Jumping Jack Flash

Prologue Muddy Creek, Arkansas A small rural town Late February 1969 “What’s your last name, kid?” “Don’t got none. Ma never give me one. She said I didn’t need one when all I’d ever be was a side show freak like her and my old man. I never got to know him. They split when I was too little to be in an act.” Jack stuck his hands in his pockets to hide their small shake. No one needed to guess he was hungry and nervous. “Well, the rules is changin’. You gotta have a whole name and a social security number to get hired these days.” “At a fuckin’ carnival? You’re shittin’ me.” Jack could hardly believe his ears. This sounded crazy but of course Ma had done most of this for them until recently. “Nope, them’s the rules. Boss says I gotta abide with ‘em.” “Don’t have one of them number thingies, either. How you get one?” “Go to the Post Office or one of them offices where they give out s**t for old and disabled folks and fill out a paper. Can you read and write?” Jack gave an indignant sniff. “Sure. Even if I was home schooled, my ma saw to it I learned to read real good and write too. I may be crazy but I ain’t stupid.” The carnival man snorted but his jowly face softened the least bit. “Okay. If you go and get that there card, I’ll hire you. You can just make up a name I guess.” Jack shrugged. “All right. When that time comes, you can put me down as Jack Flash. That was the name I used in the old carnie before my ma got too sick to work and we left.” He turned around then to trudge back down the dusty road to town. He’d seen a post office from the bus. It was just before he got off. The town wasn’t all that big and he found it easily enough. An hour later he had a temporary card emblazoned with a nine digit number and the name J. Jack Flash. He thought that sounded classy and cool. The lady said he’d get the permanent card sent to General Delivery, and it would be forwarded if he gave the post office a new address before it arrived. That card made him feel pretty special, like a real person and not just a side show freak. Oh, he was still that too, but at least not one with no real name. He even had one of those special numbers. The carnie seemed surprised to see him back, but after Jack showed the man his card, the guy nodded. “So what do you do, kid? You got an act, a specialty?” “I can do a lot of stuff,” Jack replied. “Last show I was the helper for the magician. Oh, he had a real stacked foxy babe, too, but I was his fall back guy. I can make stuff move or stand still. If somebody is winning too much on one of the games, I can stop ‘em in their tracks.” “Whoa, that ain’t allowed. We can’t lay a finger on a customer.” “Don’t have too. Told ya, I can make stuff move or stand still or go a different direction, just by lookin’ at it real hard and thinking what I want it to do.” “Now you’re shittin’ me. Do I look like I just fell off the turnip wagon? Nobody can do that.” “Watch me.” Jack pulled a crumpled dollar bill out of the pocket of his worn jeans. “Bet you ten to one I can keep you from catching this.” The carnie grinned, revealing a mouthful of dirty, crooked and gappy teeth. “You’re on. I still say it can’t be done.” Jack gave the bill a small toss and then squinted his eyes to slits and stared at it. The paper strip moved upward in a slow spiral. The carnie reached, almost touched it but the bill suddenly darted to the left. The next time it went right and then it fell faster than if it had been made of cast iron. The carnie began to sweat as he grabbed frantically, always missing when it seemed sure he’d have it any second. “Well f**k this,” he ground out. “I dunno what kinda trick you’re using but you did it.” He fished a fat roll of green out of the pocket of his sagging dirt colored pants and peeled off a ten. Jack had it way before the man could snatch it back. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t smirk, he didn’t even think, “I told you so.” Right now, he wanted a job even if he had turned his last dollar to eleven in a few seconds. A really pissed off man wasn’t likely to give him squat. So he just stood quiet, not even smiling. He tried to look like a begging puppy, with big, anxious eyes. “Well, Jack, our knife and sword guy needs a helper. He usually uses a gal but the last one couldn’t move fast enough or something. He cut her in practice and she quit. Wasn’t even a bad cut but the dumb cunt got scared. You can start there. If you’ve got the balls to try and move some blades heading at you, that is.” His grin turned nearly evil but Jack wasn’t scared off. “It’s a deal,” Jack replied. After they shook on it, the carnie led Jack to the booth where the blade man worked. Jack figured it was a gig he could do while he set himself up for something better. The knife man was a long drink of water, with skeletal features and wicked black eyes. For half a second, Jack’s heart fell into his gut but then he braced up. He was fast, agile and in a pinch he could turn a knife or sword just enough to miss him. He met those devilish eyes square on and held out his hand. “I’m Jack, Jack Flash. Good to meet ya.” Those cold eyes raked him up and down, long and slow. “You ever have a blade come at you, kid?” There had been a few, mostly in the hand of some hood who figured Jack for an easy mark, payday evenings and such. Well, a loose one should be easier to control than those. He nodded. “Yep. They don’t scare me none.” “You can call me DeVere or Satan, for all I care. My name doesn’t matter. Get over there”. He waved Jack to a solid looking wall plastered with old posters. Before Jack had turned around he sensed the motion. The slim, shiny blade brushed past his cheek and embedded into the wall. It might have taken a hair out of his still sparse sideburn but drew no blood. He didn’t flinch. As soon as he turned completely around, several more came streaming in a virtual swarm. They were all close but not too close. The dude was good, for sure. Finally a last single knife came straight at him, at least that’s what his brain got from his eyes. He only had a heartbeat but his gaze caught it in the last few feet and sent it to the side. It hit the wall at an angle and fell to the ground. DeVere whistled through his teeth. “What did you just do?” His tone came as sharp as one of those knives. “Turned it,” Jack answered, his tone as matter-of-fact as he could make it. “It was going to be too close and I couldn’t gauge how far to dodge.” “Harrumph.” Jack could not decipher the man’s mood or reaction from that noncommittal sound. Unsure, he simply stood in place and waited. “Guess you’ll do. Gals are better but in the right costume you could be kinda cute. Kinda either-or, too. A pretty boy or a tomboy gal, ya know?” Jack snorted. “Ain’t pretty and damn sure not a gal, but I’ll wear whatever you want me to. It’s your show, Mr. Satan.” “You’d do well not to forget it, too. No more funny tricks unless you’re about to get skewered. I throw good, never really hurt anyone. If you can learn to swallow swords, I’ll up your pay, too.”