Chapter Text
After losing a bet to a trick question, Big Buck gives you a consolation prize. A wave of his hands, an ominous red glow, and soon your body grows over nine decades older in a matter of seconds. Sapped of all your strength, you sink to the floor on your knees. Buck cheers, "Ain't being a kid great? Adults usually need to be escorted out via dustpans!" You had rushed to the counter while Buck’s spell rushed you into extreme senescence; So your hands are still clutching it. You try to use them to pull yourself up, but your shoulders and wrists scream in protest. Your persistence is only evident in your shaking arms and clenched jaw. Your loose teeth rattle in their gums, and your gums ache at the pressure. As you struggle, Buck leans into your ear to add “though the few that don’t, leave in bags soon after.” Your heart pounds wildly, you can’t handle anymore exertion. You gulp.
Too weak to make any progress, you take small man’s words as warning and submit to your new limits. You are over a century old after all, 108 to be exact, that’s ancient! Your head turns to the blurry figure of Big Buck, there’s a crescent shape in the center of his face. Any desire to ask him why he would enact this cruelty is aborted, that smile is answer enough. Your hands slip off the counter and onto the floor with the rest of you. After that wretched failure, you are wheezing to catch your breath. You don't want to move anymore, but even in this inert position all your parts moan. You can no longer sit up straight, now permanently stooped over.
Still short of breath you gasp for help again, voice raspier than your initial plea. Your cousin Floyd answers by lifting you to your feet, and does it with a slowness that's gentle on your fragile body. You shouldn't be surprised; His side of the family tends to be the ones to look after the eldest members. Such as the Great Grandma Louise Floyd claimed (in insensitive amusement at the time) that you share a strong resemblance. "Th-this is all my fault," he stutters, and he's right. All his bragging about 1902 dollars being more valuable than 1997 dollars did contribute to your wrong answer. But you can make out enough guilt in his tone to not rub it in, understands that this is no special effect. Some poignant wisdom about blame, and personal responsibility floats around in your mind until the real, 13 year old you interjects.
"Shut up" there’s a crotchety edge to your growl, it's rude but Floyd seems to understand your intent. At least enough to dial back his long face into something more neutral, but still worried. Ignoring the pity, your focus is on returning to the midway. Preferably on your own, and thankfully your cousin seems to acknowledge this by letting you go. Big Buck himself is on the counter lounging on his side, decadent in his front row seat to your shuffling away on bent legs. You have one hand gripped onto his counter as a makeshift cane, while the other braces itself on your lower back. Pain surges up your muscles with every dragged foot, prompts a tighter grip on your aching back. You hiss and whimper, “Ow-ow-ow” with every jolt from your rickety joints. Floyd starts to hover in concern, his gangly limbs brushing in and out of view in case you topple. Patty remains distant with her face in her hands, still distressed from your transformation.
People are waiting in line to try their own chances at Big Buck's bets, and you are in the way. They collectively demand that you hurry up. Some twist the knife further by addressing you with labels matching your new senior status. Shame washes over you. You know you're moving slower than a snail, but this as fast as you can go. Patty grabs your hand when it runs out of counter. The carnival staff is chuckling, the most distinct one is Big Buck's, but that may be due to his close vicinity. Your hearing is steadily fading into a muffled auditory fog. More embarrassment builds up within you and your body trembles in an attempt to shrink away. Big Buck booms "Haha okay this is just getting sad." Then claps his hands over his head.
You, Patty and Floyd are surrounded by Clowns. The other two are pulled away, and you stumble without Patty’s support. Before you can fall and injure something, someone scoops you up from behind in a chair. They rush you away from Buck’s booth, and aggravate your newfound aches in the process. "Hey--ah!" you try to protest, but all of your loosened teeth choose this moment to fall out completely. Your hands instantly cover your mouth to contain them. Incisors, molars and canines all pile up on your tongue, and push against your inner cheeks. It's a gross, unsettling sensation. You keep your hands over your mouth as if holding in vomit. A tempting action all things considered. One clown presses something close to your lips and you relent, spitting out the lost teeth in a thick wad of phlegm and blood. “Blurgh,” residue sloughs down your chin, and you wipe it away, disgusted.
Turns out you spat into a jar full of water, then the clown holding it shakes it vigorously. The jar's contents bubble up and glow as if a lit bulb was tossed in too. One clown gives you a hearing aid–oh boy!--you can hear their obnoxious honking more clearly. Another clown places glasses over your eyes, everything unblurs. The noticeable improvement is nice, until you stare down at your time ravaged hands. The very need of these accessories only serves to remind you of your lost youth.
As soon as the jar-shaking clown stops, the roaring bubbles eventually clear up to reveal a full set of dentures. They float in now bluish, crystal clear liquid. The Clown pushes the jar back in your face again. It is close enough to reflect your heavily wizened appearance. A dreadfully clear sight now thanks to your new glasses. As a result, you balk at how much your nose and ears have grown over time, did the clown do this out of mockery? As your former teeth bop in the liquid, your tongue traces over healed over gums. The foul taste is gone. Withered lips crumple into a toothless void, they chew nothing as a test, and unfortunately the expression is perfectly mirrored. You can hardly recognize yourself, you place a hand on your face in confirmation. The thing in the reflection does the same, and it even emulates your flinch of pain as you struggle to move your fingers.
Buck's prize made all your joints swell with inflammation, and it’s most clear on your knuckles. Your attempts to unfurl them from their gnarled, claw-like shape is marred in searing agony. You lament the loss of dexterity, you’ve been too greatly aged to even press a button, let alone hold a game controller. Aside from the dark blotches your complexion has gotten paler, and thinned enough to make your veins visible. They bulge out and travel over your brittle metacarpals. Your skin is dry and leathery under your fingertips, your eyes water.
You collect yourself before tracing the lines on your face. There are more creases than last time, more than when you first felt them form, and spread all over your features at horrifically high speeds. The reflection tells you that they occupy every corner of your gaunt face. They even travel up your, age-spotted head, now bald save for some wispy strands of white hair here and there. Some of your flesh has loosened, as your wrinkly cheeks sag into an equally saggy neck. Which waddles down to the neckline of your shirt. Once youthful fashion sense looks ridiculous on your 108 year old body. Loose on bony, shaky extremities like the aged flesh upon them. A shrunken spine forces your shorts' waistline to hike up to a stereotypical level, hugging your ribs.
You adjust your glasses and squint harder to check the state of your eyes. Hidden under droopy lids, and heavy bags, despite being aged close to a whole century; you have kept most of your original eye color. The familiarity brings no comfort, it actually crushes your spirit further. Yes, that fossil in the improvised mirror is you. Both you and the reflection chew again, this time to stave off some drool. You fail, and one of your many whimsical helpers wipes it away with a handkerchief. There’s a cooing “aww, poor thing” from behind you and you feel pathetic.
Your magically crafted dentures tap the glass as if to mock your predicament. Fed up, your hand shifts from study to aggression as it pushes the offensive item back into the clown’s chest. Or at least that’s what you wanted to do. The best your shriveled old arm can manage is keeping a palm on the jar; While the clown bends his elbows to pantomime the act of you pushing it into his chest. You’re too weak to maintain the position and your limb drops. The jar holder has the audacity to look dejected. He bids you farewell in excess formalities, as if you’ve become a dotard. There’s heat on your cheekbones as your rage, and annoyance boils over. You try to swipe at him before he leaves, but hurt your elbow in the process. You howl your lungs out, and clutch the joint hoping it hasn’t been dislocated or broken. He skips off with the jar, and you wonder why he would take it with him. Those were YOUR teeth after all, you resent how feeble your “wait” sounds without the dental consonant.
You immediately regret speaking at all as the remaining clowns start cackling and pointing at you. They mime elderly actions like hunched postures and doddering walks. They pretend to throw out their backs or break their hips, so they can fall to the floor and quote the life alert commercial in creaky, whistling voices. Some cup their ears or squint their eyes as if those senses were failing. The final straw is when one goes into a melodramatic 'coughing fit' and hacks chatter choppers into your lap. Enraged into forgetting your condition again, you try to push yourself out of the chair to throttle them.
Patty and Floyd cry out “stop” and “wait” to warn you, but it's too late. A crack and a sharp pang in your back sits you back down. Tears prick into existence, and your pride squeezes them away. You curl into yourself as much as your deteriorated spine will allow. You breath harshly through your nose, quite winded from all the help you have been provided.
The clowns cover your legs in a small blanket, and your shoulders in a shawl before finally dispersing. Both items are admittedly cozy, and their warmth brings you some relief. Nonetheless, you hold onto your grudge against those clowns(and the Carnival of Horrors in general).
Patty and Floyd rush to your side having previously been held back by the other employees. Patty asks "Are you okay?" It’s clear that she's been crying for quite awhile; puffy eyes with tear-streaks over her freckles. She sniffles, and though you want to comfort your friend you lack the will to lie. Your neck creaks as you respond negatively to her question.
"No. . ." You finally take in how ancient you sound, barely audible in its frailty. "I'm so old," a statement that becomes truer with every mounting ache and pain. "So very. . .very old" with every laborious breath. "I might not even last the night," you admit in a scratchy whistle, like your voice has become the last grains of sand in your hourglass of life.
You shiver as your geriatric body starts to feel colder, as if your depression was heat draining. So you push through arthritic rigidity to wrap the shawl tighter around yourself. Patty rubs your back as you mumble about tiredness. You want to sleep, even after you’ve already implied the risk of it being your last one. But all this chronic agony is taking a toll on your vitality. Patty can see it too as she sinks to her knees, leaning on one of your wheels. Floyd argues "H-hey don't give up! M-maybe if we win, we can reverse this?" His arms circle around you counterclockwise, to emphasize his proposal.
It is at this moment that Big Al poofs onto the scene, hefty and standing at full height. "Remember the rules KIDs." His phrasing deliberately excludes you. The barb does not escape the others, and even your meek cousin glares at the manager in offense. "Losers that survive will enjoy eternity as one of us." You do remember that wager, the rapid aging had not rendered you senile.
"And I lost," you whisper in utter defeat. Big Al looks at you with a sympathetic gaze, worried brow and dewy eyes. But his eyes are a little too wide, and he's smiling too broadly. He’s delighting in your misery, soaking in his accomplished vengeance. Then you realize something, and you return his smile, albeit not as wide or as toothy. You shakily point at Patty and Floyd "but they haven't lost yet." You laugh feebly as Big Al's smug expression falters. Not even the occasional cough can dampen your hopes. The shift in Al’s mood is enough confirmation for you to state "I'm right."
The jerk pouts and nods. "Yeah, yeah, they're still in the game."
Your cousin looks confused while Patty doesn't share your enthusiasm. She grabs the shaky hand you used to point at her and Floyd. Says your name in a pleading voice, then declares "I'm not leaving without you." She means it, you two have been best friends for as long as you can remember. You can't tell if Brad's absence is a blessing or a regret. You and Patty are 13, but the difference of time between your hands is 95 years. You place your other decrepit hand over Patty's smooth, youthful ones; They recoil, withdrawing their grip. She keens like she's going to wail again like she did when your transformation first took hold. Her face is scrunching up in an effort to keep her composure. “I’m sorry! That was mean. I promise I won’t leave you behind.” She breaks down to cry, “I hate this.”
"You have to" your voice cracks, finally failing to hold back your own tears. You understand her disgust, you viscerally reject this new form too. A useless bag of bones, you were 13 just a few minutes ago. “I hate this too, but you guys have to find a way to escape. Or else you’ll run out of time like I did.” Patty’s eyes go wide, you snort and apologize, “sorry, that wasn’t intentional.”
You two share a brief chuckle as Patty wipes away her tears. Then her arms wrap around your neck in a hug. She presses her cheek close to yours, and you lean into the embrace. Your arms quake as you try to lift them to return the gesture. Patty’s arms lower over your shoulders to stop them, she whispers “It’s okay, this is enough.” Your hands return to your lap. Crooked digits massage at the knobby knees beneath your blanket, the Rheumatism is flaring up terribly.
"Take care of Brad for me okay? Tell him a big purple crocodile ate me!" She doesn't giggle this time, you blame the wheezing between words that disrupted your delivery. The hug lingers on too long and you have to beckon Floyd into pulling your best friend away. You nod at your (now)much MUCH younger relative, and he nods back solemnly. There's only so much time left before midnight. You are all still waving at each other as a Carnival employee wheels you away to who knows where.
***
You are left in the presence of other entrapped souls, all from different eras. Big Al’s been running his con for centuries. As the ghosts ramble about what attractions they would like to see. Or hold onto futile dreams of escape. Funnily, now you’re getting sleepy out of boredom. You suddenly hear Patty screaming your name. She’s back too soon, there’s no way they have accumulated enough points. You ask the guy that was trapped in the 1950s to turn your chair so you can lecture her. This time you can get away with bossing Patty around by virtue of being older than her oldest living relative.
Instead you gasp when you see them, a large hairy man looms over them wearing a grim expression. "They're here to say goodbye to you" he bellows. Your heart sinks, and you groan in a gravelly voice. You assume the worst. Your cousin hastily says not to worry and explains that he got 'unlucky' in some birthday game. Now he and Patty are getting escorted out of the Carnival.
There are white cards in their hands. Patty shows you hers and it's a pass for a return trip to the carnival. You grimace, "who would want that?" you ask.
"Me" answers Patty with the same cocksure tone she always boasts before disaster. Big Hairy Harry is already lifting her up to be taken away. She yells louder the further away she becomes, "I'm coming back for you next year. Or whenever this Carnival comes back to our neighborhood! So don't die until then!!" You mouth back an ‘okay’ in dumbfounded agreement, caught up in her optimism. Patty smiles. She and Floyd are already out of sight before you know it. You did not even get a chance to dissuade her. Once again, Patty has taken the lead like she always has since early childhood.
Already infirmed, you’re not confident that you can hold up your end of Patty’s last second promise. But you clutch the armrests of your wheelchair in renewed determination. "Aw, what a beautiful friendship," you hear Big Al comment insincerely from behind you. Your chair's handles are now in his hands, he continues, "don't worry, old timer." You can not stop him from pushing it as your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. "The Carnival of Horrors will take GOOD care of you in the meantime.”