“But we are.” Gimli took a deep breath and then bellowed toward the waiting jokers. “ALL RIGHT YOU KNOW THE ORDER-JUST KEEP GOING NO MATTER WHAT SOAK YOUR HANDKERCHIEFS. STAY IN THE RANKS UNTIL WE REACH THE TOMB. HELP YOUR NEIGHBOR IF HE NEEDS IT OKAY, LET’S GO!” The power was in his voice again. Sondra heard it and saw the reaction of the others; the sudden eagerness, the shouted responses. Even her own breath quickened to hear him. Gimli cocked his head toward Sondra, a mocking gleam in his eyes. “You coming or are you going to go fuck someone?”
“It’s a mistake,” Sondra insisted. She sighed, pulling at the collar of the dress and looking at the others, who stared at her. There was no support from them, not from Peanut, not from Tinhorn, not from Zona or Calvin or File-none of those who sometimes backed her during the meetings. She knew that if she stayed behind now, any hope she had of holding Miller in check would be gone. She glanced back at the park, at the groups of jokers huddling together and forming a rough line; the faces were apprehensive, but nonetheless resolute. Sondra shrugged her shoulders. “I’m going,” she said.
“I’m so happy,” Gimli drawled. He snorted his derision.
THREE DEAD, SCORES INJURED IN JOKER RIOT
The New York Times, July 17, 1976
It was not pretty, it was not easy. The planning commission of the NYPD had made copious notes that supposedly covered most of the eventualities if the jokers did decide to march. Those who were in charge of the operation quickly found that such advance planning was useless.
The jokers spilled out of Roosevelt Park and onto the wide pavement of Grand Street. That in itself was not a problemthe police had blocked traffic on all through-streets near the park as soon as the reports of the gathering had come in. The barricades were across the street not fifty yards from the entrance. It was hoped that the march organizers would simply fail to get the protest together or, coming upon the ranks of uniformed cops in riot gear, they would turn back into the park where officers on horseback could disperse them. The police held their clubs in ready hands, but most expected not to use them-these were jokers, after all, not aces. These were the crippled, the infirm, the ones who’d been twisted and deformed: the useless dregs of the virus.
They came down the street toward the barricades, and a few of the men in the front ranks of the police openly shook their heads. A dwarf led them-that would be Tom Miller, the JJS activist. The others would have been laughable if they were not so piteous. The garbage heap of Jokertown had opened up and emptied itself into the streets. These were not the better-known denizens of Jokertown: Tachyon, Chrysalis, or others like them. These were the sad ones who moved in darkness, who hid their faces and never emerged from the dirty streets of that district. They’d come out at the urging of Miller, with the hope that they could, in their very hideousness, cause the Democratic Convention to support their cause.
It was a parade that would have been the joy of a carnival freak show.
Late:; the officers indicated that none of them had actually wanted the confrontation to turn violent. They were prepared to use the least amount of force possible while still keeping the marchers off the downtown Manhattan streets. When the front ranks of the jokers reached the barricades, they were to uickly arrest Miller and then turn the others back. No one ought that would be difficult.
In retrospect, they wondered how they could have been so damned stupid.
As the marchers approached the barrier of wooden sawhorses behind which the police waited, they slowed. For long seconds, nothing happened at all, the jokers coming to a ragged, silent halt in the middle of the street. The heat reflecting off the pavement sheened the faces with sweat; the uniforms of the police were damp. Miller glowered in indecision, then motioned forward those behind him. Miller pushed aside the first sawhorse himself; the rest followed.
The riot squad formed a phalanx, linking their plastic shields, braced. The marchers hit the shields; the officers shoved back, and the line of marchers began to bow, buckling in on itself. Those behind pushed, crushing the front ranks of jokers against the police. Even then the situation might have been manageable-a tear-gas shell might have been able to confuse the jokers enough to send them running back to the relative safety of the park. The captain in charge nodded; one of the cops knelt to fire the canister.
Someone screamed in the crush. Then, like tenpins scattering, the first row of the riot squad went down as if some miniature tornado had blown them away. “Jesus!” one of the police screamed. “Who the fuck…” The police clubs were out now; as the jokers hit the lines, they began to use them. A low roar dinned between the high buildings lining Grand Street, the sound of chaos let loose. The cops swung the clubs in earnest as frightened jokers began to fight back, striking out with fists or whatever was at hand. The joker with the wild TK power was throwing it everywhere with no control whatsoever: jokers and police and bystanders all were flung at random to roll in the streets or crash up against buildings. Tear-gas pellets dropped and exploded like a growing fog, adding to the confusion. Gargantua, a monstrous joker with a comically small head set on his massive body, moaned as the stinging gas blinded him. Hauling a wooden cart with several of the less ambulatory jokers set in it, the childlike giant went berserk, the cart careening after him with his riders clinging to the sides desperately. Gargantua had no idea which way to run; he ran because he could think of nothing else to do. When he encountered the re-formed police line, he pummeled wildly at the clubs that struck him. A blow from that clumsy, huge fist was responsible for one of the deaths.
For an hour the formless battle swirled within a few blocks of the park entrance. The injured lay in the streets, and the sound of sirens wailed, echoing. It was not until midafternoon that any semblance of normalcy could be restored. The march had been broken, but at a great cost to all involved. That long and hot night, the police patrolling Jokertown found their cruisers pelted with rocks and garbage, and the ghostly shades of jokers moved in the back streets and alleys with them: glimpses of rage-distorted faces and raised fists; futile, frustrated curses. In the humid darkness, the residents of Jokertown leaned down from fire escapes and open windows in the tenements to throw empty bottles, flowerpots, trash: they thudded against the roofs of the police vehicles or starred the windshields. The cops stayed judiciously inside their cruisers, the windows up and the doors locked. Fires were set in a few of the deserted buildings, and the fire-fighting crews that came to the calls were assaulted from the shadows of nearby houses.
Morning came in a pall of smoke, a veil of heat.
In 1962, Puppetman had come to New York City and there found his nirvana in the streets of Jokertown. There was all the hatred and anger and sorrow that he could ever wish to see, there were minds twisted and sickened by the virus, there were emotions already ripened and waiting to be shaped by his intrusions. The narrow streets, the shadowed alleys, the decaying buildings swarming with the deformed, the innumerable bars and clubs catering to all manner of warped, vile tastes: Jokertown was thick with potential for him, and he began to feast, slowly at first, and then more often. Jokertown was his. Puppetman perceived of himself as the sinister, hidden lord of the district. Puppetman could not force any of his puppets to do anything that went against their will; his power was not that strong. No, he needed a seed already planted in the mind: a tendency toward violence, a hatred, a lust-then he could place his mental hand on that emotion and nurture it, until the passion shattered all controls and surged out. They were bright and red-hued, those feelings. Puppetman could see them; even as he fed on them; even as he took them into his own head and felt the slow building of a heat that was sexual in intensity; as the pounding, shimmering flare of orgasm came while the puppet raped or killed or maimed. Pain was pleasure. Power was pleasure.
Jokertown was where pleasure could always be found.
HARTMANN PLEADS FOR CALM MAYOR SAYS RIOTERS WILL BE PUNISHED
New York Daily News, July 17, 1976
John Werthen came into Hartmann’s hotel room from the connecting door of the suite. “You’re not going to like this, Gregg,” he said.
Gregg had been lying on his bed, his suit jacket thrown carelessly over the headboard, his hands behind his head as he watched Cronkite talk about the deadlocked convention. Gregg turned his head toward his aide. “What now, John?”
Amy called from the Washington office. As you suggested, we gave the problem of Tachyon’s Soviet plant to Black Shadow. We just heard that the plant was found in Jokertown.
“He’d been strung up to a streetlamp with a note pinned to his chest-pinned through his chest, Gregg; he wasn’t wearing any clothes. The note outlined the Soviet program, how they’re infecting `volunteers’ with the virus in an effort to get their own aces, and how they’re simply killing the resulting jokers. The note went on to identify the poor schmuck as an agent. That’s all: the coroner doesn’t think that he was conscious through most of what the jokers did to him, but they found parts of the guy up to three blocks away.”
“Christ,” Gregg muttered. He let out a long breath. For a long minute, he lay there as Cronkite’s cultured voice droned on about the final vote on the platform and the obvious deadlock between Carter and Kennedy for the nomination. “Has anyone talked to Black Shadow since?”
John shrugged. He loosened his tie and opened the collar of his Brooks Brothers shirt. “Not yet. He’ll say that he didn’t do anything, you know, and in his own way, he’s right.”
“Come on, John,” Gregg replied. “He knew damn well what would happen if he tied the guy up with that note on him. He’s one of those aces who think they can do things their way without worrying about the laws. Call him in; I need to talk with him. If he can’t work our way, then he can’t work for us at all-he’s too dangerous.” Gregg sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his neck. “Anything else? What about the JJS? Have you managed to reach Miller for me?”
John shook his head. “Nothing yet. There’s talk that the jokers will march again today-same route and all, right past city hall. I hope he’s not that stupid.”
“He’ll march,” Gregg predicted. “The man’s hungry to be in the limelight. He thinks he’s powerful. He’ll march.” The senator stood and bent over the television set. Cronkite went silent in midsentence. Gregg stared out the windows. From his vantage point in the Marriott’s Essex House, he could look down at the green swath of Central Park caught between the towers of the city. The air was stagnant, unmoving, and the blue haze of pollution hid the further reaches of the park. Gregg could feel the heat even with the air-conditioning in the room. Outside, it would be sweltering once more. In the warrens of Jokertown, the day would be unbearable, rendering already quick-fused tempers even shorter.
“Yes, he’ll march,” Gregg said again, softly enough that John did’ not hear it. “Let’s go to Jokertown,” he said, turning back into the room.
“The convention?” John inquired.
“They won’t settle anything for days yet. That doesn’t matter at the moment. Let’s collect my shadows and get going. “
JOKERS! YOU’RE BEING DEALT A BAD HAND! -from a pamphlet handed out by JJS workers at the July 18th rally Gimli exhorted the crowds under the brilliant noon sun. After the night of chaos in Jokertown, the mayor had put the city’s police force on double shifts and canceled all leaves. The governor had placed the National Guard on standby. Patrols stalked the borders of the Jokertown district, and a curfew was imposed for the following night. The word that the JJS would attempt another march to Jetboy’s Tomb had spread quickly through Jokertown the previous evening, and by morning, Roosevelt Park was swirling with activity. The police stayed away after two unsuccessful attempts to sweep the jokers out of the park resulted in broken heads and five injured officers. There were simply more of the jokers willing to march with the JJS than the authorities had predicted. The barricades were set in place on Grand Street once more, and the mayor harangued the assembled jokers via bullhorn. He was roundly jeered by those at the gates.
From the rickety dais they’d erected, Sondra listened to Gimli as the dwarf’s strong voice swept the jokers up in its ferocity. “YOU’VE BEEN TRAMPLED, SPAT UPON, REVILED LIKE NO OTHER PEOPLE IN HISTORY!” he exclaimed, and they screamed their agreement. Gimli’s face was rapt, shiny with sweat, the coarse strands of his beard dark with the heat. “YOU’RE THE NEW NIGGERS, JOKERS. YOU’RE THE NEW SLAVES, THE ONES BEGGING FOR RELEASE FROM A CAPTIVITY NO WORSE THAN THAT OF THE BLACKS. NIGGERS. JEWS. COMMUNISTS. YOU’RE ALL THOSE THINGS TO THIS CITY, THIS COUNTRY!” Gimli flung an arm toward the ramparts of New York. “THEY WOULD HAVE YOU STAY IN YOUR GHETTO; THEY WOULD HAVE YOU STARVE. THEY WANT YOU TO BE KEPT IN YOUR PLACE SO THEY CAN PITY YOU, SO THEY CAN DRIVE DOWN THE STREETS OF JOKERTOWN IN THEIR CADILLACS AND THEIR LIMOUSINES AND LOOK OUT THE WINDOWS, SAYING `GOD, HOW CAN PEOPLE LIKE THAT STAND TO LIVEl’” The last word was a roar and it echoed through the park, all of the jokers rising to shout with Gimli. Sondra looked out on the mass of people, speckling the lawn under the glaring sun.
They’d all come out, the jokers, pouring from the streets of Jokertown. Gargantua was there, his immense body bandaged; Marigold, Flicker, Carmen, five thousand or more like them all behind. Sondra could feel the excitement pulsing as Gimli lectured them, his own bitterness snaking out like a poison into the air, infecting them all. No, she wanted to say. No, you can’t listen to him. Please. Yes, his words are full of energy and brilliance; yes, he makes you want to raise your fists and pump them skyward as you march with him. Still, can’t you see that this is not the way? This is not the revolution. This is only the madness of a man. The words echoed in her mind, but she could not speak them. Gimli had caught her in his spell with the others. She could feel the are of a smile on her chapped lips, and around her the other members of the cadre were yelling. Gimli stood at the front of the dais, his arms wide as the shouts became louder and louder, as a chant began to rise from the massed throat of the crowd.
“Jokers’ Rights! Jokers’ Rights!”
The beat hammered at the waiting ranks of police, at the inevitable crowd of bystanders and reporters.
“Jokers’ Rights! Jokers’ Rights!”
Sondra heard herself saying it along with the others. Gimli jumped down from the dais, and the burly dwarf began to lead them toward the gates. The crowd began to move, a mob with no pretense of order. They spilled out of Roosevelt Park from the gates into the side streets. Taunts were shouted toward the waiting line of police. Sondra could see the flashing lights of the cruisers, could hear the drone of the trucks with the water cannon. That strange, undefinable roar she’d heard the day before was rising again, louder even than the continuing chant. Sondra hesitated, not knowing what to do. Then she ran toward Gimli, her legs aching. “Gimli,” she began, but she knew the complaint was hopeless. His face was a leer of satisfaction as the protesters spilled from the park into the street. Sondra looked down toward the barricade, toward the line where the police waited.
Gregg was there.
He stood in front of the barricades, several officers and the secret service men with him. His shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar open and his tie loosened, he looked weary. For a moment, Sondra thought that Miller would march past the senator, but the dwarf stopped a few yards from the man-the marchers came to a ragged, uneasy halt behind him. “Get the fuck out of the way, Senator,” Gimli insisted. “Get out of the way or we’ll just trample you underneath with all your goddamn guards and reporters.”
“Miller, this isn’t the way.”
“There is no other way, and I’m tired of talking about it.”
“Please, let me talk just a few minutes more.” Gregg waited, glancing from Gimli to Sondra, to the others of the JJS in the crowd. “I know you’re bitter about what happened to the jokers’ Rights plank. I know that the way the jokers have been treated in the past is disgraceful. But dammit, things are changing. I hate to counsel you to have patience, but that’s what this needs.”
“Time has run out, Senator,” Miller said. His mouth gaped open with a grin; the crowns of his teeth were dark and pitted.
“If you go forward, you’ll guarantee a riot. If you’ll go back to the park, I can keep the police from interfering any further.”
“And just what the hell good does that do us, Senator? We’d like to rally at Jetboy’s Tomb. That’s our right. We’d like to stand on the steps and talk about thirty years of pain and torment for our people. We’d like to pray for the ones who died and let everyone see by looking at us just how goddamn lucky the ones who died were. That’s all-we ask for the rights that any other normal person has.”
“You can do all of that in Roosevelt Park. Every one of the national papers, all the networks will cover it-that’s a guarantee, as well.”
“That’s all you have to bargain with, Senator? It ain’t much.”
Gregg nodded. “I know it, and I apologize for it. All I can say is that if you’ll turn your people back into the park, I’ll do what I can for you, for all of you.” Gregg spread his hands wide. “That’s all I can offer. Please, tell me that it’s enough.” Sondra watched Miller’s face. The shouting, the chanting continued behind their backs. She thought that the dwarf would laugh, would jeer at Gregg and push his way on past to the barricades. The dwarf shuffled bare feet on the concrete, scratched at the thatch of hair on his wide chest. He stared at Gregg with a scowl, rage in his deep-set eyes.
And then, somehow, he took a step back. Miller’s gaze dropped, and the tension in the street seemed to dissolve. “All right,” he said. Sondra almost laughed. There were amazed protests from the others, but Gimli swung around to them like an angry bear. “Dammit, you fucking heard me. Let’s give the man a chance —one day, no more. It ain’t gonna hurt us to wait one more day.”
With a curse, Gimli pushed his way back into the crowd, heading toward the park gates once more. Slowly, the others turned to follow. The chant began again, halfheartedly, and then died.
Sondra stared at Gregg for a long time, and he smiled at her. “Thank you,” Gregg said in a quiet, tired voice. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”
Sondra nodded. She could not speak to him; she was afraid that she would try to hug him, to kiss him. You’re just an old crone to the man, Sondra. A joker like the rest.
How did you do it? she wanted to ask him. How did you make him listen when he’d never listen to me?
She could not frame the questions-not with that old woman’s mouth, not with that old woman’s voice.
Sighing, limping on swollen knees, she made her way back.
HARTMANN DEFUSES RIOT TALK WITH JJS LEADER GAINS REPRIEVE
The New York Times, July 18, 1976, special edition.
JOKERTOWN IN CHAOS
New York Daily News, July 19, 1976
The JJS rally returned to Roosevelt Park. Through the rest of the sultry day, Gimli, Sondra, and the others gave speeches. Tachyon himself appeared to address the crowd in the afternoon, and there was a strange festival atmosphere to the gathering. The jokers sat on the grassy knolls of the park, singing or talking. Picnic lunches were shared with those nearest; drinks were poured and offered. Joints could be seen making the rounds. In a sense, the rally became a spontaneous celebration of jokerhood. Even the most deformed jokers walked about openly. The celebrated masks of Jokertown, the anonymous facades behind which many of the Jokertown residents were accustomed to hide, were dropped for the time.
For most, it was a good afternoon, something to take their minds off the heat, off the paucity of their existence-you shared life with your fellows, and if your troubles seemed overwhelming, there was always someone else to look at or talk to who might make you feel that things were not quite so awful after all.
After a morning that had seemed doomed to violence and destruction, the day had turned gentle and optimistic. The mood was one of hilarity, as if some corner had been turned and the darkness was left behind. The sun no longer seemed quite so oppressive. Sondra found that her own mood was elevated. She smiled, she joked with Gimli, she hugged and sang and laughed with the rest.
Evening brought reality.
The deep shadows of Manhattan’s skyscrapers slid over the park and merged. The sky went ultramarine and then stabilized as the skyglow of the city’s lights held back full darkness, leaving the park in a hazy murk. The city radiated the day’s heat back into twilight; there was no relief from the heat, and the air was deathly still. If anything, night seemed more oppressive than day.
Later, the police chief would point to the mayor. The mayor in turn would point to the governor, whose office would claim that no orders originated there. No one seemed certain just who had ordered the action. And later, it simply didn’t matter-the night of the 18th exploded into violence. With a shout and a blare of bullhorns, the insanity began. Mounted police, followed by club-wielding lines, began to sweep the park from south to north, intending to drive the jokers onto Delancey and then back into Jokertown. The jokers, disoriented and confused at the unexpected attack and urged on by the frantic Gimli, resisted. A club-swinging melee ensued, hampered by the darkness of the park. For the police, anyone without a uniform was fair game. They ranged through the park striking anyone they could touch. Screams and cries punctuated the night. Gimli’s attempt at organizing the resistance broke down quickly, and small groups of the jokers were herded toward the streets, any who turned beaten or maced. Those who fell were trampled. Sondra found herself in one of those crowds. Panting, trying to keep her balance in the jostling flight, her hands over her head to protect herself from the clubs, she managed to find temporary safety in an alley off Stanton. There, she watched as the violence spread out of the park and into the streets.
Small scenes drifted past her.
A CBS cameraman was filming as a dozen policemen on motorcycles pushed a group of jokers toward a railing that shielded the ramp of an underground parking garage across the street from Sondra. The jokers were running; some of them jumped over the railing. Lambent was among them, illuminating the scene with the phophorescent glow of his skin, a pitiful target unable to hide from the oncoming police. He vaulted the railing in desperation, plunging into the eightfoot drop beyond it. The police saw the cameraman then-one of them yelled “Get the fucking camera!”-and the cycles wheeled around with a throaty rumble, the headlights arcing across the buildings. The cameraman began to run backward away from them, still filming. A club lashed out as the police went past; the man rolled in the street, moaning as the camera tumbled to the pavement, its lens shattered.
A joker stumbled by the mouth of the alley, obviously dazed, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to his temple though the cut gaped open down past his ear, soaking the collar of his shirt. It was obvious how he had been caught’-his legs and arms were canted at all the wrong angles, as if they’d been pasted on his trunk by a drunken sculptor. The man hobbled and lurched, the joints bending backward and sideways. Three cops came walking quickly alongside him. “…eed a doctor,” the joker said to one of them. When the officer ignored him, he tugged at the sleeve of the uniform. “Hey,” he said. The cop pulled a can of mace from its holster on his belt and sprayed the contents directly into the joker’s face.
Sondra gasped and sank deeper into the alley. When the police kept walking, she fled the other way.
Through the night, the violence spread out in the Jokertown streets. A running battle raged between the authorities and the jokers. It was a spree of destruction, a celebration of hate. No one slept that night. Masked jokers confronted the lurking cruisers, overturning some of them; burning cars illuminated intersections. Near the waterfront, Tachyon’s clinic looked like a castle under siege, ringed by armed guards with the distinctive figure of the doctor himself running about trying to keep some semblance of sanity in the night. Tachyon, along with a few trusted aides, made forays into the streets to pick up the injured, both jokers and policemen.
Jokertown began to come apart, dying in fire and blood. Tear-gas fumes drifted through the streets, acrid. By midnight, the National Guard had been called in and issued live ammunition. The SCARE offices of Senator Hartmann issued a call for those aces working for the government to aid in calming the situation.
The Great and Powerful Turtle hovered over the streets like one of the war machines in George Pal’s War of the Worlds, sweeping the combatants away from each other. Like many of the other aces, he seemed to take no side in the confrontation, using his abilities to break up the running battles without subduing either jokers or police. Outside Tachyon’s clinic (where by one A. M. the wards were nearly full and the doctor was beginning to bed down the injured in the corridors) the Turtle picked up a wrecked, burning Mustang and hurled the car into the East River like a flaming meteorite, trailing sparks and smoke. He prowled South Street, shoving rioters and Guardsmen in front of him as if he wielded an invisible, giant plow.
On Third Street, the Guardsmen had rigged jeeps with wire-mesh covers and attached large frames of barbed wire to the fronts of the vehicles. They used these to move crowds of jokers out of the main avenue and into the side streets. Spontaneous fires triggered by a hidden joker exploded the gas tanks of the jeeps, and Guardsmen ran screaming, their uniforms aflame. Rifle fire began to chatter.
Near Chatham Square, the sound of the rioting began to swell to immense, ear-shattering proportions as the Howler, dressed all in yellow, stalked the chaotic streets, his mouth open in a wail that contained all he had heard, amplified and redoubled. Where Howler walked, jokers flung hands over ears, fleeing from this torrent of noise. Windows shattered when Howler raised the frequencies, walls shivered as he sobbed in the bass range. “STOP THIS!” he raged. “GO INSIDE, ALL OF YOU!”
Black Shadow, who had revealed himself as an ace only a few months before, indicated his sympathies quickly. He watched the conflicts silently for a time. On Pitt Street, where a band of beleaguered jokers fought with taunts, thrown bottles, and the garbage at hand against a water cannon and a squad of Guardsmen with bayonets fixed to their rifles, Black Shadow stepped into the fray. The street went instantly black for perhaps twenty feet around the ace with the navy-blue uniform and orange-red domino mask. The impenetrable night persisted for ten minutes or more. Screams came from inside the well of dark, and jokers fled. When the darkness moved off and the lights of the city again reflected from the wet pavement, the Guardsmen lay in the street unconscious, the water cannon pouring a harsh stream into the gutters, unattended.
Sondra saw that last confrontation from the window of her apartment. The violence of the night frightened her. To escape the fright, she twisted the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniels on her dresser, pouring a long, harsh slug down her throat. She gasped, wiping at the back of her mouth with her hand. Every muscle in her body protested. Her arthritic legs and hands shot agony when she moved. She went to bed and lay down. She could not sleep-the sounds of rioting drifted in from the open window, she could smell smoke from nearby fires and see the shuddering flames dancing on her walls. She was afraid that she would have to leave the building; she wondered what she would try to save if it came to that.
There was a soft knock at her apartment door. At first, she was not certain that she heard it. It was repeated, quiet and persistent, and she groaned to her feet.
As she approached the door, she knew who it was. Her body felt it. Succubus felt it. “No,” Sondra whispered to herself. No, not now. He rapped on the door again.
“Go away, please, Gregg,” she said, leaning against the door, keeping her voice quiet so he could not hear the old woman’s tones in it.
“Succubus?” His voice was insistent. His arousal tugged at her, and she wondered at it. Why now? Why here? God, I can’t let him see me like this, and he won’t go away. “Just a minute,” she said, and she let down the barriers that caged Succubus. Her body began its change, and she felt the swirling of his passion inciting her own. She stripped away Sondra’s clothes, flinging them away into a corner. She opened the door. Gregg was masked, his entire head covered with a grotesque smiling clown’s face. It leered at her as he pushed his way inside. He said nothing; his hands were already unzipping his pants, pulling out his stiffening cock. He did not bother to undress, engaged in no foreplay at all. He pushed her down onto the hardwood floor and jammed himself into her, thrusting with gasping breaths as Succubus moved under him, matching his ferocity and cooperating with this loveless rape. He was brutal: his fingers dug into her small, firm breasts, the nails tearing small, bleeding crescents of skin. He crushed her nipples between thumb and forefinger until she cried out-he desired pain from her tonight; he needed her to cringe and cry and yet to be the willing victim. He slapped her face; when she brought her hands up to stop him from doing it again, her nostrils drooling blood, he twisted her wrist viciously.
And when he was done with her, he stood over her looking down, the clown’s head laughing at her, his own face unreadable behind the mask. She could see only his eyes, glistening as he stared at her.
“It had to be that way,” he said. There was no apology in his voice. Succubus nodded; she had known that and accepted it. Sondra wailed inside her.
Hartmann zipped up his pants. The front of his shirt was soiled with blood and their fluids. “Do you understand at all?” he asked her. His voice was gentle, calm; it begged her to listen, to sympathize. “You’re one person who accepts me without my having to do anything. You don’t care that I’m a senator. I don’t have to-” He stopped and brushed at his suit. “You love me. I can feel that. You care for me, and I don’t have to make you care. I wish ..” He shrugged. “I need you.”
Perhaps it was because she could not see his face. Perhaps it was because his roughness, when before he had always been so tender, had driven Succubus’s empathy deeper into him than in the past. But she could feel his thoughts for a moment as he left her sprawled on the floor, and what she sensed made her shiver despite the awful heat. He was thinking of the rioting outside, and in the senator’s mind was no loathing, no distaste; there was only a glow of pleasure, a sense of proprietorial accomplishment. She glanced at him in astonishment.
It’s been him. All along, it’s been him using us, not the other way around.
At the door, Gregg turned and spoke to her. “Succubus, I do love you. I don’t think you can understand that, but it’s true. Please, believe that. I need you more than I need all the rest.”
Behind the mask, she could see the brightness of his pupils. She was astonished to see that he was crying. Somehow, with all the strangeness Sondra had witnessed during this night, that did not seem so strange at all.
Puppetman found that his safety lay in anonymity, in the appearance of innocence. After all, none of the puppets ever knew that he had touched them, none of them could tell anyone what had happened inside their minds. They had simply… snapped. Puppetman had only let them act out their own feelings; there was always ample motivation for whatever crimes his puppets might commit. If they were caught, no matter.
In 1961, graduating from Harvard Law School, he had joined a prestigious New York law firm. In five years, after a successful career as a criminal lawyer, he moved into politics.
In 1965, he was elected New York city councilman. He was mayor from ‘68 to ‘72, when he became New York senator. In 1976, he saw his chance to become President. In the past, he’d always thought in terms of ‘80, of ‘84. But the Democratic National Convention went to New York in the Bicentennial year, and Puppetman knew that here was his moment. The groundwork had all been laid.
He had fed many times from the deep cup of bitterness inside Tom Miller.
Now he would drink fully.
FIFTEEN DEAD AS JOKERTOWN BURNS
The New York Times, July 19, 1976
The morning sun was misted by dark smoke. The city broiled under the renewed heat, worse than the days before. The violence had not ended with the morning. The streets of Jokertown were awash in destruction, littered with the detritus of the night’s turmoil. The rioters fought guerilla battles with the police and Guardsmen, hampering their movements through the streets, overturning cars to block intersections, setting fires, taunting the authorities from balconies and windows. Jokertown itself was ringed with squad cars, jeeps, and fire equipment. Guardsmen in full gear were stationed every few yards on Second Avenue. Along Chrystie, the guards massed around Roosevelt Park, where once again the jokers were gathering. Gimli’s voice could be heard deep in the crowd, haranguing them, telling them that today they would march no matter what the consequences. All of the Democratic candidates made an appearance near the stricken area, to be photographed with concerned, stern expressions as they gazed at the burnt-out shell of a building or spoke with a not-too-misshapen joker. Kennedy, Carter, Udall, Jacksonthey all made certain they were seen and then took their limos back to the Garden, where the delegates had cast two inconclusive rounds of votes for the candidacy. Only Hartmann came and stayed near Jokertown, chatting with the newsmen and trying unsuccessfully to coax Miller out from the depths of the crowd to negotiate.
At noon, with the temperature touching three figures and a breeze from the East River bringing the smell of burning to the city, the jokers came out of the park.
Gregg had never handled so many puppets before. Gimli was still the key, and he could feel the dwarf’s raging presence maybe a hundred yards back into the crowd of jokers that filled Grand. In this swirling mess, Miller alone would not be enough to turn the jokers back at the right time. Gregg had made certain that he’d been able to shake the hands of the JJS leaders over the past few weeks; every time, he’d used that contact to plunge into the mind before him and open the pathways that would allow him access from a distance. A mob was like any herd of animals-turn enough of the leaders and the rest would inevitably follow. Gregg had most of them: Gargantua, Peanut, Tinhorn, File, perhaps twenty others. A few of them such as Sondra Falin he’d ignored-the old woman reminded him of someone’s decrepit grandmother and he doubted her ability to sway the mob. Most of the puppets already had a fear in them-it would be easy to use that, to expand that fright until they turned and fled. Most of them were reasonable people; they wanted confrontation no more than anyone else. They had been goaded into it-Hartmann’s doing. Now he would undo it, and in the process make himself the candidate of choice. Already the tide of the convention had turned away from Kennedy and Carter. With the delegates now absolved of their first vote commitment, they were free to elect the candidate of their choice-in the last ballot, Hartmann had placed a rising third. Gregg smiled despite the cameras aimed toward him: the rioting of the night before had given him a pleasure that he had not thought he would ever feel-so much passion had nearly overwhelmed him, a strange melding of lusts.
The line of Guardsmen began to shift as the jokers approached. They spilled out all along the length of Chrystie, shouting slogans and brandishing signs. Bullhorns blared orders and curses back and forth; Gregg could hear the taunts of the jokers as the Guardsmen formed a line of bayonets. At the intersection of Delancey Street, Gregg saw the hovering shell of the Turtle above the Guardsmen; there, at least, the protesters were kept back without harm. Farther south toward the main gates, where Hartmann stood in a circle of guards, it was not so easy.
The jokers came on, pushing and shoving, the mass of those behind propelling those who might have otherwise turned back into the park. The Guardsmen were forced to make a decision-use the bayonets or try to push the jokers back with linked arms. They chose the latter. For a moment, it looked as if some balance had been reached, then the ranks of Guardsmen began to slowly bend. With a cry, a knot of jokers broke through the line and reached the street. Shouting, the rest poured through. Once again, a running battle ensued, disorganized and confused. Hartmann, well back from the fighting for the moment, sighed. He closed his eyes as the impressions of his puppets began to reach him. If he wished, he could have lost himself then, could have plunged into that roiling sea of emotion and fed until satiated.
But he could not wait that long. He had to move while there was still some form to the conflict. Gesturing to the guards, he began to move forward toward the gates, toward the presence of Gimli.
Sondra was with the rest of the main cadre of the JJS. As they marched through the main gate, she tried again to tell Gimli about that strangeness she d sensed in Hartmann last night. “He thought he was controlling all of this. I swear it, Gimli. “
“Just like any other fucking politician, old woman. Besides, I thought you liked him.”
“I do, but-“
“Look, why the hell are you here?”
“Because I’m a joker. Because the JJS is my group too, whether I agree with what you’re doing or not.”
“Then shut up, dammit. I’ve got a lot to handle here.” The dwarf glared at her and moved away. They were walking at a slow, funereal pace toward the waiting Guardsmen. Sondra could see them through those in front of her. Then the vision was gone as the jokers crowded into the constriction of the gates; hobbling, limping, making their way as best they could. Many of them bore signs of the struggle of the day before; heads wrapped in bandages, slings-they proffered them to the Guardsmen like badges of honor. The bodies in front of Sondra suddenly halted as they hit the line of Guardsmen; someone shoved her from behind and she almost fell. She hugged the person before her, feeling leathery skin under her hands, seeing lizardlike scales covering a massive back. Sondra cried out as she was crushed, pushing away with feeble arms, muscles wobbling inside loose bags of skin. She thought she would fall, when suddenly the pressure was released. She staggered. Her eyes caught the sun then; she was momentarily blinded. In the confusion, she could see fists swinging in front of her, accompanied by shouts and cries. Sondra began to retreat, trying to find a way past the conflict. She was shoved, and when she struck back, a club slammed against the side of her head.
Sondra screamed. Succubus screamed.
Her vision was lost in swirls of color. She could not think. She held her hands over the cut and the hands felt odd. Blinking away blood from the cut on her temple, she tried to look at them. They were young, those hands, and even as she gaped at them in confusion, she felt the sudden intrusion of other passions.
No! Go back inside, damn you! Not here, not in the streets, not with all these people around! Desperately, Sondra tried to place the controls back on Succubus, but her head rang with the concussion and she could not think. Her body was in torment, shifting fluidly in response to everyone about her. Succubus touched each of the minds and took the shape of its sexual desires. She was first female, then male; young and old, thin and fat. Succubus wailed in confusion. Sondra ran, her shape altering with each step, pushing against the hands that reached out for her in sudden odd lust. Succubus responded as she had to; she took the thread of desire and wove it into passion. In an ever-widening circle, the rioting ended as jokers and Guardsmen alike turned to pursue the quick tug of desire. Succubus could feel him as well, and she tried to make her way toward Gregg. She didn’t know what else to do. He controlled this; she knew that from last night. He could save her. He loved her-he had said so.