The Cyberkink Sideshow. Ophidia Cox
needed to get after the performers and have a look backstage. She pushed down against the current of exiting spectators, toward the center ring. When she reached the barrier, she hoisted Max up by his harness and lowered him over, before climbing down after him.
She knew Max would pull toward that damp pungent patch on the sand where the ringmaster’s orgasm had spilled over, but that didn’t stop him from doing it. She pulled him on, trying to block the smell and the data shot that came with it.
“Excuse me!” she called through the curtain, and Max poked his nose through the gap in the center. Inside, the performers all seemed to have provided themselves a modicum of decency by throwing on some clothes. Sylvia immediately recognized the ringmaster, clad in a vermilion silk dressing gown. The fabric rippled, clinging to him as he strode toward her, and she thought again of how shameful and ridiculous, and yet how oddly compelling, his act a moment ago had been. She’d never been with a fat guy before. Perhaps it would be different than with other men, or perhaps it would just be another disappointment and a dead end. A curiosity came over her: how might he feel to touch? Soft and smooth, rather than the stringy muscle and rough hairy skin of the other men she’d known.
“Would you mind if I had a moment?” She could already tell from Max’s feedback that the room was clean. It was too small and clear of interfering smells for him not to have detected something by now. “Who’s in charge here?”
The ringmaster twisted his mouth and raised his eyebrows. “That would be me.”
He hadn’t introduced himself. Sylvia really ought to get his name, but a fear nagged at her that he would have some ludicrous porn name that he’d had made official by deed poll, and she could just see Pikesley’s face if she handed in a report with such a name on it. “I’m Constable Sylvia Price.” Sylvia showed him her ID. “I need to inform you that my department has received a number of...suggestions...from members of the public regarding trade or activities involving banned or controlled substances and devices within the locality of this attraction. I’m here to establish whether there’s any truth to these assertions.”
“Did you know,” he said in a whimsical sort of way, “that dolphins are the only animal known to have nasal sex? And that there are more gay giraffes than there are straight ones?”
His voice was almost flirtatious, and he was talking to her, and it was like she was back in school and trying to break the ice for the first time with the object of a crush. Sylvia could feel the heat building in her face. She glanced away from him for a moment, breaking eye contact. Not a good impression to make.
“Just consider that, next time someone tells you that our sideshow violates the laws of nature.”
Leaning on Max’s more robust mental state, she faced the ringmaster again. “You need to understand that these allegations are serious. If we find evidence of drugs, or illicit software, being traded or used in this facility, the police have the power to shut down this operation.”
“Which would be very convenient, for certain people.” He wasn’t flirtatious now. A forceful tone had come into his voice. “You think it’s acceptable to harry us about, on the accusations of people without even the decency to give their names?”
“Of course not. Nobody is accusing you or your employees of anything. I certainly hope I’ll find nothing of the sort, but complaints have been made, and they need to be investigated. It’s in your interests if you co-operate with us. I need to ask you if there is anything you want to tell me that you think is of relevance.”
The ringmaster folded his arms and raised his chin imperiously. “No, there isn’t.”
“Okay, then. Thank you for your time. If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave you my contact details in case something does occur to you.” Sylvia offered him a card with her details.
The ringmaster snapped his fingers and the conjuror stepped up to stand beside him. “Give the lady my card.”
With a flourish and a swish of his robe, the conjuror bowed before Sylvia and produced, or appeared to produce, a business card from his backside. Sylvia took it gingerly between finger and thumb when he presented it to her.
“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” he said. “You don’t honestly think it’s actually been up my arse? It’s just a sleight of hand!” The conjuror stalked away in disgust.
The card simply said:
Victor R. Maynard
Freak
Followed by a mobile number.
“You’re Maynard?”
The ringmaster reached to Sylvia’s breast pocket and took her pen. “Victor R. Maynard,” he muttered, as he scrawled on the card before handing back both it and the pen. “That may be worth something on eBay in a hundred years’ time. If eBay still exists in a hundred years.”
Sylvia turned the card over. It showed a holographic image of Victor R. Maynard in a rather less than dignified state of attire and posture. She quickly turned it back and pocketed it. Time to get out of here and clear her head, at last.
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