kept intentionally warm and dimly lit. He had gotten the idea from the casino in town. Keep the people comfortably confused about the time, and they stay and drink and – most importantly – spend.

  The private parlor was exclusive; the kind of place you had to be on a list to get into. While the patrons that frequented it were not the sophisticated upper class you might find in cities south of the wastes, these people were just as accustomed to a higher standard. They were typically the children of generational wealth, bored by the lack of risk in their day-to-day lives.

  They likely had woken up one morning and decided to make the pilgrimage North, suiting up with an expedition and more often than not paying some sad sap to do all the actual work of frontiering. To most of them, the carnival Kaamos was just a badge of achievement. Something to brag about to their friends later. They wanted to see it, but they did not want to hobnob with the common man. They wanted, needed something better.

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  The private parlor, typically referred to as just The Parlor, was borne from that need. Everything inside was ornate and expensive. There were secluded tables tucked into nooks along one wall, each hung with velvet drapes for privacy. A bar served as the centerpiece of the room, though, its mahogany surface polished to a high sheen so that it reflected the massive, glittering chandelier overhead.

  Only a few people sat at the bar at this hour, their nights just getting started. They would be well drunk by the time the show started. Zephyr spotted one of his performers lounging in a cloud of smoke near the back of the room, where a scattering of sofas, plush chairs, and café tables comprised the rest of the Parlor’s seating. He felt a flash of irritation at the sight of his performer’s arm slung around an unconscious woman.

  Shrill laughter pulled his attention to the right, and Zephyr’s smile grew even wider. If the laugh was unmistakable, it was nothing compared to the woman it belonged to. She sat on a sofa against the far wall, where doors to private rooms alternated with cushioned smoking areas. Isa was, as ever, surrounded by a cluster of men with more blood in their loins than in their brain.

  She sat among them like an obscene idol being worshipped. Her enormous pale legs cascaded over the edge of the sofa, the skin of one nearly indistinguishable from the other. She seemed impossibly large; a rolled and dimpled white mound bursting in every direction. The pink bustier she wore strained at every seam against folds of thick flesh. Her arms were the width of most women's entire bodies.

  She looked up as Zephyr approached. That round face, grotesque and seductive all at once, turned his stomach. Her plump lips parted in a smile that set her chins wobbling.

  “Sir!” She exclaimed in that shrill, girly voice. “Did you miss us?” One of her fat fingers found the lace top of her bustier, then traced its way down to where he could only guess her nipple must be smashed there between pounds of fat and thin cloth.

  “Isa…” Zephyr filled his voice with feigned affection. “You know you torture me with these temptations.” He leaned down towards her proffered hand, kissing one plump finger. Her skin was hot, and when he pulled back he could see a flush crawling up her neck.

  Movement in his peripheral nearly made him jump. A snake’s head had appeared from Isa’s curls, sliding with hypnotic slowness over the shelf formed by her ample breasts. Zephyr watched it for a moment, marveling at the indecency of it: that long serpentine body pressing against mound after mound of sweaty flesh. It wound its way down her side and down over a mountainous thigh, coiling there like a garter.

  More obscene, more tantalizing than the image of snake and skin was the erotic moan that left her lips as Zephyr reached out to stroke the snake’s angular head. He suppressed the urge to recoil and instead winked at her, earning another trill of laughter.

  “What’s all this, sister?” A new voice, huskier than Isa’s, heralded the arrival of the circus’s second fat lady. She emerged from one of the nearby doorways wearing only a skirt, looking like the mirror image of her twin sister. It was hard to imagine there was enough flesh in the world to make two of them.

  “Ah, there you are, Liv,” Zephyr cajoled, turning with a flourish towards Isa’s twin. “I was wondering.”

  Liv moved like a force of nature, her grace uninhibited by her size. The way her generous folds and bulges rippled with each step was entrancing. Sweat shone on her belly, beading on her chest and dripping down the massive globe of each breast. She was clutching an empty wineglass in one fat fist, and had her own snake draped around that same forearm.

  Her breath heaved with effort as she swung herself around to settle on the couch beside Isa. Both of them, blue eyes shining in the dim light, looked at him expectantly. Zephyr felt filthy standing there under their combined salacious stares.

  “Ladies,” he said. “I must humbly ask a favor of you.”

  Isa and Liv leaned in, indecent excitement lighting their faces. Even their snakes perked up, as if they too were listening. Zephyr’s smile became something sinister as he allowed his mask to slip just enough to get their undivided attention. When he spoke again, his voice was a quiet growl.

  “It’s going to be messy.”