Friday Challenge 6/27/08

This is my entry for Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge for 6/27/08.


Even after all these years, they've never been able to make it rain often enough on the Martian farms. Fortunately for us, the fine entrepreneurs of Waltonsville (named after the founder of it's largest investor, Sam Walton) saw to it that irrigation brought enough water to sustain the few genetically altered crops that would grow in the red-brown soil. John Harley had promised the the land owner that his enterprise would take great pains to avoid trampling the still-tender seedlings, but I had my doubts.

As I pulled my sandhopper through the open gates, I spotted the surprise that John had mentioned to me on the TXTer. At the far end of the gravel road I could see the lights of a ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and numerous snack booths, no doubt offering such tempting delicacies as fried wirerat on a stick and pickled cactus wedges.

A carnival? It would be frowned upon by the Peacekeepers as a lawsuit magnet, but hardly a good reason for swearing me to secrecy.

Still a couple of hundred meters out, I pulled the sandhopper to the side of the road and stepped into the painfully dry Martian air. Calliope music drifted over the dunes and echoed among the rocks. I may have caught a whiff of cotton candy, but then, I have a good imagination.

"Joe Essex, you've seen my secret. Now you must die."

I suppose the voice over the loudspeaker was meant to startle me, but John had been my friend for a lot of years. Nothing surprised me any more. I just shook my head and made my way toward the festivities at a trot.

As I neared the ticket gate, John greeted me with a smile and a jarring handshake.

"How the hell are ya, Joe? Haven't seen you in while."

"Yeah, shop keeps me busy as hell. Sand and gears don't mix, ya know."

He shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't know about such things."

I nodded toward the gate. "So this is your big secret? The one that would have you shoveling shit if they knew?"

John grinned again. "Yeah. And no. Come on inside."

We strolled through the gate, past the empty ticket booth and onto the main grounds. As we made our way past the merry-go-round and on toward a small rollercoaster, something began to strike me as odd.

"What the hell, John? Everything looks kind of flimsy." I grabbed the handrail on the rollercoaster walkway and shook it for emphasis. "This place seems a little dangerous."

"I was wondering how long it would take you to pick up on that." He paused, somewhat triumphantly, then slapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward a large tent at the center of the grounds. "The carnival ain't real. It's a front!"

"You sellin' drugs?"

John laughed at that. "You know me better than that, hoss. Take a look." He gestured to the tent, then crossed his arms, obviously quite pleased with himself.

As I neared the structure, I could hear noises inside, growling and slamming. Then there were voices. Someone sounded pissed. I hesitated for just a moment, but I could feel John's eyes on me. I dared not wait too long. It took just a second to steel myself and reach for the tent flap.

The inside of the tent seemed dark at first. But when my eyes adjusted, I could see what looked like a boxing ring at the center of a huge set of bleachers. Two huge men circled one another inside with a look of undiluted hatred. Then one picked up the other and slammed him hard. Not boxing, I thought.

"Pro Wrestling." For the first time in years, John Harley startled me. "Pro wrestling on Mars."

I turned and looked hard at him. "And right under the nose of the United Nations."

"Nah." He slapped me on the shoulder again. "Right up their nose."