The Secret to Apple Bobbing

     The warm summer weather had transitioned into the first bitter chill of autumn, and the change in season brought with it a fresh batch of tourists. Despite being a small and sleepy town, Neovia was the perfect fall destination, having all of the unsettling, dreary atmosphere of the Haunted Woods, but less chance of dying during one’s visit. Vandebart Biggsby, dressed in his finest ratty vest and fingerless gloves, had spent most of the day at his tent, beckoning over tourists and some townsfolk with his cane. Prizes were had, laughs were shared, and Vandebart had managed to pocket a tidy profit out of the items that kept “accidentally” slipping out of oblivious bobbers’ pockets and into the barrel.

     One such oblivious bobber was Swolthy, a portly purple Mynci who ran the local tailor shop alongside his partner, Prigpants. He had taken an immediate interest in the stall as they walked by and had, with a good deal of effort, managed to convince his dour companion that it was worth stopping for. Prigpants’ expression is judgemental as Swolthy comes up from the water empty-handed.

     “Aw, that’s a shame! Not bad for a first attempt, though.” Bart tosses him a filthy rag to dry his face with.

     “Now, Swolthy, that’s no way to go about it. There’s a trick to carnival games like this,” Prigpants insists, nudging the Mynci aside with his wing to take his place at the barrel.

     “Is there, now?” Swolthy grins, amused by his partner’s sudden change in attitude.

     “Yes, of course. The secret is getting your timing exactly right. Observe.” He stands completely still and affixes the barrel with the kind of focus and intensity usually reserved for the Buzzer Game. Bart chuckles to himself as he overlooks the scene and turns to face Swolthy, expecting him to share in the laugh.

     Except Swolthy isn’t focused on Prigpants, or even on the apples. Instead, he’s looking directly at Bart.

     “Say, Vandebart, your hat…”

     The Gnorbu’s blood runs cold.

     “What, this old thing?” He taps the brim of his hat with the back of his hand and shifts his weight against his cane with a shaky laugh. His eyes dart to and fro nervously like a trapped Petpet. “What about it?”

     “Why…it’s terribly worn! Loose binding, frayed ribbon…”

     “Warped brim,” Prigpants adds, not looking up from the barrel.

     “Yes, yes, the brim,” Swolthy agrees, handing Bart’s rag back to him. “Why don’t you stop by the shop sometime? We have a wide selection of headwear to choose from in all the latest styles, or we can do custom orders if you prefer to keep your current look. And,” he adds, eyeing the conspicuous patch on the Gnorbu’s pants, “we’ll give you a 25% discount if you order a pair of trousers with it.”

     “Is that so?” Bart grins in relief and wipes his sweaty palms against his vest, leaving a trail of short green fur behind. “I have to admit, I’m rather attached to this hat, but I’ll definitely consider such a fine offer! Do you happen to have a card on you?”

     “Of course, of course.” Swolthy turns his attention to his pockets while Bart turns his back to the apple barrel.

     Prigpants chooses that moment to strike with surprising precision, and just for a moment, Bart thinks that he’s going to actually win something. However, as he thrusts his beak into the water, another apple, in a display that would’ve confounded even the most knowledgeable Brightvale physicists, pops out and slams directly into his forehead. Prigpants stumbles back in shock as Swolthy rushes over, steadying the Lenny with both hands.

     “Good heavens! Are you quite alright?”

     “I think so.” Prigpants blinks, looking from Bart to Swolthy. He rubs a wing across his eyes and blinks a few more times, frowning. “That’s strange. My vision seems to have gone blurry.”

     “Hmm, odd. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bart urges. “I’m sure it’ll go away in a day or so. Probably. Why don’t you give it a rest and come back tomorrow? I bet you’ll have better luck then.”

     “Yes, I suppose that’s a good idea,” Prigpants murmurs, still swaying unsteadily. “Swolthy, did you offer him our card yet?”

     “Oh, that’s right. Here,” Swolthy offers, plucking a business card out of his pocket with his tail and holding it out for Bart to take. “Drop by anytime. We’re open every day except Sunday. Come, Prigpants.”

     “Right,” Prigpants declares, strutting off confidently in the wrong direction. Swolthy shoots Bart a desperate look and then chases after him, yelling something about the road.

     “Safe travels!” the Gnorbu calls out after them with a wave. He waits until they’re out of sight to let his smile transition into a leering scowl.

     Useless, nonsensical tailors.

     Bart leans against his cane, looking up into the sky. The last few shreds of daylight were rapidly fading, and no Neovian with common sense would dare to be out after dark. Best to pack up for tonight, he figures, and reopen at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

     One trip to his run-down wagon later, and Bart returns with a large, flat strainer in hand. He grabs the top of the apple barrel, sloshing water everywhere, and drags it one-handed to the nearby storm drain. The barrel is tipped over and the rest of the stagnant water poured out as he presses the strainer over the top, muttering something foul about “no-good tailors” and how people need to “mind their own business”.

     “You shouldn’t speak ill of those who aren’t around to defend themselves.”

     Bart startles, instantly plastering a giant fake smile across his face in a panic as he wonders if the tailors were back—and, more importantly, if they had overheard any of the insults against their characters. “Hello, fellows! Don’t mind me, I was just—wait. Who are you?”

     The individual in front of him is hard to make out through the fog, but it’s definitely only one figure, and not one that matches either of the tailors considering the silhouette’s almost Krawk-like shape. It’s only as the shadow comes closer that Bart realizes that he’s looking not at a Krawk, but a Hissi, and one that he knows personally.

     “Marion? Is that you?”

     Marion looks exactly like Bart remembered—sickly, thin, and pallid, like he had died some time ago and no one had thought to tell him. His scales are broken up with the large brown splotches of a spotted Hissi and small scraps of old improperly shed skin, which are mostly hidden under an elegant ruffled suit jacket that seems desperate to compensate for the rest of his appearance. He stares venomously at Bart with one pale yellow eye, the other eye obscured by a milky, hazy film.

     “Hello, Vandebart. It’s been a long time. Almost two hundred years, in fact.”

     “Shut it! Shut your trap,” Bart snarls, clamping his hand over the Hissi’s snout. He looks up in time to see a Cybunny in an elegant dress gawking at the scene from the other side of the street.

     “Good evening! Nothing to see here, ma’am, nothing to see at all!” he calls out, throwing his arm around what passes as Marion’s shoulders with a grin. He waits until the Cybunny scurries off before motioning with his head in the general direction of the wagon.

     “Let’s talk about this in private,” he hisses. “Now.”

     ----------

     The wagon is just as shabby inside as it is outside. There are items wedged into every nook and cranny—books and newspapers, loose Neopoints, and various apple bobbing prizes, all piled on top of each other precariously. A vaguely acidic, rotten smell hangs in the air, like one of the many bags of apples strewn around had gone bad long ago. Marion studies the area with contempt for a long moment before sliding onto an ornate wooden chair, which is one of the only objects in the wagon not covered in a layer of filth.

     Bart returns from the makeshift kitchen and thrusts a glass of amber liquid into his wing. “Come on, Marion! Have some cider.”

     The Hissi sniffs at the drink and gives Bart a look of pure skepticism.

     “It’s not poisoned,” the Gnorbu emphasizes, downing his own glass in seconds and then flipping it upside down as proof. Marion stares at him for a moment before very carefully and deliberately setting the cider down on a stool nearby, which rocks uncertainly on its three legs.

     “Let’s get right down to the point, then.”

     “Good idea.” Bart throws himself into a torn-up armchair across from Marion. He’s smiling, but his eyes are cold as he pushes up the brim of his hat. “I’ll start: Why are you here, Marion? Or rather, how are you here? I thought you were gone.”

     “I could ask the same of you, Vandebart. I thought this town had finally rid itself of you once and for all. When I learned that you were still operating…well, I couldn’t just ignore that, now could I?”

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bart says dismissively, waving his hand. “But even if I did—and I don’t—what would you do about it? No one will believe anything you say. Your word against mine.”

     “Don’t play dense with me, and don’t underestimate me either, Vandebart. They listened to me once. They’ll listen to me again.” The Hissi’s voice drips with pure poison.

     “Hmm…I suppose you have a point. Fine, then. How much do I need to pay you off?”

     “I—what?”

     “‘What?’ Come on! Who’s the one playing dense now?” Bart laughs, a harsh, barking sound. “The hush money, Marion. What was it back then? Two hundred thousand Neopoints for your silence? For the record, I would’ve given you at least five.”

     Marion’s grip on the chair tightens.

     “I was really hoping you had changed, Vandebart. If you had, I might have been willing to let you be…but I can see that’s not the case. It’s a shame, really.” He slithers off the chair, leaving a small piece of shed skin stuck to the fabric.

     Bart grins at him, revealing a missing tooth. “Do you really think you intimidate me, Marion? A Kadoatie is scarier than you. At least the Kadoatie could scratch me!”

     “You’re making a mistake, Vandebart. I know more about you than you think. Your history, your personality…and your secrets.” Marion gazes at Bart’s hat with his one good eye, smiling for the first time this evening.

     Bart flings open the wagon door with one hand and practically shoves Marion out with the other. “Get out,” he snaps, slamming the door shut. A moment later, he reopens it and forces the cup of cider back into his wing, spilling half of its contents onto the cobblestones.

     “And take your cider with you. Don’t want it going to waste,” he adds, shutting the door again.

     To be continued…