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Thomas Snout- Posts : 15
Join date : 2019-12-17
Richthofen’s Rip-Roaring Rivals
Fri May 29, 2020 8:34 pm
The wind was whipping out of the north and east, racing across Lake Michigan to dance in the ropy dogwood and locust trees.
Playfully it tugged at the long rising banner as the tent poles were driven down deep, making the words ripple in the late afternoon sun.
Floyd Dangerfield surveyed the last hasty preparations being made by the Rivals, an adhoc aerodrome rising out of the field they had chosen.
Well, the field that DeBoldt had chosen. It was naturally clear and flat, prairie land on the edge of the straggling woods, but not so far removed from civilization that they wouldn't draw a crowd. Already curious onlookers were wandering in, and he could see the smoke of the first few farm trucks coming down the dusty country road.
DeBoldt might be a money-grubbing blowhard, but still- the man knew how to pick a venue. Close to the big city and the money, but still far enough out to draw in the rustics who may have never seen an honest-to-God flying machine.
"Watch your left, flyboy."
The man himself, August DeBoldt, bulled past. Wearing his red tweed jacket and derby hat, Floyd thought he looked like a Brooklyn fire hydrant. Pencil mustache and a slick veneer of perspirant. The barker and ringmaster stopped just shy of the banner, before wheeling on a heel and marching back toward Floyd.
"Is that moonshine I smell, Dangerfield? Is it? Less than a half hour and you will be airborne."
Floyd shook his head but before he could protest, DeBoldt continued on, his voice rising to theatrical levels.
"Listen here, Dangerfield, when I found you were nothing but a harmonica player drowning in a bottle! Who tossed you a life line? It was that blasted moron Andrew Volstead, so who was it?" He leaned in close to hear Floyd's grudging reply.
"You."
"That's right, me. Me, ya hear me, ME! So earn back some of that trust. Stay sober enough to stay on two legs and not kill my girl or any of the other acts."
DeBoldt turned back toward the customers, plastering a fake but convincing grin onto his face. "Step on up and get your tickets, one and all!"
Without another word, Floyd turned back and walked toward the trampled grass taxiway they had beaten flat only an hour earlier. The Jennys were hidden out of sight by a small copse of trees, all the better to stoke that sense of wonder and amazement when they finally revealed themselves...
Playfully it tugged at the long rising banner as the tent poles were driven down deep, making the words ripple in the late afternoon sun.
"Richthofen’s Rip-Roaring Rivals"
"Fantastic feats by fearless fliers!
Watch and be Amazed by a Flying Circus Act,
So Ludicrous, so Bold, so Stupefying,
it would Shock even Lindberg and Biddle!
Single admission 1 bit, families, 1 quarter."
"No refunds or substitutions."
"Fantastic feats by fearless fliers!
Watch and be Amazed by a Flying Circus Act,
So Ludicrous, so Bold, so Stupefying,
it would Shock even Lindberg and Biddle!
Single admission 1 bit, families, 1 quarter."
"No refunds or substitutions."
Floyd Dangerfield surveyed the last hasty preparations being made by the Rivals, an adhoc aerodrome rising out of the field they had chosen.
Well, the field that DeBoldt had chosen. It was naturally clear and flat, prairie land on the edge of the straggling woods, but not so far removed from civilization that they wouldn't draw a crowd. Already curious onlookers were wandering in, and he could see the smoke of the first few farm trucks coming down the dusty country road.
DeBoldt might be a money-grubbing blowhard, but still- the man knew how to pick a venue. Close to the big city and the money, but still far enough out to draw in the rustics who may have never seen an honest-to-God flying machine.
"Watch your left, flyboy."
The man himself, August DeBoldt, bulled past. Wearing his red tweed jacket and derby hat, Floyd thought he looked like a Brooklyn fire hydrant. Pencil mustache and a slick veneer of perspirant. The barker and ringmaster stopped just shy of the banner, before wheeling on a heel and marching back toward Floyd.
"Is that moonshine I smell, Dangerfield? Is it? Less than a half hour and you will be airborne."
Floyd shook his head but before he could protest, DeBoldt continued on, his voice rising to theatrical levels.
"Listen here, Dangerfield, when I found you were nothing but a harmonica player drowning in a bottle! Who tossed you a life line? It was that blasted moron Andrew Volstead, so who was it?" He leaned in close to hear Floyd's grudging reply.
"You."
"That's right, me. Me, ya hear me, ME! So earn back some of that trust. Stay sober enough to stay on two legs and not kill my girl or any of the other acts."
DeBoldt turned back toward the customers, plastering a fake but convincing grin onto his face. "Step on up and get your tickets, one and all!"
Without another word, Floyd turned back and walked toward the trampled grass taxiway they had beaten flat only an hour earlier. The Jennys were hidden out of sight by a small copse of trees, all the better to stoke that sense of wonder and amazement when they finally revealed themselves...
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