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First and foremost, the Host is just that:
A Host.
"Oh, nein." To an untrained ear, the words would appear full of apathy and exhaustion that only comes after the four hundredth beginning of a Sisyphean task. The irony that the only being on the planet who could understand the truth beneath the words, who is the subject of the words, is currently indisposed is not lost on the Host. "What did they do to you this time, mein Freund?"
A secondary identity has yet to be forged.
The Host sighs deeply. Longingly.
Wilhelm, their dear, innocent Wilhelm who never asked for any of this, fails to answer. The six bullet holes, two lodged front and center with surprising accuracy in his forehead, other four center of mass, provide enough of a response.
"Alle sechs? Das ist…" the Host sighs again. "Overkill."
Although the Host's domain isn't the darkest of rooms, he's aware of the items inside. A revolver, one that looks as if it were a prop in a Russian film before a man plays roulette with his life, sits on the credenza with six new bullets. Their last guests—twins who really would've had a much better life if one of them absorbed the other in the womb twenty five years prior—seemed to have problems with Wilhelm that extended past that of the average.
"You know I don't like it when they kill you," the Host tells the corpse, kneeling down softly, gently, beside him. "I would take your place if I could, mein Freund."
The Audience coos, soft "awww"s echoing around their own slice of existence.
"Welche Mann? Was it Oscar? I'm sure it was Oscar." A cruel, grim man. He'd gone through much in his life, sure, but very few that travel through Ethel's trials have not. Not everyone who they meet react with such unbridled violence. Even less who are willing to kill what they observe to be a man without the outside pressure that the Host knows Ethel presses down after minutes have passed and they remain in the darkest of rooms.
The Host sighs once more, brushing a lock of hair away from the bullet holes in Wilhelm's forehead. Half congealed, it's a clumpy, ugly mess, but if the Host had a comb, they'd spend however long it took to remove the blood and viscera to reveal the color underneath. "Not many kill you nach allem." Only a particularly type of man. "They are so cruel to you."
The type of man who, when approached by a cabaret host holding nothing but a microphone, decides that said host deserves to be dead. Tries again when the first attempt at murder was unsuccessful. A man who plays a game of time warp with as much vitriol as the Host imagines a person would act upon seeing their grave spit on.
Admittedly, by the fourth time the Host rewound time to make Oscar relive his past self being left on the kerb after being found out as a cheater, it was entirely for their own benefit. The first three were to ensure that he understood his faults, but four, five, six, seven, and then the eighth time two minutes later when the Host got bored, were simply for their own amusement. In hindsight, the anger that he built up in Oscar may have been the reason why he chose a second weapon to kill Wilhelm with, even if he was wearing the skin of Oscar's father at that moment.
Beside him, Wilhelm's hair begins to turn back to its original blond color. The bones of his face shift and grind back to a structure that the Host is far more familiar with, whatever previous body he was wearing to capture the attention of the second twin falling away in tandem with the healing of his wounds.
The ones in his skull change first, brain matter re-forming, gyri and sulci shaping back to their original hills and valleys respectively. Spinal fluid safely moves over the new tissue, arachnoid and meningeal layers folding back over, giving way for the completion of dura matter. A perfect scaffold for the bone of his frontal lobe to knit itself together, only for the entire miracle to be covered by unblemished skin, canvas blank, ready and waiting for the next two victims to turn Wilhelm into one himself.
"Guten Morgen," the Host says, voice far softer than when they have guests.
Voice not yet arrived back, Wilhelm responds with only a wince, chest and abdominal wounds no doubt following suit in their healing process. Though the Host could never prove it, they're sure that the very same bullets that killed their Wilhelm over and over again have once more filled the revolver. Its placement on the credenza is nothing but a given at this point.
When his body reforms itself back into what it once was, the Host drags a gentle finger on his temple. "There you are."
The Audience appreciates the display of affection.
It's a show to them, it always will be, but it never once was to the Host. "I don't think our freunds appreciated their games this time," the Host says to their Wilhelm, as if it were an anomaly, as if he hadn't realized it himself, as if the very reform of his body isn't evidence enough of the obvious.
"They never do," Wilhelm manages, catching the Host's hand with his own. He's weak, though he always is after being murdered.
"They don't understand."
"No," Wilhelm agrees. He frowns as he makes a move to get up, halfway making it to sitting and only completing the action with the help of the Host bracing him. He shoulders half of his weight, breathing through the feeling of muscle fibers intertwining once more. "Do you think one day they will?"
Somehow, it still surprises the Host that Wilhelm cares about the people that star in the Cabaret. While they're not quite the puppets that Ethel sees them as, the Host has long past humored the outcome and lives of their guests. And yet, they hardly hesitates. "Nein." Not if the final choice Oscar made on the way out was to kill their Wilhelm yet again.
Wilhelm looks down, as if it affects him. As if he truly cares which- which, the Host realizes, he may very well. It's often easy to forget that Wilhelm is but an infant, freshly here for an indeterminable amount of time compared to the Host's own eternity.
A stray audience member boos, displeased with the Host's opinion. Across the sea of watching eyes that never blink, it's impossible to place the source.
Strength growing, Wilhelm pulls his legs under him. "Do you think they'll be back?"
"Nein," the Host replies, even though they both know it's up to Ethel and Ethel alone. There is nothing the Host can do to prevent the murder of their dear Wilhelm.
Ethel enjoys the Host's own suffering as much as she enjoys tearing down unsuspecting victims.
The Audience is getting antsy. They wait impatiently for the late night show. The only moments the Host has with their Wilhelm, unbridled and without studio lights and boom microphones, is when he is dead.
The Host is powerless. "Shall we begin?"
"Ja."
No sooner after Wilhelm's mouth has closed has the scene changed, armchairs and a desk appeared, the two of them in their respective positions without blinking an eye.
The Host's handheld microphone has already been replaced for one clipped on his chest. "Danke schön, Wilhelm. For joining us on this busy night. Tell me," if only they had the luxury of remaining on the floor together, "What did you think of our last two guests? Die Zwillinge." Lucky them for already getting a coined name.
Wilhelm waits a moment, audience eating up the tension. "Bold."
"Ja. Bold." Among other things. "Tell me, how did you enjoy your time with Die Zwillinge?"
The Audience listens with rapt attention.
And so it continues.
"Freeze," the Host says, fingers playing a tune by themselves while their mind is on Wilhelm's corpse, cooling slowly on the floor. The Host flicks their wrist. "One year ago, when you first started having suspicions."
The Host loves the way the performers' bodies move to follow. The control Ethel has over them—over all the beings inside of her world, really—is something that the Host will never understand nor truly appreciate, but it's convenient when it comes to their guests. Any ordinary human in a boring, real world would never follow such whims.
Brian, a dull character with a dull name to match, moves three paces to the right. He stays front stage, lights shining down for the Audience's benefit. "Why did you come home late from work?"
Dull lines, too.
"I was busy. My meeting ran late," Charlotte, a woman with nails much longer than the Host has seen in years, replies, lying through teeth.
"Freeze. An hour ago, when you," the Host curls a finger toward the woman, "were in deine 'meeting.'"
She looks up with fear. All three of them know what's coming next. Snogging the man from accounting three floors up is hardly the most exciting show that the cabaret has seen as of late.
Even so, the Host lets it go on for minutes before finding pity for the woman. "Freeze. Back to the present."
Brian turns sharply, turning away from the Audience. "How could you do that to me?"
The Host tsks, pulling his shoulder back to keep him center stage. "Das ist nicht your line." What shoddy performers. "Five seconds ago."
Following the rules of the game, he corrects himself, "I don't believe you."
Charlotte looks at the Host with fear in her eyes.
The host merely moves her along, wrist turning in motion.
"I-"
"I don't believe you," Brian reiterates. "I know you've been lying to me for months."
The Host rolls their eyes and can't help but murmur, "Longer than months." What a dull story. They glance to Wilhelm to see if he agrees, but the clean cut of his trachea and overall condition of death prevents mutual complaint.
Despite the story that the Host has heard all too many times, the Audience continues to eat it up. Gasps and cries of outrage litter the edges of the stage.
Charlotte takes a step closer. "I love you."
"Freeze." They have to add at least some excitement to it. "Back to the first time you told our dear friend Brian that."
The scene changes and the humans follow suit, taking their positions eight years in the past. The stage doesn't change but the Audience sees it all. A nervous, young woman who still had hope in her eyes grabs Brian's hand and admits, "I think I love you."
"Freeze. Back to the present."
"I love you," Charlotte repeats, but they all know something else hitches a ride with it this time.
"Do you?" Brian asks back.
She nods back, hands nervously wrapped around one another now that she no longer holds her lovers' hand from the past. "I- yes. I still do. I know I messed up but I still love you- I haven't ever stopped loving you!"
The Host looks toward Wilhelm again with a third glare. "Endlich." Such boring people in the cabaret as of late. Lifting the microphone toward the second performer, the Host asks, "What do you think? Do you still love her?"
"I- I- I-"
"Bitte, take your time," the Host mutters, hoping dearly that these people can understand sarcasm. "You know, they will charge us more if we do not finish the show in the next minute, no?" Besides, the Audience is getting anxious. They'd all like a resolution to this terrible game of time warp.
Long after what a good improv comedian would've taken, Brian finally settles on, "I don't know."
A bad ending to a bad beginning and middle.
The lights fall dark as their time on stage ends.
Though the Audience can still see, the Host drops their shoulders and allows the microphone to fall with it. The performance has been far too long. "I think you'd better keep going."
"No, wait, wait wait wait, I'm not done- Brian!"
The Host isn't going to pay an extra fee for overstaying their welcome in the venue. "I think," they emphasize further, "You'd better keep going."
Barely a few feet away, Wilhelm begins to stir.
Collapsing onto a chair meant as a prop for the performers, the Host drops his chin into his fist. "Oh, mein Wilhelm. We will have much to talk about on our late night show." Exhaustion, if the Host can even call it such, runs through what was probably once real veins and arteries.
Wilhelm, looking suspiciously like the accountant that Charlotte fucked last year, stares blankly back at the Host.
"We'll give them a sneak preview. What did you think of the performance?"
Somewhere deep inside Wilhelm, in the part that isn't puppeteered by Ethel, the Host believes he'd like to respond. They can imagine the exact words flowing from his mouth.
Finally, the Host can make their leave off of stage left. "I thought the same."
"Tell me, mein freund, does it hurt?"
Wilhelm, all too trusting, who had never once believed in any ulterior motive, nods once at the Host. "Ja."
"Oh, mein," the Host means to continue, but the right words aren't in the script. "Es tut mir leid, mein Wilhelm."
"Nein," Wilhelm replies, a hand, the one recently having un-fractured itself, wraps around the Host's cheek. "It is a relief."
Splayed on the floor, the long legs of the caricature that the Host has become, all that they can manage is to inch closer to Wilhelm's slowly warming body.
"It's you I worry about," Wilhelm admits.
"No. Not me."
"You don't get sleep."
"It's not sleep. It is death."
"Are they not the same?"
For all the lack of humanity that the Host has, even they know it couldn't possibly be. "Nein."
"It is a gentle release."
"It is death."
"A gentle release," Wilhelm replies, doubling down on his statement.
"Wilkommen to The Cabaret!"
The Audience cheers. It's one performance out of eternity and yet they haven't gotten bored yet. As long as the Host does their job, they will never grow tired.
"Let's introduce our two performers heute Abend, shall we?" Kneeling next to one of the women, the Host holds the microphone to her height. "Introduce yourself to our lovely guests, bitte."
With an evenly split amount of time, she glances nervously first toward the Host, then the other performer, and lastly toward poor Wilhelm, carotid artery still pulsing out blood as if an echo of a heart beat that doesn't exist. "J-Jenny."
"Jenny! Everyone give Jenny a warm welcome to the stage."
The Audience obliges, shouts and whistles mixing with the cacophony.
"And what is your name?" the Host asks the second woman, twisting around so the microphone can reach her.
This one keeps her eyes on the Audience, or perhaps lack thereof. "Katherine."
"Katherine! Lovely to meet you both." Standing, the Host speaks toward the Audience. "Today, our two performers will be performing improv comedy!"
Every performance has had the same itinerary since the creation of the performances themselves, yet the Audience never tires.
"What?" Katherine asks, finally looking around the newly illuminated stage.
"Don't worry," the Host assures her, "it's a very basic art form. No effort or skill needed."
The Audience loves it.
"Heute, you will be playing a game of change. The rules are very simple. You will start a scene, and at any time, I will say 'change,' and you must change your last line. Okay?"
"I don't-"
"Let's begin!" the Host interrupts, basking in the glory that the Audience provides. The setting itself is easy to pick out. "Why don't us three visit a farm in Ireland? Say, three days before Christmas, 2007."
Curling a fist, the Host allows their chin to rest upon it. They've all been due for a good show soon.
Neither of the performers quite know how to start, but Katherine bites it first. "We should- we should go back to the house. It's cold, and I-"
"Change!"
"It's windy-"
"Change!"
"The storm's-"
"Change!" Or maybe it will be another show where the Host has to pull strings behind the curtain.
"It's getting late-"
"Change!"
"Or we could stay a little longer." When there's no instant interruption, Katherine looks to the host as if to confirm her choice.
Dutifully, the Host lifts a palm up, urging the two to continue.
Jenny chews on her lips. "I don't want to stay out here."
"We can explore. Down in the fields-"
"Change!"
"By the shore."
"Shouldn't we tell mum?"
"Change!"
"Okay," Jenny quickly acquiesces. "Okay."
Katherine reaches for her hand. "We can look for sea glass."
The Host may not know their story through and through, but they know that this setting wasn't chosen for washed up rubbish.
As expected, shortly into the start of their journey to the sea, it's hardly little artefacts that they find.
Jenny's the first one to break the silence, a gasp echoing around the cabaret, bouncing off walls that don't exist. "What's-"
"It's just a dead rabbit."
"Change!"
"It's just a pigeon."
"Change!"
"I don't know, but-"
"Change!"
"Just don't look at it."
"Change!"
Desperation begins to bleed out of Katherine, not unlike the since stalled arterial bleed from Wilhelm. "Keep walking."
"Change!"
"A wolf must've gotten to the sheep-"
"Change!"
"Don't worry about-"
"Change!"
Katherine chokes. "It looks like a foot."
The Audience mimics the earlier gasp. Bodiless, nameless, faceless creatures that don't exist lean forward in their seats. The venue falls eerily silent.
"But not of a person?"
"Change!"
"Of a person," Jenny says, once again moving along the plot with speed that some of their other performers could certainly learn from. "I don't want to be here."
"Change!"
Violently turning toward the Host, Jenny shouts, "I don't want to relieve this!"
"Oh, nein," the Host sarcastically replies, voice pitched far softer than hers. "And yet here we are."
"I don't want to!"
Katherine reaches out, grabbing her hand. "I don't think we have a choice."
"I want to leave."
It takes monumental effort for the Host to not request a change. "The only way out is through, meine Freundin. Do continue."
Barely a minute has passed since the top of the show and it appears that dear Jenny is already near tears. "We- we should tell someone."
"Change!"
"I can't-"
"Change!"
"This can't be real."
"Change!"
"We can't tell anybody. What if we get in trouble?"
"We'll keep it between us," Katherine promises.
"Do you- do you think there's more of the—oh God—the body? Close by?"
Katherine harshly shakes her head. "No."
"Change!"
"I don't know."
"Change!"
"Even if there is, we shouldn't go looking-"
"Change!"
"I d- maybe." She swallows, glancing at the Host to ensure that the response can be kept. "Maybe."
This time, it's Jenny's turn to look at the Host, though before she's even attempted a response. "We should go."
Silly, silly women. That's not how this story goes. "Change!"
"Let us go!"
"Change."
Tired of the game, Jenny breaks from the act and dives down for the since discarded knife that had killed the Host's dear Wilhelm not five minutes prior. Seemingly without thinking, she takes the bloodied weapon and attempts to slice through the Host.
But that's not how the game of Change works, and the Host has never been able to sleep peacefully like Wilhelm can. Without any nerves picking up on the intrusion, the knife easily slips through the Host's gut and is pulled out with just as little grace. Their button-up retains the mark, but any skin, flesh, and whatever other bodily fluids that a real person would've carried with them remains untouched. Only Wilhelm's blood remains on the blade.
Eyes wide, Jenny falls down, scuttling back, away from Wilhelm's corpse, away from the Host. She only stops when she hits Katherine's legs. "What are you?"
Seconds float past.
The microphone is lifted to mouth level once more. "I am the Host. And you," they pause, eyes narrowing every so slightly, "are ruining the show. My lovely audience has been waiting a long time for this. A very long time indeed."
"Please." Katherine pleads, hands holding on tight to Jenny's shoulders. "Just let us go."
"Nein." Even if they wanted to cut the show short, the Host doesn't hold that power.
And, truthfully, if they did, they wouldn't spend it on a pair of sisters who have been harboring a secret for decades. No, the Host thinks, they'd use every and anything possible to set their Wilhelm free.
The Host doesn't sing often, though not necessarily because they dislike it.
While they wouldn't dare to argue that it makes them feel the same things that all the people that pass through the Cabaret feel when they hear music, the Host does garner some sort of enjoyment of it. Wilhelm always glances toward them, showing clear joy at the rare treat.
They never sing for the performers. It's always for their dear Wilhelm.
The last note turns into a hum, held much longer than what would be possible if the Host had a real set of lungs that required the genuine cycling of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Eventually, though, they stop, and rest their hand on Wilhelm's forehead.
"We've had a long few shows lately," they murmur, knowing that Wilhelm's still sleeping off his last murder and incapable of giving a response. "For people who voluntarily come to perform, they often have no clue why they need it in the first place."
On the floor beside him, the Host would like to believe that Wilhelm agrees.
"Plenty of haste in dein Zimmer," they add, not without an eye roll. "Why they never seem to hesitate your murder, I will never understand."
Wilhelm makes no defense for himself.
"I would hesitate," the Host says. "Don't give me that face, mein Wilhelm. I would."
"Guten Abend, meine liebe schnitzensa!" the Host says, the lights of the cabaret glowing warm with his greeting. A few feet away, Wilhelm rests while his intestines slowly seep into the old floorboards of the venue. "Wilkommen… to The Cabaret!"
While they certainly wouldn't consider themselves excited for another performance, the Host can't argue about the intrigue of a blood relative of Ethel's. Of course, his first choice resulting in the dramatic murder of their dear Wilhelm doesn't spark too much confidence.
Beside him, the two men bicker away. Ethel's grandson makes a poor attempt to defend himself when the evidence of his violence is slowly cooling on the floor. With as much subtly as the Host is ever allowed, they look down at their friend.
Their dear Wilhelm, dead once more.
But alas, the Audience grows anxious and the show must go on. "Look at all of you gathered here tonight."
Anywhere between a single pair and hundreds of thousands of eyes stare deeply onto the stage.
"Exactly four-hundred and three people. I know, I checked the ticket sales." The Audience adores his jokes. The soulless beings, the things that are always waiting for bigger, better shows, expel their pleasure.
Giving them what they want, the Host tosses the microphone to his other hand, grinning across the ceaseless void. "Tonight, you are going to watch two friends attempt improv comedy. They've never done it before, and it's a very basic art form." The Host beckons them to front stage. "Okay, let's get our two performers up here. What's your name?"
"Erm. Jim."
"Jim!" the Host echoes. "Everyone give a big round of applause to Jim!"
The Audience obliges.
Before Ethel's grandson can question anything, the Host leads him to front stage. "Come over here, Jim, Jim, Jim." What a dull name for a direct decent of Ethel herself.
"And our second player, over here, mmm…?"
"Michael?"
"Michael!"
"Jamie," he corrects a second later, the Cabaret forcing the truth out of even the most guarded of men. He tries to cover it with a joke of a nickname, and while the Audience appreciates it, the Host already grows tired.
"Why don't you get over here? We're going to start the scene." Staging the performers is half of the battle, and Wilhelm's corpse, his poor Wilhelm, always causes distractions at the Cabaret.
The friend of Ethel's descendant is clearly struggling with the trials, mistaking the Host for something they're not, but just this once, they'll forgive the performer. Besides, the Audience finds it humourous, and as long as they're pleased, the Host is safe.
Wandering back over to Wilhelm's corpse, the Host gently rests a foot on him. "Now. Okay! Now, these two are going to do a scene for two people. They're going to talk one word at a time. I want a letter of complaint about your friendship."
The Audience gives their "ooh"s and "aww"s as expected.
"Tell me what's wrong with your friendship- one word at a time, please."
"No!" Jamie argues back, clearly tired of the trials already, but the Cabaret twists his words into the start of the game.
"We
"don't
"ever
"want
"to
"do
"things
"like
"spending
"time
"together," Jim says, finishing the first sentence with a look of abject horror coming to his face, despite the fact that he's one half of the performance itself.
The admittance has the Audience gasping.
"Oh, nein," the Host hums, putting on the best face of pity that they can muster. Clearly, the Audience must appreciate it based off of their reactions. "Please go on. It feels like maybe you've drifted apart since you first met and became friends," the Host offers, wandering away from Wilhelm's body and toward the performers. "And maybe a relationship has gotten in the way."
When they take a knee and hold the microphone, the two performers follow their roles perfectly, with Jamie starting once again, "I,"
"am
"not
"happy
"with
"this
"marriage."
A short enough sentence that the Host has to add on an "Uh, oh," to keep the Audience truly entertained.
"Lucy," Jamie continues, somehow pulling the weight of the performance despite his decreasing mental clarity,
"Is
"'n't," A cop out, but as long as the Audience allows it, the Host will not interfere.
"for
"you."
Perfect.
The right amount of drama for the Cabaret to truly shine.
"Ohh," the Host murmurs, staring out at the void of infinite, awaiting eyes. "Meine little Liebchen."
While the Host addresses the onlookers, Jamie takes a step back. Tries to defend his actions while his so-called freund threatens violence against him. As in most performances, a weapon is drawn.
This time, however, Wilhelm is not the victim. The two humans, so stupidly protected in Ethel's world, remain unharmed, if not further confused.
"It looks like our two improvisers have gone somewhere deep," the Host says, putting as much emotion as they ever have into the words. "How upsetting. And here they thought they were just going to do silly voices and flash their vajayjays at each other."
The Audience adores their crude language.
Behind him, the two performers hash out the real reason of their entrance into Ethel's trials. Despite one sharing Ethel's blood, it's just as dull as every other pair of performers, and the Host can't help but move toward Wilhelm, frowning at his corpse.
They take a sit down, sighing softly at the unmoving, unbreathing, altogether dead body. They sigh into their hand, resting a cheek on their palm.
Behind them, the men sort through their secrets.
Poor little Jim, barely able to believe that his fiancée would do such a thing as flirt with his best friend.
"I didn't do anything," Jamie promises him, and whether or not Jim believes it, the Host knows that only the truth can be spoken up on the stage in the Cabaret. "But maybe she- maybe she's not the person she- you think she is. I mean, you call her Lucy but her name is Julie."
As far as descendants from Ethel, the Host was expecting worse. Still, "It's a good point when your nickname for your fiancee is about how loose she is, maybe it's not going very well."
The Audience appreciates the jab. Jim? Not so much.
Bringing in a third opinion, the Host brings the microphone down to Wilhelm. "What do you think?"
Kindly, both Jim and Jamie stay silent for Wilhelm's response, even though he's clearly resting at the moment.
Covering for him, the Host explains, "He's busy right now."
The two performers don't find it charming like the Audience does, anxiety growing palpable. Jim is the first to crumble. "I don't want to play this game anymore."
His friend scoffs. "I don't want to play any of these games!"
Jim doubles down, begging for Ethel, for his dear old Nana, to let him out.
A fool, just like all of their other performers. Ethel will never let any of them out. He should be grateful that he at least has the chance to go through the trials, to find a light at the end of the tunnel.
The Host and their dear Wilhelm has never had that luxury.
They call the scene, already growing tired of their performance. Let the next trial guide them- they're done on stage. "I think you'd better carry on."
Ethel's progeny leaves first, desperation bleeding off him in waves.
The friend, Michael better known as Jamie, hesitates. He looks toward Wilhelm, as if he feels regret for the body on stage left.
"Are you not going with your freund?" the Host questions, eyes flitting toward the exit that they themselves will never be able to travel through. "You're staying here with meine corpse freund?"
Jamie squats to inspect him. It's rare that any of their performers show this much care, but instead of relief, the Host feels possessive of their Wilhelm's body.
"It's okay. He'll wake up again soon." They sigh softly. "We've been doing this for a long time." Longer than time itself.
The words don't seem to comfort Jamie. "Who are you?"
Not even the Host knows the answer to that one.
All they know is that the man is touching the corpse of their Wilhelm and the Cabaret has already ended. He needs to move forward and the Host needs to ensure that Wilhelm gets his rest.
The singing doesn't come naturally this time, it's simply what will keep the Audience engaged and move Jamie toward his next room. Another piece of the Host is stolen from them, destined to become part of a show that will never have a closing night.
As he finally exits, the force of Ethel's trials doing the work rather than Jamie's own legs, Wilhelm's small and large intestine re-insert themselves into his body.
They continue to sing through his newest transformation, knowing full well that it will never again be a source of comfort, of individuality, of humanity.
Through it all, they watch Wilhelm. Stature changing, hips widening, hair growing longer.
Their dear Wilhelm, now wearing the skin of a fiancée who strayed from her faith to the man she was engaged to.
The Host has never once asked Wilhelm what he feels when he wear someone else's body. The truth, the deep truth that Ethel would find oh so delicious, is that the Host doesn't want to know.
The Audience watches with rapt attention. A preview of their late night show is in order. "Did you enjoy the show today?"
Wilhelm looks forward into the millions upon billions upon zero of eyes.
"Me neither."
They will reconvene once the friends have bid their final adieu.
"But let's shift the scene, shall we?"
Standing from their slight lounge against one of the cabaret cocktail tables, the Host makes their way to Wilhelm's corpse, kneeling gently in the puddle of blood. Liters of bright red saturate the old floorboards, and if they were in any other world, it would take hours of scrubbing to get it out.
Holding out the microphone to their Wilhelm, the Host asks, "Where should they go next?"
Wilhelm does not reply. He doesn't breathe, his heart doesn't beat, and the blood on the edges of the puddle has begun to cool and congeal.
"I agree," the Host says. They look back at the two performers, but rather than stand, they instead shift to sit on the ground next to Wilhelm. The hand not carrying the microphone holds steady on his cheek, skin already cool to the touch. "Let's fast forward, shall we? Many, many years in the future when you," they point toward one, "left for uni."
The two men exchange a look, both innocently unaware of what's to come.
Blood soaks and saturates the Host's trousers.
The Host points at the shorter one. "This time, I'd like you to start us off."
He takes a careful inhale. "I'm going to miss you."
"Change!"
There is no temperature in the Cabaret, there is no air flow, and if there weren't real humans trapezing through the plane, the Host would assume there was no air at all. Ambiance doesn't exist in the Cabaret, even less so when there is no show occurring, and yet somehow, Wilhelm is cold.
Cool to the touch, soaking up the inhospitable conditions of the world Ethel has created.
"Oh, mein Freund," the Host says, soft voice hardly catching each syllable. Sinking down next to him, just as they've done countless times before, the Host frowns at the state of their Wilhelm. "Warum? Warum dein?"
Wilhelm does not answer.
"How I wish you wouldn't consider yourself to be deserving of this," the Host replies anyway.
It's not the worst that they've seen Wilhelm. Not the bloodiest, not as bruised or broken or scraped as the Host has seen before, yet it still hurts as if it was. Any violence toward their Wilhelm is unjust.
As they've done many times before, the Host sweeps Wilhelm's hair from his eyes. They don't know exactly how the trials ended for their last two performers, but Wilhelm isn't wearing any body other than his own. For the first time in a long time, the Host is able to observe Wilhelm for what he is. Before the late night show, before the next round of performers take their place on the stage, before they have to watch poor Wilhelm die once more.
If he were real, if either of them were real, the Host may consider Wilhelm to be beautiful.
The furrow of his eyebrows is the only indication that Wilhelm is waking, quickly followed by a blink to consciousness. Lungs stutter up, heart beating in what would be considered a medical miracle if they were anywhere but here.
If Wilhelm is surprised by the Host's position, not two inches from his supine body, he doesn't show it.
"Guten Morgen," the Host greets as they always do even though they both know that time has no place on in the cabaret.
Wilhelm coughs, residual flecks of blood painting his bottom lip in speckles. With great struggle, he uses the back of his left wrist to wipe his chin, but all it manages to do is smear evidence of an injury that has already disappeared. "Hallo."
With their thumb, the Host swipes at the mahogany stain until it transfers onto their own skin. "Did you have a guten Schlaf?"
It takes a few seconds for Wilhelm to answer, either from the wounds or the effort it takes to jump start homeostasis once more, the Host isn't sure, but when he does, he answers with a solid, "Ja."
In a practised tune, Wilhelm sits up with the Host's help. One hand braces the left side of his chest where his ribs start to curve, barely a few centimeters below his armpit.
"Does it hurt?" the Host asks.
"Nicht mehr," he answers, but the Host can see him wince all the same.
A brief respite or not, the Host can't imagine having a katana plunged into one's lung feeling like anything but painful. Then again, their understanding of pain has never matched Wilhelm's own. They're not entirely sure what pain even is other than a vague concept to the humans who pass through the rooms and something oh so real that happens to their Wilhelm far too often.
When Wilhelm moves his hand from his chest, choosing instead to brace it on the floor as he sits further, no evidence of a wound is left.
There is no blood, no scar, and no longer a tear in his clothing.
The cameras for the late night show will start rolling in seconds.
But even if seconds is all that the Host has with their Wilhelm before the vultures and voyeurs take them away, they will savour the time regardless.
The lights come on and one of the two men drops the hunting knife, clatter echoing around the stage. "Oh, God. Oh, fuck."
The other man catches the first when he stumbles. "Is he dead?"
"Guten Abend!" the Host says, making themselves known. Their entrance is grand enough to tear the two performers' eyes off of Wilhelm's corpse and into the Host's own. "Wilkommen!"
"I didn't- I didn't mean to."
"Hmm?" the Host asks, lips pursed together, a single centimeter above the microphone.
"I- it's like something made me, I didn't mean to!"
The Host's shoulders drop a fraction. "Ohh. Meine corpse freund? Don't worry. He is okay."
"He's not breathing," the second man says, voice barely above a whisper. It's a good thing that the stage mics are powerful, otherwise the Audience would surely make their displeasure known.
"Nein. He is dead. Dead Männer do not breathe."
The original one makes a choked noise. "Holy fuck. I just killed him."
As much as they don't want to force it, the show must go on, so the Host merely waves him off. "He will wake up again. We've been doing this for a very long time. Aber nicht mehr! The Cabaret waits for no man! We must introduce ourselves. Tell me, what is your name?"
The Host dutifully holds the microphone to the man, but his focus remains on Wilhelm's body. Three, four, five seconds pass, and they give up.
"What is dein name?"
"Peter," the second man says, leaning in slightly too far toward the microphone. "It's Peter."
"Peter! Lovely to meet you, Peter. And who do we have with us?"
He hesitates, but the answer comes through eventually, "That's, uh, that's Aiden."
"And Aiden! Let's give our two performers a warm welcome!"
The Audience cheers and hollers, clouding any other noise that could pass through the stage. It takes them a long time to settle down, and the Host knows that these two are going to have a fabulous show. Getting it started, though, may be a bit of a challenge.
Taking a few steps closer to their Wilhelm, the Host says, "Now Aiden, in order for this next game, I'm going to need you to join your friend at center stage. That means say Auf Wiedersehen to mein corpse freund."
Aiden looks up with wide eyes.
"Trust me, he will be fine. We will ask him, even." Crouching, the Host offers the microphone to Wilhelm. "See? He knows it himself."
Peter stares. "He's dead."
"He is resting."
The Audience boos lightly.
"Now please, we really must start our show. Peter and Aiden, tell me, have you ever done improv comedy before?"
"Have we- what?"
"Don't worry, it's a very basic art form."
That, at the very least, gets a reaction from the Audience.
"Today, you two will be writing a letter of complaint!" The Host pauses to allow for cheers and whistles to soar through the air. "But not just any letter. This one is going to be written by the two of you together, one word at a time. You," they point at Peter, "will say a word, and then you," shifts toward Aiden, "will say the next. You will go back and forth. Sounds good, ja?"
"I really don't-"
"Let's begin! The topic of our letter will be, ohhh, let's see. Shall we…? Nein, nein. Ah, yes. How about a letter of complaint about our dear friend Aiden's childhood?"
Aiden looks up so sharply that his neck cracks. "What?"
The Host walks behind them to get to stage left, closer to their dear Wilhelm. They point to Aiden. "You will begin. Go."
"I," Aiden begins, and his mouth forming the next word automatically, but no sound can make it out.
Hesitantly, Aiden continues, "Don't,"
"Like
"the
"way
"your
"parents
"treat
"you," Peter finishes, taking a step back as if he could physically distance himself from the words.
Aiden blinks back at him. "They,"
"don't
"seem
"to
"care
"about
"you."
"That's not true," Aiden says, quick to defend the parents in question. "You- you just see a fraction of what-"
"And a fraction is more than enough!"
Using Wilhelm's corpse as a seat, the Host settles and brings the microphone to his mouth. "Oh nein. Has the medium of mediocre improv comedy hit somewhere deep?"
Aiden holds out a hand, palm splayed at the Host. "Shut up."
The Host sighs back. If only it were that simple.
"What the hell do you mean they don't care about me?"
Throwing his hands up, Peter stutters through the explanation, "I don't- I- you really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"Dude, your parents are cunts. I'm sorry, but it's so fucking obvious to an outsider."
"What the hell gives you the right to say that?"
"It's true!"
"No, it's not!"
The Host gives a look to the Audience. "Uh, oh. Looks like we've hit a sore spot."
"Your-" Peter pauses, moving closer to Aiden, further from Wilhelm. "Your parents aren't good people. Why do you think I kept trying to invite you to my house?"
"'Cause we're friends! At least I- I thought we were."
"We are! We're friends which is why it fucking kills me seeing how they treat you!"
"They treat me fine!"
"They don't!"
While it's not unheard of, it is somewhat uncommon that the performance turns directly into a shouting match. The Host imagines that whenever they leave and go back to whatever the real world is, the actual repercussions hit. The stage seems to only capture the inflicting wound, not the healing of it.
"My-" Aiden is cut off, an impenetrable force preventing him from speaking any further. His lips move, mouth forming words, but no sound comes out.
Nearly ten seconds pass before Peter continues the thought, "Parents,"
"Are
"not
"not-"
"Oh, bitte," the Host interrupts, "We're not playing a game of double negatives. This letter should fit on an A4, not six of them."
"Not," Aiden adds, turning the double negative into a triple, original meaning captured once more,
"always
"good
"for
Aiden chokes on the word, but spits it out nonetheless. "Me."
"Ah," the Host says, looking toward the Audience rather than the performers. "It seems we're making progress. What do you think?" they ask, shifting the microphone and allowing Wilhelm to chime in.
His corpse remains still, once more cooling to match the ambient temperature of the stage.
"I see we're both in agreement," the Host murmurs.
"They're not bad people," Aiden suddenly says, doubling down on his previous claim. "They're not."
Peter shakes his head. "They are. You can't see it but they are, man."
"They love me."
"That doesn't excuse the fucking shit that they do to you!"
Defenses rising, Aiden challenges, "Is this 'cause you're just pissed that your parents got divorced? Are you taking it out on me or some shit?"
"Don't be fucking stupid!"
"I'm not the stupid one here!"
Reaching up, Peter pulls lightly at the hair that sashes down his forehead. He takes a careful breath, before lowering his voice and admitting, "I know they hurt you."
Aiden opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
This time, the Host knows it's not the Cabaret controlling and contorting him to the rules of the game. It is Aiden himself, lost for words.
But rather than giving him the time to parse through and find the right ones, the stage lights fall dark and the Audience perfectly quiet.
"I think it's time for you to continue on," the Host offers, a poor guidance for a third trial that they themselves have never had the opportunity to comprehend.
Though it's pitch black to their two performers, the Host can see in perfectly clarity when Peter manages to find his friend and puts a hand on his shoulder. Even further clarity when Aiden shrugs him off, gravitating through the newly opened tunnel. Whatever awaits for them next is between them and Ethel, and the Host will never be privy to it.
Their Cabaret is over, the only evidence of it the owlish eyes of the Audience and Wilhelm's body.
He'll come back soon, he always does, but in the form of some other human. Actions and face and voice and everything important perfectly curated to another figure.
"Oh, mein Wilhelm." For the duration of the third trial, he will remain himself. Dead, unmoving, resting, but him nonetheless.
Discarding the microphone, the Host shifts off of their friend, choosing to sit beside him this time. "You know I hate to see your blood on the floor." At this point, the Host has seen more of Wilhelm's blood outside than not.
When they wrap a hand around his cheek, the cold from his skin leeches into their palm. "So kalt. Is it bad that I wish you would come back sooner?"
They know that Wilhelm doesn't mind dying. That, despite the hurt that he's guaranteed to feel, he doesn't have any hard feelings about being killed. Quite the opposite, in fact, as Wilhelm has come to look forward to each of his deaths, embracing the quiet time as nothing but a peaceful rest.
The Host sighs just thinking about it.
They've seen countless people come through, deluded thoughts clouding reality—not unlike the performer that just moved onto the next trial. The Host never coupled Wilhelm into that same group of people, but it's becoming more and more difficult to not. No man, because at the bottom line, that is who Wilhelm is, still a man, still a person who deserves to be out in a real world and not trapped in Ethel's trials, should look forward to death.
No man should consider it a break.
A relief.
Carefully, the Host traces the wound down, starting at the junction between his neck and chin, all of the way down to his collar bone. Carotid artery and trachea severed, the Host can only hope that it was a quick release into death. The wound itself will be healed in a matter of seconds once Aiden and Peter make it through their respective third rooms, but right now, it is all too real.
"Mein Schatz," the Host murmurs, moving their hand from the top of his chest back to his face, carefully avoiding the blood as they trace cheekbones. "Why do you let them do this to you?"
It's a nonsensical question. The Host already knows the answer, knows that it's the same reason they continue to be the emcee of the Cabaret even on the darkest of days, but they can't help but ask it all the same. Desperately, they wish that Wilhelm would not step in the path of a deadly weapon just once.
The Host knows that people, ordinary people, cannot die in the Cabaret, and just once, they would appreciate a show where one of their performers were covered head to toe in blood rather than their Wilhelm.
Beside him, the bones of Wilhelm's face begin to shift.
The show where he survives is not this one.
From the wings, inside of a realm that doesn't actually exist, the Host watches as the next two performers fall into Ethel's lithe fingers. As the newest victims stumble through the darkest of rooms, the Host can imagine each one of Wilhelm's deaths in a pantomime of a memory.
Gunshot wounds to the face, the chest, the gut.
Death by a thousand slices, slowly bleeding out when the performer doesn't have the tapferkeit to let Wilhelm die quickly.
A trident thrown straight through his middle.
Carotid artery severed.
Spinal column sliced cleanly through as it unfurls from the brain stem.
A glass shard directly into the femoral, apparent pity taken on Wilhelm when the performer yanked it out a moment later and blood began to spurt in earnest.
Every performance is preceded by a death that the Host has seen countlessly before and somehow still for the very first time.
A woman and a man shuffle, hands outstretched, scuffing shoes on a floor that doesn't exist.
Wilhelm welcomes them into the darkest of rooms and the Host unnecessarily bites their tongue to stay silent. Outside of a microphone in the Cabaret, the Host is just as weak as the very humans that guest star on his shows.
They have a lot in common.
The Audience cheers for their two new performers: Sandra and Gerald.
Older than most who come through the Cabaret, but the Host doesn't discriminate. Quite the opposite, in fact, as it's a delight to have the opportunity for a new show once and a while. The two hold onto each other like the physical connection will save them from their fate in the trials.
"Heute, we will be playing a game of Time Warp! Everybody give it up for Time Warp!"
All disembodied hands come together for a seconds long round of applause.
"Here's how the game works: you will start off with a scene, and I will have the power to control time. Forwards, backwards, slowing and quickening the pace as I like. Are you ready to begin?"
Both glance at each other before Sandra lets out an oh so eloquent, "What?"
"Don't worry," the Host waves her off. "You'll catch on when he start. Besides, it's just improv comedy. It's simple and full of cheap thrills."
The Audience never tires of the same joke.
"Okay, here we go! Why don't we start with two Mondays ago? At the dinner table, bitte." They may ask it like a request, but the rules of the stage force the performers into the perfect scenario.
Sandra glances out at the sea of unblinking faces, but is faster than most to gather her wits and start, "Why'd you have another appointment tomorrow?"
He offers a shrug back. "Just… to make sure."
"Make sure what?"
"That everything's all hunky-dory." He says it with a poor American accent, and the Host rolls their eyes.
"You said the same thing a month ago. And you're still going in what feels like every other day!"
"Hey," Gerald says, voice soft. He takes a step closer to his wife, a wrinkly hand covered in liver spots reaching for her own. "Everything's okay."
Sandra narrows her eyes, but nothing about her body language tells the Host that they're going to have a secondary battle in the show tonight. That is, after all, more of Wilhelm's domain than their own.
"This is far too slow," the Host murmurs, feeling the heat of the Audience's eyes, all awaiting a show of grandeur. "Perhaps we go back further. Thursday six weeks ago."
For the first time since killing Wilhelm, the pair disengages from each other.
Sandra is the first to speak. "How did the appointment go?"
"Good," Gerald answers, a hair to quick to be strictly true. "It went well."
"What'd they say?"
"Just a flare up. Nothing to worry about."
The Host hums softly. "Ohhhh. Oh, nein, nein, nein. Freeze! Four hours ago. At Herr Gerald's appointment."
Invisible to the naked eye, the scene shifts, following the whims of the Host that was never theirs to begin with. Inside a small office, posters of lung and upper respiratory anatomy littered on the walls, Gerald stares blankly at a set of pamphlets.
The doctor, who doesn't exist on the stage but somehow still plays her accurate part in the scene, tells him the diagnosis, followed shortly by the prognosis itself.
"Back to the present," the Host commands before the words have even registered in Sandra's mind.
"The biopsy on the nodule came back," Gerald admits, shifting the direction of the scene as the game makes it so. "It's cancer."
For a long few seconds, Sandra remains stock-still. When she does move, it's a dramatic, doubling over, instant gasping for air as if she hadn't breathed since the moment the scene went back in time.
Turning toward the Audience, the Host murmurs, "And the truth comes out."
"I'm sorry," Gerald says, regret and guilt dripping off of his words in liters. "Sandy, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want you to worry."
She just sobs away.
Ruining the game, ruining the stagecraft, ruining the performance itself.
When she crumples to the floor, far enough away from Wilhelm to avoid getting his blood on her but close enough for both the Host and the Audience to see them both in the same field of view, and Gerald quickly follows. Hands on his wife's shoulders, he squats down until his hips pop and then a little more, holding her close.
Perhaps the show will be good for the Audience after all.
The Host makes their way to Wilhelm, squatting by his corpse. Knee pain, were it possible in a world that doesn't exist in the real world, would inevitably be a problem for the Host if they held the stance for much longer than a minute. On the other side of the stage, Gerald extends a hand, palm pressed to the floor to keep his balance.
"Quite emotional, tonight," the Host says, addressing both Wilhelm and the Audience.
He is once again dead to the world, resting, unable to humor the Host with a conversation to spice up the scene.
As much as the Host would prefer to stay with their dear Wilhelm and hold on tight as he wakes once more, they have a job to do and are well aware of the cruelty that Ethel could force upon them. The Audience waits for no one.
Standing to full, the host walks ever so slowly to the other side of the stage. "As far as secrets go, this is one I haven't heard in a very long time."
"Just-" Gerald lifts his supporting hand from the floor to hold his palm up against the approaching figure. "Don't. Not right now."
"You chose this," the Host reminds him. "Ethel never forces anyone to do anything." Not through anything physical, at the very least.
"Can you just leave us alone?"
"The show must go on."
Wilhelm has yet to wake and the familiar itch that forces the Host to push their performers onto the next trial hasn't yet emerged from under their skin. Whatever further secrets the couple is holding will have to come to light before the Host could consider letting them go free.
"It's not a show!"
"It's all a show," the Host argues back, motioning to the crowd, all holding their breath and staring, unblinking.
To their surprise, Sandra picks up the slack of the sad little debate that the couple thinks they have a chance of winning. "Would it kill you to have some humanity?"
Slowly, the Host brings the microphone up to their mouth. Before they speak, they move to front stage and address the Audience as one, "Aber… I am no human."
Sandra isn't fazed and evidently has no qualms about speaking into the Host's back. "He's dying."
"We all die. Or," with feigned nonchalance, the Host waves a hand behind them in the general direction of the two performers whilst still keeping their gaze on the venue seating. "You people do. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the only thing all you have in common."
She breathes heavy. "There's something wrong with you."
"Ja," the Host confirms. There is.
Exceptionally callous, perhaps, but they've grown far too tired of all performers coming to the stage, two by two, and sorting through problems that simply don't matter. A cheating husband, a lie forged and continued for years, a bastard child, a friend turned enemy.
A dying man.
"Shall we continue the scene?" They won't be able to move forward until they do.
"No," Sandra bites, scornful wrath as loud as they've ever heard it in their entire tenure as the Cabaret Host.
Truly, it makes little difference for them. Their late night show will be delayed, but the studio has since given up on a regular schedule for it.
Moving back from front stage, the Host merely shrugs and makes their way back to Wilhelm. "Okay. You will sit with your dying husband and I will- well." Carefully, they fold down onto the floor next to Wilhelm. "We will spend time together, auch."
Despite the transformation having completed nearly a full minute ago, there is the faintest amount of blood that remains on Wilhelm's cuticles. It catches the Host's attention as they greet the Audience to the much anticipated late night show. "Ah. Wilkommen, thank you all for joining me tonight. Our guest today is a dear friend of mine. Wilhelm?"
He smiles with his own skin pulled over the right facial structure, but it looks taught, unnatural. "Danke, danke."
"Tell me, my dear Wilhelm, what did you think of our last performance?"
The Audience holds breath that their lungs don't even require.
He thinks on it for a second, lounging comfortably in the armchair. "They were a good shot."
The Host can still see the exit wound beside Wilhelm's ear. "Which one shot you?"
"The woman."
"Jasmine."
"Ja."
Although quiet at first, the Audience boos their dull conversation. A moment to reflect, to remind themselves that despite it all Wilhelm remains alive, is not warranted in the late night show.
The Host unnecessarily clears their throat. "Let's talk about first impressions. What was the first thing that came to mind when you saw our last two performers?"
"I thought they were unprepared."
"They always are," the Host murmurs back. "Full of naïve confidence."
Wilhelm considers his words. "They were strong."
"It doesn't take much strength to squeeze a trigger." Especially not with a revolver.
"No, but it took them a long time."
The Audience takes intrigue with his words.
"Oh?"
Nodding, Wilhelm continues, "Ethel had to compel them, and even then…"
The Host patiently waits for Wilhelm to continue, but the sentence never completes itself. "Ah."
The Audience hates the slow conversation.
They crave more and more, they need a show, they slowly chant and beg for distraction from their own world. Their last performance was subpar and now the late night show isn't pleasing them and the Audience is making it far too clear.
Something akin to fear sits just under the Host's skin.
Their next comment is an over-exaggerated joke about Wilhelm's death, insensitive and over the top and it is precisely what draws the crowd back in.
The Host does not feel bad about it. The Host isn't like Wilhelm.
The Host does not, and will not, ever feel.
"Oh, mein freund."
Wilhelm is dead once more, body crumpled unceremoniously on the edge of the stage, almost tumbling off into worlds unknown.
The Host would like nothing more than to put the show on hold, to refund the tickets of every everlasting Audience member, to beg the venue owners to open the door and allow the lights from outside to flood in. If they could, the Host would pluck out the eyes of every onlooker and allow Wilhelm to die, to rest, in peace. They would lay down next to him and carefully identify his new fatal wound and would wait patiently as the blood cooled and dried on the floor and would pretend that they also know what it feels like to rest.
To have a moment of silence where performing is wholly unneeded or even unwanted.
The spotlight turns on and the two performers gasp as the Host is introduced to the stage.
A bright, blinding, fake smile peels on their face as they bring the microphone up to their mouth. First and foremost, the Host is just that.
"Wilkommen!"
A Host.