King of the Mutants Read Online Free PDF Page B

necks that hung to the ground. I had no idea why they were dressed so weird. Like Freddie, I stood in stunned curiosity and we watched the bizarre scene unfold right before our eyes.
    Madame Zoltarano took off her turban. Her hair fell to her knees in an unruly tangle of gray. It looked like old seaweed that had washed onto the shore of a beach—probably smelled like it too. On the metal table in front of the group, her crystal ball flashed. One of the midgets picked up the purple turban and put it on, laughing. Then, Madame Zoltarano and her creepy little crew chanted a bunch of gibberish and polka music started to play. Even weirder? They danced the Cha-cha-cha in a frantic circle.
    “What the heck is going on here?” hissed Freddie.
    “Sssh, we don’t want them to see us,” I hissed back.
    Too late.
    In a cage toward the back wall, a large owl twisted its head around one hundred and eighty degrees to face us. His bright, yellow eyes opened wide and he hooted—a sign of bad luck! Madame Zoltarano turned her head in our direction (the normal way) and her gaze pierced right through us. She threw her head back and laughed. “Good riddance, mutant!”
    I grabbed Freddie by the wrist and dragged him away.
    Both of us held our hands over our mouths to keep from screaming as we skidded into the Big Top. Without the crowds and lights, it was spooky quiet and dark. We could barely make out the color of the red and white striped canvas above our heads. The Flying Forsinis’ trapeze swung in the breeze. The aerialist’s silks fluttered around like opaque ghosts. Freddie and I caught our breath on the hippodrome track—the path that surrounds the three performance rings.
    “This is the creepiest place I’ve ever been to,” said Freddie. “Are all circuses like this?”
    “Ringling’s is the best for a reason.” I paused and looked Freddie straight in the eye. “You really chose the wrong crew to hook up with.”
    “You think?” said Freddie. Then, he burst out into hysterical laughter. I guess everybody deals with situations differently.
    We exited through the back of the Big Top and weaved our way through a maze of semi-trucks, RVs and pimped out school buses—the latter of which served as housing for our army of midgets.
    We ran until I stopped in front of Grumbling’s RV. Freddie’s jaw went slack and his entire body stiffened. It wasn’t for the faint hearted. Now a recreational vehicle painted with red, orange, and blue flames may sound typical, but when you add the freaky evil clown and midget ghosts crawling out of the fiery pit, painted so they appeared to be freshly executed or tortured, well, Burt’s RV looked like somebody had driven it right out of the eternal fires of hell. One ferocious ride, it was fittingly named “Demon’s Revenge.”
    “Dude,” was all Freddie could say. He shot me a nervous eye.
    Much as I wanted to, there was no time to offer an explanation. To the side of Grumbling’s wicked wheels, our one and only chance for escape sparkled under the full moon like a gorgeous supermodel in a tight sequined dress.
    Cherry Pie.
    “There’s our dessert,” I said, pointing.
    “Oo-kay, um, Mav, I’ve never driven one of those before,” Freddie gasped. “So this is what you’ve been talking about. Righteous.” He whistled through his teeth. “Sure is sweet.”
    “Yeah, she is.”
    Cherry Pie was Grumbling’s baby—a 1948 Indian Chief Motorcycle and sidecar that had been completely restored and pimped out. The only time I was even allowed near her was when I was forced to clean her. Apparently it was an honor, but I didn’t think it was all that great. If I even left a speck of dirt on her chrome details, or heaven forbid, a thumbprint on her cherry red physique, Burt would smack me hard on the back of my head, and then he’d make me clean her all over again.
    “I wonder where Burt keeps the keys,” I said, taking my duffle bag from Freddie. I unsnapped a black cover and