The Raven | 9 June 2023
The raven just stood there anxiously looking deep into his eyes. “What the fuck is it?” he said under his breath, as though the raven was an old friend trying to give him some awful news. The weather was rapidly changing for the worse and he was starting to see the heavy raindrops landing on the asphalt. “Well here goes nothing,“ he said, wincing as he stood up.
BNR Response
Ronnie rubbed his eyes and raised his head, squinting his eyelids shut once more in response to his aching head. Rubbing his temples to eschew the throbbing, he lowered himself to a seated position and ducked back under the cover of his bivouac to survey the weather and estimate the time. The other performers were starting to rustle around, heading back to their own tents and hammocks from the beds they’d slept in spontaneously, gathering their drums from the drum circle before the rain could soak the drumheads through.
Ronnie ran his palm over his balding head, wiped his finger under each eye to catch wandering eye liner, and peered over his shoulder to his cot on the ground. The woman lying there had her chin in the air, mouth agape, and was still half clothed in her corset and elf ears from the festival the day before. The raven cawed and paced the stage, urging Ronnie to get her out and get going. In less than an hour’s time the place would be mobbed with visitors in their wannabe Renaissance gear, sitting down on the half-hewn logs used as benches, and crying for Paolo the Magnificent to begin his minstrel show.
The transformation from Ronnie to Paolo was simple enough, the more time-consuming task was always getting last night’s maiden up and in a cab so he could get on with his prep and have his coffee. He stared, irritated, at the dozing woman and struggled to remember her name. Ronnie nudged her shoulder, gently at first, then with more aggression as she failed to respond. Sheila! Thank fuck he remembered.
“Uh, Sheila, Sheila honey, time to wake up! Paolo the Magnifico has a show in an hour and he’s got to prepare ye olde swords and axes for his act.”
Sheila moaned in a rather unbecoming manner before pulling the covers over her face dismissively. After a few more attempts at softly rousing her, Paolo abruptly pulled the blanket off of her half-naked body altogether, revealing poorly drawn tattoos of hobbits and fairies and all manner of mixed symbology on her thighs right up to her massive bush. Seemingly unperturbed, Sheila scratched her nose with a dirty finger and sat up, legs akimbo.
“What time is it?” she asked, reaching for her crown made of fading fake flowers.
“Uh, it’s time-to-depart o’clock, m’lady, can I hail thee a Lyft?” Ronnie was struggling to feign emotion.
The rain started coming down with force in that moment, transforming the paved asphalt paths to a black stream between vendor tents and fields, and rendering his stage slick. This wouldn’t stop the park opening, nor the show, but the rain would make it harder for his jester-cum-Ali-Baba shoes to grip the wood as he prepared to jump on the giant ball to juggle knives in his final act. The raven chided Ronnie with direct eye contact and stage-pacing.
“Oh, I can’t go out there in this!” Sheila said, pulling her bare legs together to sit cross-legged.
Ronnie turned to catch her, beaver out in the fresh air, and reached for her skirt. “Sorry, doll, you’re going to have to figure something out.” He caught sight of Luigi the Giant walking down stage and yelled to get his attention. “Hey, Lu! Can you show Sheila to the exit where she can get cell service so she can call a cab?” Luigi nodded knowingly and began walking towards Ronnie’s tent.
“What the actual fuck?“ Sheila exclaimed, as Ronnie piled her belongings into her arms and handed her off to the chuckling strong man. She stumbled over her feet, pulling on her skirt and yelling expletives on her way down the path with Lu.
“Last night was fun! Who knew you’d be able to do that with a juggling pin, eh?” Ronnie patted the irate Sheila on the head, quickly shuffling past her and Luigi to the shower trailer where he gave himself an airplane bath and reapplied his kohl eyeliner and rouge. He dismantled his lean-to and dressed in his stage costume, a cheap velveteen, puffy-sleeved thing with tights to the knee and an ill-shapen cod piece. He swigged some coffee and soon began greeting the arriving visitors: a motley group of people dressed as knights and fairies, maidens and trolls.
His benches started filling as he warmed up his arms and cleaned the rainwater off his dull throwing knives and the raven took position in the tree above the stage. He chortled whilst recalling the events of the previous night: the chicken feather, the raccoon tail, the guest appearance from the contortionist, and Sheila’s eagerness to incorporate the ephemera from his act. As he prepared to kick-off his show, he clipped on and tested his microphone, scanning the crowd for his next conquest. The pickings were slim until he spotted a thin waif, dressed in yellow Crocs, a Hunter S. Thompson-esque visor, and what looked like the adult Cinderella drugstore Halloween costume with an under-bust corset on top. Ronnie, in a final flourish of transformation into Paolo winked at the girl, looked up at the raven, and thought to himself, “That’ll do, pig, that’ll do.”