The Chaos of Chung-Fu. Edmund Glasby
and removing their make-up, no doubt getting ready to hit the bars—but the man was still sick. This bloody production was testament to that. Looking around him, he could see that less than a dozen others remained in the audience, those strong-stomached ones who had chosen to stay to the end. And a few who were probably too drunk to move.
The old man returned once more.
“And now, for the highlight of tonight’s cabaret. With no further ado, may I introduce that master of Oriental magic, Chung-Fu.” He threw down his knobbly walking stick and raised his hands. Holding his pose, he began to levitate.
Murphy stared, intrigued.
Then with a bang and a flash of smoke and a roll of drums from some hidden orchestra pit, the old man cast off his tattered robes. A bright, almost blinding light shot forth, and when Murphy’s sight cleared, he saw that a mid-air transformation had taken place.
The old man was gone and another, much younger man, the man he had seen on the poster, Chung-Fu, was there. Dressed in a truly expensive silken robe of purple, gold, red, and black, and wearing his tasselled cap, he stared out, his eyes piercing. Tracing a mystic sign in the air before him, the magician conjured flames from his hands before descending to the stage. Strange Chinese words came from his mouth.
Shadowy snakes and tigers sprang into being behind the menacing figure, silhouetted against the curtain. And then it seemed as though the shadows detached themselves, spilling out to embrace the walls of the theatre, to encircle those within.
“What the hell?” muttered Murphy, staring around at the encroaching darkness. Over to one side he could see some other men getting ready to leave.
Fang-filled, monstrous shadow-shapes flowed and slithered. Like a voracious mould they seemed to spread and drip, flowing down walls and oozing across the stained, popcorn-littered carpet of the theatre. Some of the shadows seemed to fight each other, the larger, fiercer ones devouring the lesser ones.
None of this was real, Murphy tried to tell himself. A demonical miasma had fallen, and icy fingers crept up his spine, ruffling the small hairs on the back of his neck. Terror surged through him as he continued to watch the spreading of the ghastly shadows. This was sheer nightmarish horror and he knew it.
“Well gentlemen,” spoke Chung-Fu. “I see you’ve enjoyed tonight’s cabaret. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t still be here.”
A thickset man in the second row got up, fastening his raincoat.
“I’m afraid you’ll find that you’re unable to get out.” The conjuror smiled wickedly.
“What d’ya mean?” shouted the man.
Chung-Fu paced to the edge of the stage. “I mean this is the end. For you all.” The sorcerer pointed and stared.
Whether it was due to some form of hypnotism, Murphy couldn’t tell, but the man with the raincoat seemed to stop, become immobile.
“To some I am a devil. To others I am but Chung-Fu. Regardless, it is my place to prepare you for my next show. You’ve damned yourselves by staying and drinking in the bloodshed and the violence. You had the chance to leave, to follow your better judgement, but instead you chose to stay. And like those from my last performance, you will become part of my new act.”
“Not bloody likely!” Another man got up and made a run for it. Others screamed and clamoured to get out. This was now a stampede; a mad exodus of theatregoers desperately trying to get out.
All hell broke loose.
Snapping shadows flowed from the walls and, horrifyingly, Murphy saw one unfortunate swallowed whole, disappearing into a tenebrous maw. Gun in hand, he made a dash for where he thought the exit lay but in the poor light it was hard to be certain.
It was chaos. Screams and wails reverberated around the walls of the flea pit. Some were trampled in the side aisles. Another man was dragged, kicking and screaming, by a shadowy tentacle that pulled him against a wall. With unbelieving horror, Murphy saw the individual engulfed, absorbed by shadow. One moment he was there, the next, nothing but inky blackness!
Insanity threatened to take him. By some extreme mental effort, he managed to force it down, to focus on staying alive. He would willingly spend the rest of his days in the nuthouse if it meant getting out of this hell.
Then he and four others were at the doors. They were locked.
“Move it!” Murphy shouted, pushing aside one of the others and blasting two bullets at the lock. He then kicked the door open.
Brighter light struck them.
Then pandemonium spilled out into the foyer as several of the stagehands came charging at them. The first went down with a slug between the eyes. He fell and exploded—just like the goon who had attacked him in his apartment.
“Sweet Jesus!” shouted one man.
“Get out! Everybody out!” yelled Murphy, discharging another round, downing another explosive-filled attacker. He made a mad rush for the outer doors. Shadows and other horrors poured out after them, closing in.
Then the main theatre doors crashed open.
Three men, armed with Thompson submachine guns stood in the doorway, framed against the light flung from the street lights outside.
“That you, Murphy?” one of them shouted. “What the hell’s going on?” It was ‘Muscles’.
“Get outta here!” Turning, Murphy fired a few more shots and ran to join them.
There followed a yammering of submachine gunfire as the hoodlums riddled the foyer with bullets. There were screams and shouts as dark things swelled and vanished, bubbled forth and retreated, ebbed and flooded. More of those strange, explosive-filled ‘men’ joined the carnage. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder.
Murphy’s mind darkened, unwilling or unable to take in any more of the unfolding madness. He was vaguely aware of a pair of strong arms dragging him clear of the theatre.
* * * * * * *
Maxwell wasn’t buying any of it. He stood, his back to Murphy, gazing out the window onto the rain-washed street below.
“But it’s true, boss,” said ‘Muscles’, “there were some weird things going on. I saw it.”
“Listen to what your man’s telling you,” added Murphy. “That goddamned Chinaman’s—”
Maxwell spun round to face them. “What? The Devil?” He strode over to his desk. “And that somehow he’s turned ‘Two-Bellies’ and Huey Labada into freakin’ glove puppets? Come on, what kind of idiot would believe that?” He pointed directly at Murphy. “Nobody makes an idiot outta me. Nobody! You got that?”
“Sure, I’ve got that.” Murphy nodded. He was still trying to come to terms with the horrors of the show he had seen the other evening. Now, in the relative sanity of Maxwell’s office, with the grey light of morning shining in through the window, he tried to tell himself that some of it had been but stage trickery. Some of it—that was the problem. If only he could convince himself that all of it had been nothing more than elaborate theatricals effects.
“But what about the men that exploded, boss?” It was ‘Muscles’’who raised the question.
Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. That could be anything. Maybe they weren’t real to begin with. Maybe you just thought they were real. Dummies or something.” It was clear he didn’t have a good answer for this.
“And ‘Two-Bellies’?” asked Murphy. “Okay, maybe that thing I saw wasn’t him, but surely you agree it’s highly coincidental his name being used? And Labada, I remember now. He was one of those that helped spring ‘Two-Bellies’ out of Bridewell, wasn’t he?”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe he and ‘Two-Bellies’ were pals.