Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

"Friends!?" roared the mad scientist in his throaty, cackling voice. "We've only gone out three times and already you're telling me you just want to be friends?" He glared at Trisha.
Trisha, his date, tied firmly in a chair and backed against the wall, swallowed. She worked as a secretary at a minor accounting firm. The most exciting thing that happened during her daily day was replacing the staples in the staple machine. Now, suspended from the low ceiling was a hideously violent looking ray machine, twelve feet long, with all sorts of bulbous attachments, and pointing at her forehead. The mad scientist was slowly running a gloved hand over a large switch on a console, and staring at her with his off-kilter eyes. He hadn't bothered to put clean clothes on.
"You never gave me a chance!" wailed the scientist, his greasy jowl quivering with rage. "And for that... you'll fry like a pork sausage!" He flipped a toggle switch and the ray machine clicked into gear, small hazes of colour swirling around its phallic tip.
They were in an abandoned warehouse, miles from anywhere. Whatever he was about to do, nobody would ever hear it. "Well, it's not that I don't like you," she began slowly, "it's just that, well, you're just too nice a guy, I guess. I think I'd rather go out with someone a little more... unpredictable!"
A beat up sedan crashed through the wall on her left.
Bricks flew outward and fell down thumping onto the dusty ground. Once everything had stopped, the car doors opened in unison and two figures got out. When they walked forward into the spotlight trained on Trisha, she saw that they were a dog, and a rabbit. The dog put his hands in his pockets (he was wearing a blue-grey suit, tie, and fedora hat) and grinned at the mad scientist. "Hello," he said, as one might greet a friend.
The rabbit spoke. "This doesn't look like the Lincoln tunnel, Sam," he said. He had a fast, streetwise voice that betokened psychotic violence and cruelty toward baby birds. He was, unlike Sam, wearing no clothes.
Sam, still looking at the familiar face of the mad scientist, nodded. "Looks like a marginally vulnerable hostage situation, Max." His voice was more sedate, weary, a kind of Sam Spade meets Steven Wright.
"Ooooh!" exclaimed Max. "Does this mean we get to kick some puffy white mad scientist butt?"
"Can't think of a reason not to," said Sam.
"You'll be of no use, Freelance Police!" boomed the mad scientist quickly, saliva dangling from his open mouth. "With the flick of a lever my ungrateful lunch date will be reduced to a half-cup of disoriented atomic matter."
"I knew he wasn't a real doctor," said Trisha.
"Er," said Max, unfazed, "should I confront, pummel, and subdue the suspected perpetrator, Sam?"
"Sic 'em up, little buddy," said Sam.
Max sprang forward with astonishing speed - he was like a white super bouncing ball with limbs - and struck the head of the mad scientist before he could even creak a finger joint. Then they were rolling around on the floor, Max punishing him with his trademark psychotic energy.
Sam strolled over to Trisha and started fiddling with the ropes. Trisha looked at him gratefully. The Freelance Police! Everyone who read the daily tabloids knew about them.
Sam was having trouble with the ropes - the constant whacking noise from the corner was a little distracting. He turned his puppy head to watch the fight, which Max was profoundly winning. Small, white, but very deadly fists were striking the chest, belly, legs and anywhere else that looked vulnerable. Sam winced at their intensity, and then gaped in shock.
Max's last punch had struck the neck of the mad scientist, and the force completely decapitated him. Now Max was holding the head up off the ground by its long, yellow hair, and Sam could see the wires and electrical fluid trailing from its neck. "He's not a real guy, Sam!" exclaimed Max. "Can I keep his head for a souvenir? Why do you suppose it's ticking?"
Sam stood up. "That's no head, Max - it's a damned ugly time bomb! Let's leave this criminal cesspool pronto!"
"Good idea, Sam," said Max. "Maybe we can ditch the head somewhere while the credits are running." Max threw him the head, which Sam took and shoved in his coat. They walked back to the car, and Max opened the driver's seat. "Mind if I drive?" he asked.
"Not if you don't mind me clawing at the dash and shrieking like a cheerleader," said Sam.
"Sam, is 'pronto' a real word?"
They got in the car and Max started the engine. Trisha could just see his two pink ears sticking above the dashboard, and wondered how he could see the road. "Goodbye, Sam and Max!" she called out. "I'll never forget all you've done here today."
The sedan quickly reversed, screeched to a halt, then sped away. Trisha sat there, still tied up, and watched the hole in the wall. It occurred to her she might be waiting a long time indeed.

SAM 'N' MAX

HIT THE ROAD

PART 1: THE CASE

Later, Sam and Max walked into their office, an untidy, ramshackle place of work with a graffiti-covered desk, stains everywhere, a single naked light bulb that seemed to emit dust rather than light, some miscellaneous garbage piled in the corner because it didn't go anywhere else (including Sam's roach farm), a TV that didn't work, bullet holes in the walls, a telephone, and a primitive answering machine (it's an eight track).
Oh, and their names were printed on the door window.
"Well, that was a pleasantly understated credit sequence," said Sam.
"I enjoyed the cheesy retro ambience," agreed Max.
"What the hell are you talking about, Max?"
"Sam," said Max again, "either termites are burrowing through my skull, or one of us is ticking."
Sam remembered. "Oops... oh yeah." Reaching into his coat he took out the head of the mad scientist, still ticking ominously. "Where should I put this so it doesn't hurt anyone we care or know about, Max?"
"Out the window, Sam," suggested Max. "There's nothing but strangers out there."
Sam opened a window of their second-storey office and hurled the head into the street. It was mid afternoon, fairly quiet, and the only traffic outside was a large tourist coach. As the coach steamed past the bouncing head rolled to a stop, and was crushed under the front left tyre.
There was a blinding explosion which blew out every window in the street except for Sam and Max's specially reinforced double-glazed panes. The entire coach was lifted into the air, spinning like a windmill, and crashed back to earth a few blocks away. Moments later there was a second explosion, then a third, then a short patch of silence, and then an earth-shaking thump which shook every fixture in their office and was accompanied by a strange exhaling sound from the sink.
"I hope there was nobody on that bus," said Sam eventually.
"Nobody we know, at least," amended Max.
The moment of reverie was broken as the telephone rang. Max instantly ran for the phone. Sam leapt forward and was just able to grab Max by the legs. He lifted him up and away from the phone. Max kicked out with his legs, peppering Sam's face with blows. Sam turned to the still-open window, and threw Max out.
Then he picked up the telephone. "Hello? Yes? Yes? Yes! No! Really? Well, the same to you, Mac!"
As Sam replaced the telephone Max came in the door, smiling and as fresh faced as ever. "Another confused census taker?"
"Actually, that was the Commissioner with another idiotic and baffling assignment," said Sam.
"Does it involve wanton destruction?" inquired Max.
"We can only hope," concurred Sam. "Due to the arbitrarily sensitive nature of the mission we'll be meeting a bonded city courier out on the street."
"Oooh... smells like a fiercely thickening plot," said Max, who was appreciative of that kind of thing.
Sam was already drawing all his stuff together. He walked toward one of their nondescript walls, and knelt down by what looked like a mousehole. However, as was subsequently shown as Sam shoved his hand inside, it was in reality a clever hiding place for all their money.
"Cash - never leave home without it," said Sam as he stuffed greenback after greenback into his coat.
"Yeah, we may need it to bribe slippery government officials," said Max, as they'd been forced to on more than one occasion.
Sam looked around the office - was there anything else they might conceivably need? He wandered over to the junk corner, which had once been a fireplace, and the only thing that caught his eye was a purple bulb - a black light Max used to illuminate his rare '60s posters. Sam pocketed it.
Max's preparations for the journey consisted of finding a sandwich Sam had made last September and plonking it on the roach farm.
Sam noticed something else before he left. The green light on their answering machine was flickering. "Oh boy!" he said. "We've got a message!"
"Gee, I hope it's something eerily provocative," said Max.
Sam played the message. The slightly manic voice of a thin young male came on. "Hi, I'm calling about your upcoming auction of confiscated automatic weapons. Do you sell to convicted felons?" End of message.
"Hey, who are we to discriminate," said Sam. He walked into the hallway and shut the door.

They weren't good office quarters - but then, Sam and Max were hardly ever in their office anyway, so it all worked out. Now they were walking down the dingy, green-carpeted hallway toward the stairway and the neighbouring office of Flint Paper.
Flint had a client in his office, and it sounded like the meeting wasn't going well. Just as Sam and Max drew near, they heard Flint snarl: "So, you want a piece of me, huh? Well, take a piece of this!"
The window pane set in the Flint Paper door shattered as a man was hurled horizontally through the gap. He flew clean across the hallway and would have fallen all the way down to the ground floor, except his chin caught the banister. It held there, wedged in, and the limp unconscious body of the man ended up hanging vertically over a twenty foot drop.
"Brutal," commented Sam.
"But very true to life," said Max.
They started along the hallway again, but Flint wasn't done yet. "And here's one for your old man!" he shouted. Sam, through the broken glass of Flint's door, caught a glimpse of automatic weaponry and sprang back.
Flint's gun went off, leaving a neat perforation in the wall of his office. He fired again, this time holding down the trigger, and hole after hole appeared in the walls. Flint almost seemed to be drawing with them.
Sam and Max watched and waited for the conclusion.
Flint fired two last rounds, and now they saw. It was a face. They both smiled.
"I really respect Flint's business acumen," said Sam.
Max shook his head. "Please, Sam, don't use the word 'acumen' again."
They took a closer look at Flint's unlucky associate. He looked mug ugly. And in serious pain. "Guess he had it coming to him," said Sam philosophically. He reached a hand toward him.
"Hey!" said Max sharply. "Gratuitous acts of senseless violence are my forte!" He poked the senseless figure in the eyes, causing it to jerk spasmodically and fall from its tenuous chinhold, two storeys down to a concrete floor.
"You're such an adorable urchin, Max," said Sam over the wet splat.

It was about a minute later when they walked out into the open air.
Sam's eyes flicked from left to right, scanning the streetline. Yes, it was the same as usual - bloodstained footpath, bent parking meters, a red glow somewhere to the south, a street facade that seemed to be bacterially infected. There were plenty of pedestrians hurrying their way along the footpath, most of them wearing ski masks and holding crowbars, but no-one who looked like a courier.
Then Sam looked down, and saw at the foot of the stairs, next to the 'Vehicles will be stolen' sign, a small black cat with a head the size of a basketball. "Aw, it's a cute little hypercephalic kitten," he said.
Max, who had a well-known aversion to any animal remotely cute, said, "I'll call him 'Mittens', because I think he'd make a fine pair of them."
Sam walked down the stairs toward the cat. As he got closer, he saw the adjective 'cute' was probably being misapplied in this case. The cat before him was mean, black, grizzled, and had repulsive, bulging yellow eyeballs that hinted at alcoholism. And he seemed to be chewing tobacco. "Hey there, lil' fella," said Sam.
"You talkin' to me?" growled the cat. This was not a voice that purred. This was the kind of voice that came with guns and brass knuckles.
Sam sighed. "It's times like this that make me want to lash out at a cruel world," he said, looking at the cat.
"Funny, I feel like that all the time," said Max.
The cat seemed to be expecting something like this. "You must be the Freelance Police," he said sharply.
"Yes, but don't go blabbing it to everybody," said Sam.
"I think he's kind of cute, Sam," said Max, who was watching from a distance. "Can I make a tennis racket out of him?"
"Maybe later, Max," said Sam. "Right now we've got a message from the Commissioner to collect."
"Oh yeah, right," said the cat. He then proceeded to hack and cough for an awkward few seconds. Sam rubbed his chin, curious.
Finally the cat gave up. "Sorry guys. I swallowed your orders for safe keeping, but now I can't seem to hock them back up."
This did not go down well with Sam. "Don't get smart with me, bub, or my partner'll floss every last crevice of your body with his whiskers."
Max looked horrified. "That's unsanitary, Sam!"
The cat had another go. "Sorry, no dice," he said after about ten seconds of coughing.
"He's adorable," said Max. "Let's take him home and put tape on his feet."
Sam looked down once more at the truculent cat. "I'd just love to turn this guy inside out," he mused under his breath.
"Ooooh, that gives me an idea!" said Max. He darted over to the cat, and before it could so much as move a whisker Max lifted it up by the neck, and jammed his other hand right into the cat's open mouth, down the gullet and into the stomach. Watched by Sam and the bulging eyeballs of the cat, Max rummaged around before removing the intact plans. He tossed the cat to one side and handed the plans to Sam.
Sam straightened them out and started reading. "According to these orders, something bizarre is happening at the carnival."
"I thought that was the whole point!" said Max, confused.
Sam pocketed the orders. "Maybe we should check it out when we've got nothing better to do - like, anytime." They started walking along the pavement toward the car. It was a short walk, and took them past the usual neighbourhood highlights - a pair of alcoholic pigeons, swigging Coors from a second storey balcony, the Really Bad Food store, and, of course, Bosco's Guns, Liquor and Baby Needs. Sam glanced inside.
"I see that old Mr Bosco's generously giving away his profits to the underprivileged, ski-mask-wearing youth of the neighbourhood again," he remarked to Max.
They walked inside. "Hey," said Sam to the youth, who spun toward them, holding a flick knife, "I don't think Mr Bosco's voluntarily giving away his money!"
The youth made a face of mock terror. "Oh, I'm real terrified! A dog and a rabbit! Ooh, scary!"
"Max," said Sam, "the smartass kid doesn't think we're scary. What do you think about that?"
Max made a noise. You could print it on the page, and it might look like "Grrrr." But in reality, nothing could come close to approximating this guttural, below-range throaty growl that suddenly emanated from Max's raw and violent throat.
"That's telling him, little buddy," said Sam happily. Max launched himself at the now-uncertain kid and there was a brief, but astonishingly violent struggle that involved punches, gunfire, and damage to half the store.
Seconds later Sam and Max walked outside again. "I think that punk learned a valuable lesson, Sam," said Max.
"Me too, Max," agreed Sam. "I didn't realise the lower lip could stretch completely over the head. Amazing." They walked on just a little further, and here, by the vandalised post box was their car. The late DeSoto - chrome fins, headlights, cop paintjob.
"I love my car," said Sam, walking to the door.
"You're a sick puppy, Sam."

A day later, Sam and Max pulled up at the entrance to the Kushman Bros. Carnival in Portland, Maine. The midway, the ticket booths and even the parking lot were deserted - it was an off day. They stopped at the gate to get their bearings, and were thus witness to a rather unusual event.
Right in front of the gate was the Hall of Oddities ("WEIRD! CREEPY!"), with an entrance shaped like a demonic clown. You walked in through his red-curtained mouth. Standing on a podium by the Hall was a huge fat Indian wearing a purple turban and purple pants, but otherwise clothes-less. Oh, and dinky yellow slippers. He was breathing huge plumes of fire into the air with his firestick, or whatever firebreathers called that thing.
Near the firebreathing Indian, walking along the side path next to the Hall of Oddities, were two strange figures. They were coming back to the gate, and didn't look happy. At least, the shorter one didn't look happy. The larger had a blank, dim look on his face, as if he didn't have a fully developed set of emotions.
Sam and Max had watched a lot of cartoons, and could instantly recognise the small, smart boss / big, dumb sidekick combination when they saw it. The tall guy was pretty bland, but this short guy looked interesting. He had a huge, bouffant blonde toupee, and was wearing black designer spectacles, an orange jacket, a blue polo shirt open at the chest, yellow pants, and black ankle-high boots. You could have seen this guy from a mile off. Blind people could see this guy. He walked like someone who thinks they are very important and famous, and so Sam and Max hated him from the first.
The two men stopped in front of the Indian, who was paying them not the slightest bit of attention. "Tarnation and blimey!" said the short one, and to add to the list of terrible features he had an awful screeching English accent, sounding like a Liverpudlian who'd been living in a bog for two decades. "He ain't here!"
"So now what'll we do?" said the big one. He had a more conventional voice, the kind of voice that learns how to pronounce "uh" and "duh" before anything else. The dress was also more conventional - horribly dated leather jacket and black pants, and an awful Elvis cowlick.
"Now?" asked the short guy rhetorically. "Now we get in the bus and look for him, you idiot!"
"I knew that," said the big guy. He started walking toward the gate.
The short guy remained still for a while, and sighed irritably. Then he followed the big guy, who was standing in front of Sam and Max, clearing a path for the boss. "Get out of Mr Bumpus' way, you partially-clad varmints!" he said to the two, before following Mr Bumpus to the bus.
"Who was that?" said Sam once they'd gone.
"I don't know," said Max. "But if it weren't for the carefree innocence of this carnival, I'd be breaking his kneecaps."
"You're a demonic little imp, Max," said Sam affectionately. Together they walked into the Carnival. Just as they were about to enter the Hall of Oddities, however, the Indian suddenly took an interest in them. "STOP!!" he bellowed, before directing a stream of fire right in front of them.
It had the desired effect. They pulled up sharply, and looked queryingly at the firebreather. "Hey, what's the holdup?" asked Sam.
"Sorry boys, we're closed," said the firebreather. "I can't let you in. Insurance reasons, you know."
Sam pointed over his shoulder. "Who were those misanthropes at the gate?"
"Which misanthropes?" asked the firebreather cautiously.
Max filled him in. "The short one with the bad hairpiece, and the tall one with the dark, flinty eyes."
"Hey, I just work here," he said, apologetically.
"If you let us in we'll give you an antacid," tempted Sam.
"Nope," said the Indian.
It was time for stronger measures. Sam removed the sheaf of notes from his coat and showed them surreptitiously to the firebreather. "I don't suppose you'd accept this generous bribe?" he asked hopefully.
"Not on your life, fuzzy," said the firebreather emphatically.
Max looked disgusted. "What's this country coming to, when US currency can't even bribe a downtrodden circus freak?"
"I blame television," said Sam. He put the notes back into his coat, and felt something which cheered him up a lot - the Commissioner's orders. Sam pulled them out and handed them to the firebreather with a flourish.
"Check this out, jack," he said authoritatively. "We're the Freelance Police. Here's our authorisation to be here."
The firebreather took the orders and read them slowly, a look of uncertainty and faint fear on his face.
"Now let us in before we replace you with a cheap renewable fuel source," said Max eagerly.
"Let me run this by the boss... " said the firebreather. As he spoke, small trails of fire came out of his mouth. They ignited the orders, and in seconds all that remained were the firebreather's red fingers, which he waved furiously.
"Uh... " said the firebreather. "I guess you can go in. But be careful!" he warned. "Carnivals can be dangerous to your health. Haw haw haw!"
"That was needlessly cryptic," said Sam. "
I'd be peeing my pants if I wore any," agreed Max. Leaving the firebreather behind they walked into the Hall of Oddities.

At first, Sam could hardly see for five feet in the darkness, and the main sensory input was the smell of wet sawdust. But slowly their eyes adjusted, and soon they could make out the strange and deformed shapes lined in front of them.
Right on their left by the door was a formaldehyde jar, inside of which was a shrunken claw, formerly a human hand. More precisely, formerly the human hand of Jesse James. It was still twitching.
Next to this were the three main attractions, mounted on a high podium - Insect Lad, Human Enigma, and Man or Chicken Dumpling? Insect Lad was a young kid with three legs, who looked a little like Jimmy Olson. He looked around proudly. How Kafkaesque, thought Sam.
The Human Enigma was, apart from having a tap for a head, a completely normal guy. You couldn't really say that for Man or Chicken Dumpling - he floated naked in a tub of grease, and occasionally made gloopy bubbling sounds.
"Well, everything seems in order here," said Sam.
Max thought otherwise. "Sam! Look over there!" He pointed to the far side of the tent.
Something vaguely green, two heads, and far too many limbs, was arguing with itself beside a melting block of ice that was apparently Bruno the Frozenest Bigfoot. "How dare you call in the authorities without consulting me!" said one of the heads, a grizzled customer that looked like a chain-smoking janitor.
Sam had worked out what was going on here. This creature was a pair of Siamese Twins, or Conjoined Twins, as they probably liked to be called these days. They had separate arms, legs, heads and brains, and seemed to share only one body part - the backbone.
Rather than standing on the ground with four legs, they seemed to take turns at standing and holding the other up off the ground. Now, by some complicated motion that made Sam's eyes water, they switched places so that the other guy took the load. This guy was smiling, blonde, and altogether more fresh-faced, something of a contrast to the more wrinkly first guy. "Well, I tried talking to you, but you were off wallowing in your own self-pity!" he said.
"Yeah, but-" said the first guy, but he was interrupted.
The second guy had seem Sam and Max. "It's them!" A word has not yet been invented to describe the way they came over toward the Freelance Police. I'll have to settle on 'hopping'.
The fresh-faced guy spoke to them. "Hi. I'm Shep Kushman, and this is my brother Burl. Welcome to our carnival."
"What's left of it." said Burl sourly.
Sam introduced himself. "I'm Sam. He's Max. We savagely protect the rights of innocents."
"Even cruelly twisted ones such as yourself," added Max, and then looked confused. "Er, selves. Whatever."
Shep smiled - in fact he hadn't stopped smiling. This guy would smile his way through a tornado. "Well, you sound like just the guys to solve our little problem. Walk this way." They hopped back toward the melted block of ice, and Sam thought: If I could walk that way I wouldn't need the talcum powder. "See this melted block of ice?" asked Shep.
"How could we miss it?" Sam pointed out.
"This used to be our main attraction," said Burl, spitting.
Max was confused - again. "Your main attraction was a block of ice?"
"Don't be dense!" said Burl, who was beginning to doubt they'd attracted the cream of the law-enforcement community.
Shep spoke. "Our main attraction was a genuine-"
"-authentic-"
"-real-life-"
"BIGFOOT!" finished Burl.
"On ice!"
Sam rubbed his chin. "Let me get this straight... You want us to go traipsing all over the country looking for a soggy bigfoot?"
"I've never been traipsing before," said Max brightly. "Does it hurt?"
Shep looked slightly shocked. "But Bruno must be returned to us!" Burl was making frantic motions to Shep, and so they switched places.
Burl wanted to make a point. "He's a brutish, ignorant beast with no sense of right or wrong!" he warned soberly.
"Hey, who isn't?" said Sam.
"Besides, he's kidnapped our second main attraction," added Shep.
"Is that the block of ice?" asked Max. He had something of a one-track mind.
"Naw, it's Trixie the Giraffe-Necked Girl from Scranton," said Burl, sighing.
"She disappeared at the same time Bruno did," said Shep. Sam took this information in, again rubbing his chin.
"We can only assume that the monster took her when he made his escape," said Burl. It was certainly their best guess.
Sam thought it over for a few seconds. Finally, he gave in. "I guess Max and I could search for your missing freaks," he admitted. "But we'll need free run of the carnival, to look for clues."
"Yeah, and free corndogs," added Max, "so we can yuke all over ourselves!"
"No problem," smiled Shep. "Here's an all day free pass."
Sam took a multicoloured slip of paper from the proffered hand of Burl. "Leave everything to us," he said reassuringly, "and we'll have those abominations of nature back in your protective care before you can read the Koran."
"Didn't he fight Godzilla?" asked Max.
Sam didn't respond, because his attention had been caught by something on the floor, by the melted block of ice. It was a mange-ridden tuft of Bruno's sasquatch hair. "Bigfoot hair," said Sam.
Max followed his gaze. "I think it would make a swell toupee for balding computer programmers."
"Don't be stupid, Max," said Sam - a useless admonition. He picked up the tuft of hair and shoved it into his coat. Then he started walking around the tent, looking for further clues.
He came across a head encased in a glass jar. "So that's what happens to unsuccessful third party presidential candidates," said Sam. Otherwise, it was useless. Looking through the freaks, the only thing that seemed promising to Sam (very fortuitously, as it will turn out), was the jar holding Jesse James' hand. Standing out of view of the Kushman brothers, Sam picked up the jar and concealed it in his coat.
Coming out of the shadows, Sam walked back to the Kushmans. It was time for some questions - and following those, hopefully some answers.
"Y'know, I dated a Siamese twin poodle once," said Sam conversationally.
"I think that would be 'twice', Sam," corrected Max. He was having a grand time tickling the Man or Chicken Dumpling.
"What can I do for you?" asked Shep.
Sam, over the years, had developed a useful interrogative technique. It came in stages. The first stage was to get to know the suspect - loosen him up. "Have you ever thought about surgery?" he asked Shep.
"What for?" asked Shep, all innocence.
"Uhh," said an uncomfortable Sam. "Say, where do you buy your clothes, anyway?"
"These aren't clothes!" barked Burl.
"Our skin is naturally green and vinyl-like," said Shep, smiling like it was the greatest thing in the world.
"Good Lord!" choked Max. "He's buck naked!"
"So are you," said Sam.
"Yeah," admitted Max, "but I'm cute and marketable."
Sam's neutral expression was turning into a grimace by this stage, but he pushed on. "I'll bet life is an unending torment for you guys," he sympathised.
"Actually, it's not so bad," said Shep, the eternal optimist.
"Speak for yourself!" coughed Burl.
Three conversational gambits were usually enough - Stage 1 was over. And Sam had never been so glad. Now it was time for Stage 2 - the real information.
First question. "Who were those guys we bumped into at the gate?"
"What guys?" asked Burl impatiently.
Max, who had taken an intense interest in - and dislike of - the two, helped him out. "One was a short guy with big hair-"
"The other was a tall guy with big hands," finished Sam.
Shep looked momentarily blank, then realisation dawned. "Oh, you must be talking about internationally renowned recording star Conroy Bumpus!"
"And his assistant, Lee-Harvey," added Burl.
The names meant nothing to Sam, or Max. "Bumpus?" asked Sam. "Who's Conroy Bumpus?"
"Bumpus?" Burl nearly yelled the name. "He's a loon!"
"Insane!" said Shep, nodding soberly.
"And a country-western singer, to boot!" added Burl, who was going a little red in the face.
Sam took a lot of interest in the next tidbit provided by Shep. "He actually wanted to buy Bruno and Trixie from us!"
"Boy, was he steamed when he found out that we didn't have them anymore!" The memory almost made Burl smile.
This was an intriguing development, so Sam followed it up. "What was that about Conroy Bumpus again?" he asked.
"Don't mention that name in our presence!" said Burl flatly. "He's one sick puppy."
Sam moved on to the next area. "Is there anything else you can tell us about your escaped bigfoot?" he asked.
"Well," said Shep, thinking hard.
Burl was getting impatient. "He's our bigfoot, he's escaped, he's a menace to society. What more could you possibly need to know?"
Max nodded. "He's right, Sam. I don't think my colossal head could retain any more knowledge."
All right, thought Sam, time to move onto area three. "What can you tell us about Trixie?"
They had a bit more to say here. "She's a very caring, sensitive young woman," said Shep.
"If you care about that kind of stuff," interjected Burl.
"She used to sing folk songs to the other freaks in her trailer," said Shep, suddenly going misty-eyed with nostalgia.
Burl was more level-headed. "You ever heard a Scrantonese folk song?" he asked them
"No," said Sam.
"You don't want to," said Burl emphatically.
Shep suddenly spoke. "Oh, there was one other thing. She likes her men like the Statue of Liberty."
"Green and rusty?" said Max, confused.
"Tall and dense," said Burl, who didn't look worried that he was ineligible.
Sam thought he had enough to go on, for now. "Well, it's back to the Bigfoot hunt." He and Sam walked out through a tent-flap near the Kushmans, and into the back area of the carnival.

If Sam had one golden rule as a private investigator, it was this: let everybody else do the work. Why should he and Max have to figure out where Bruno got to with Trixie when someone else, probably a carnival employee, could do it for them? Accordingly, they wandered through the backlot area of the Carnival looking for people.
There weren't many. Either everyone was in town buying up big, or the bubonic plague had struck again. Despite the bright blue sky, and the flags flying merrily in the brisk breeze, the place felt dead.
They did, however, come across Trixie's trailer, so identified by the large word TRIXIE painted on the side. It was a small trailer, with cute purple curtains, some potplants growing beside the gas tanks, and a purple star on the door. Also on the door was a hefty-looking padlock.
Sam, taking a closer look, saw it was one of those locks you can shoot a bullet through. If they had a gun they could get in. The area of 'Max' plus 'guns' was not one Sam wished to revisit in a hurry, however. He moved on.
Only a few metres away, they saw the first signs of life since leaving the tent. A guy was sitting down on a canvas chair, underneath a huge flashing 'CONE OF TRAGEDY' sign, and watching them with a disinterested look on his unshaven face. Sam and Max didn't have much to do with carnies, but this one looked like he'd been one from birth. He had an open beer in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, and a huge body that was half muscle, half fat. And, of course, there was the requisite tattoo on the shoulder. All in all, he seemed to have just about enough intelligence to operate the Cone of Tragedy, a 'thrilling' amusement park ride that sat up off the ground like an upended icecream cone.
They walked over to him. "Excuse us," began Sam, "but we need some help and although you seem dangerously unequipped brain-wise, we've come to you for advice."
"Huh?" said the carny. He didn't sound bright.
Sam opened with Stage 1. "What can you tell me about life?"
The carny shrugged. "It beats the alternative." As a conversational-stopper, it was pretty good.
Sam decided to head straight to Stage 2. "What do you know about Bruno the Bigfoot?"
The carny stared at him in a sudden display of life. "Who wants to know?"
"We're the Freelance Police," said Sam, "and we're in a race against time."
"And we're barefoot, too," added Max.
"All I know about Bruno is what the Kushmans tell me," said the carny.
Max shrugged. "Well, that was useless."
The carny hadn't finished. "You might want to try the tunnel of love, though," he said helpfully. "Rumour has it that one of Bruno's buddies hangs out in there."
"Oooh, let's go, Sam!" said Max.
"Oh, hush," said Sam. Turning back to the carny, he asked, "Do you have any idea what happened to Trixie?"
The carny perked up a bit. "Trixie the Giraffe-Necked Girl from Scranton?"
"No, Trixie the Talkative Poodle," said Max sarcastically.
"She's my best customer," enthused the carny. "She used to ride the Cone of Tragedy for hours on end." He smiled - or, rather, leered - at a memory. "I loved the way her neck used to whip back and forth and back and forth, when I cranked it up to full speed!"
"Your sadism is a credit to your profession," said Sam. Then he had an idea - maybe it might be helpful to recreate the movements of their quarry. Maybe they might pick up a clue or several. "My partner and I want to ride the Cone of Tragedy," he said to the carny.
Max agreed. "We've lost our will to live."
The carny didn't hesitate long. "I'm not supposed to, but what the heck. You two look like a couple of caring, non-litigious mammals. Strap yourselves in, and I'll turn on the Cone."
Sam and Max walked past the carny to the Cone. The general design was simple - too simple. How did it work? There was just the smooth cone, and trailing down from the tip of the cone, two pairs of wires. These wires supported metal braces which hung at about ankle level. The braces were open.
They stood facing the Cone, and the carny pushed the first lever. The braces snapped shut around their legs, and the wires suddenly jerked upward. The braces were yanked two-thirds of the way up the Cone, leaving them suddenly hanging upside down and looking out at the world.
For a few seconds they just hung there. Then their world - that is, the cone - began to spin, slowly at first but rapidly building up momentum. Cheery music came on. The centrifugal force inexorably forced Sam and Max's upper bodies outward, so that they were almost horizontal and looking at the sky. It was almost relaxing, if the total rotation of the sky in less than a second didn't make you dizzy and throw up.
This had indeed happened, on more occasions than the carny could remember. This was why there were no other tents in ten metres of the thing. He grunted, and pushed another lever.
The Cone suddenly lifted into the air and tilted ten degrees. The music got faster and more cheery. This, and the now unbalanced g forces, were playing hell with Sam's head.
The carny took a puff on his cigarette and pushed a third lever.
The Cone just as suddenly started to vibrate, thrashing around on its axis like a demented polecat. Sam and Max were being smashed against the cone and against each other. The cheery music was reaching a climax.
Just as Sam was about to black out, the thrashing stopped. The Cone fell back into place, pulled to a rapid halt, and in a final sadistic touch, the manacles were released while they were still in the air. Sam crashed to the ground and lay on his back, eyes closed and head dizzy. Max landed on his head, bounced back up with a cheery grin on his face, and saw Sam. He walked over, punched Sam a few times in the gut, until finally the big dog woke up.
There are far worse sights, other than Max, that you could see while waking up, but a good deal of these require illegal herbage. Sam smiled at Max quickly and got up.
They walked back to the carny. "Oooh, I feel tragically empty," said Max.
"Me too, Max," agreed Sam. "It's as though an integral part of my essence has been ripped from my being."
"Let's do it again!"
"Maybe later, chum," said Sam. "Right now we'd better find the Tunnel of Love."

But first they took a quick stopoff to play the Wak-A-Rat game. The temptation was too great. Here were all these unattended midway games, and the Wak-A-Rat looked to be in the best condition, so Sam picked up the mallet and started it up. At last, a chance to get back at all those impossible-to-win midway games which had been ripping off American consumers for decades. Sam loved capitalism.
Even an idiot could grasp this game. You had five holes, out of which popped the head of a rat for a few seconds, at random intervals. With the mallet, you knocked the rat on the head - but only if you were fast enough. You had thirty seconds to whack twenty rats.
To his surprise, Sam found he was able to win first go. Having Max staring at his every move seemed to really bring his concentration level up. The prize slot on the Wak-A-Rat game opened.
"I won something!" he exclaimed, surprised. The actual prize turned out to be less earth-shattering - a small battery powered torch. The crummy prize didn't even come with a bulb!
"It must be our karmic punishment for the senseless brutality we visited on those rats," opined Max gravely.
Still holding the torch, Sam looked around, and was shocked to see his own head, hideously distorted and blown up. Then he realised it was just a fishbowl lens. Intrigued, Sam walked over and picked it up.
"It's a fishbowl lens," he explained to Sam.
"My head's already shaped like a fishbowl," said Max.
With the lens and torch in hand, Sam reached inside his coat for the box.

A word about Sam's box. Sorry, I really should have told you earlier. But there was the intro to get through, and all these really neat conversations, and ... I'm sorry. There's no excuse.
Ahem.
Sam's box was about the only interesting thing he owned. But it was plenty interesting. It was a cardboard box, a bit smaller than a shoe box, that could hold any number of objects, of absolutely any size. You could throw a glass of milk in there and it would come out again with nary a drop spilt. And it always fitted comfortably inside his coat.
Accordingly, this is where Sam kept everything. In his box. But now, putting the fishbowl and torch inside, he saw something horrible.
Everything else was gone.
"Hey, what happened to my carefully collected box of useless junk?" asked Sam. The money was gone. The orders were gone. Even Jesse James' severed hand was gone.
This was serious. Sam stamped back through the carnival until he reached the carny. "Hey, tattoo boy!" he said.
"What?"
Sam showed him the box. "Where'd all my cool junk go?"
The carny was unfluffed. "It must have fallen out of your coat while you were on the ride. Here's a claim ticket." He reached under his hat and gave them a small red slip. "Take it to the Lost and Found."
Sam took the ticket, mollified. "Bye."
"It's been swell," said Max.

The Lost and Found tent turned out to be very hard to actually find in the first place. It was a small green tent erected in the shadows of the Hall of Oddities, by the Strength-o-meter. "I shudder to think of the number of promising dates cut short by this fiendish contraption," said Max as they passed.
Finally getting inside the tent, Sam and Max were shocked by what they saw. "Holy Cripes on toast!" exclaimed Sam.
"Nothing personal," said Max to the Lost and Found guy, "but you're the single ugliest thing we've ever seen."
"Well, there was that computer game developers conference," conceded Sam.
The Lost and Found guy spoke up, thereby revealing another negative facet - his voice. "Have you lost something?" he asked, in a voice like a Neanderthal polar bear still learning English, and talking through three layers of woolly underpants.
"I've lost a whole bunch of neat junk," said Sam. "You must have been gifted with psychic powers to make up for your obvious physical shortcomings."
"Bad deal," sympathised Max.
"Have you got a claim ticket?" asked the Lost and Found guy ponderously.
Sam said, "Sure," and handed it over.
The Lost and Found guy looked at it carefully, with an unintentionally comic facial expression. Then he turned around. "Wait here while I search through the back room."
Sam and Max waited. There was a lot of junk thrown around, and numerous loud crashes.
The guy returned, carrying an armful of stuff. "Well, here's all the stuff we collected off of the Cone O' Tragedy today. It's all yours."
Sam didn't need a second invitation to scoop everything up and slide it into his box. As he and Max walked back into the open air, he said, "I feel whole again."
Here he paused. There were a few things he wanted to do before checking out the Tunnel of Love.
The first - well, the only, really - was to check out a few things. First, the money. Reassuringly, it all seemed to be there. Next, Sam took out the all day pass and looked at it curiously. It meant - all right! - they could ride all day. However, there didn't seem to be a date on it. Strange.
"Does it say anything about corn dogs, Sam?" asked Max.
Sam shook his head. "Sorry, little buddy."
Max was furious. He roared. "WHY YOU DIRTY LINT-SNIFFING MAMA'S TWINS! I OUGHTA STRETCH YOUR LEGS AROUND YOUR HEAD AND MAKE YOU DO THE LAMBADA!"
"Gee, maybe you shouldn't be eating corndogs anyway," said Sam mildly.
Max had calmed down. Quite quickly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I don't need the cholesterol. Forgive my senseless reasoning, Sam."
Sam returned the pass to his box and took out the next item - and it was something he'd never seen before. A powerful horseshoe magnet with fins and eyes, shaped like a fish. What was this?
There was writing on the side: "From the World of Fish, Mosquitoville, Missouri." Sam thought a bit, then realised it might be Trixie's. She was always using the Cone, reputedly. Sam made a mental note to visit the World of Fish soon.
The last thing Sam did in his box turned out to be the most fortuitous. The black light of Max's he'd thrown in at the office turned out to fit the torch perfectly. And the torch worked - the batteries weren't flat! Amazing.
With all that out of the way, the crime-solving duo made their way toward the Tunnel of Love.

Unlike most of the stuff they were trying to find in the Carnival, the Tunnel of Love was dead easy to locate. You could see the towering, laughing face of the Devil and nearby statues of Cupid from the other side of the park. Getting nearer, the true nature of the Tunnel of Love became known. It was a simple water ride, with slightly patched white/grey swans floating serenely along a line of black water. There was a short patch of daylight here at the start, where people got on and off, and the swans slowed down here so they could do just that. The rest occurred in darkness - or its nearest equivalent, twilight.
Amazingly, the Tunnel of Love was running. But there was no-one around running it.
"Wanna ride the Tunnel of Love?" asked Sam.
"Yippee!" said Max. They hopped on board the swan, which nearly capsized, and soon were gently motoring down the waterway, out of the sunlight.
The swan went around the first turn, shutting out nearly all the ambient sound from outside. The only light in here was artificially manufactured, and the only sounds had something to do with water - water dripping, or sloshing by the sides of the swan. It was oddly undramatic.
The designers had achieved something art deco with the Tunnel of Love. Besides the obvious fake rock, at regular intervals you could see artwork, dramatically lit from beneath. The first painting they came to was of a demurely dressed Adam and Eve. Eve was reaching for a very red apple, while looking at a snake which was as large as she was. The snake was wrapped around the trunk of the apple tree. Adam, meanwhile, was hefting a baseball bat. Everyone, oddly, was smiling.
Sam was reminded of poetry. "Better to reign in hell, than to serve in heaven," he said sombrely, quoting Milton.
"Heaven is a place were nothing ever happens," said Max, quoting this time from David Byrne.
There was something mesmerising about the artwork. "Would it be tacky to root for the snake?" wondered Sam. But soon enough their slow journey had taken them past, and to the next illustration.
This was far more dramatic. In the manner of King Kong, a huge green alien was holding a young Earth woman with not very much on. She was somehow managing to scream and pout at the same time - quite a feat.
Sam, with his long movie-going history, recognised it instantly. "Wow, a loving recreation of that Evelyn Morrison classic, 'Revenge of the Gill Guy'."
"You really should get out more, Sam," said Max.
The next thing they saw wasn't art. It was a section of the wall that, periodically, buzzed and crackled as a small spark of electricity jumped from one unknown cable to another. It was certainly unnerving the bats, who were roosting nearby.
Sam remembered they were looking for someone in here. But the darkness was near impenetrable and the ride was still moving. He decided to wait it out.
Sure enough, they quickly came to the next, and final, piece of artwork. This wasn't a painting. It was actually a three-dimensional scene of medieval England, with a small rickety set and people carved in plaster. A witch had her head on the chopping block, ad beside her was the executioner, head covered with a black sheet and axe looming menacingly.
"Just another random axe of violence," commented Sam.
Beside these two was a fat guy with a goatee, who was obviously some leader or merchant. The goings-on had his obvious approval. "Thank goodness today's leaders react more calmly to negative opinion polls," said Sam. Then, something else caught his attention.
At the back of the scene, a castle had been painted - very cheaply. It had a little door, painted in a more attention-getting yellow. As they went slowly past, however, Sam saw the door was actually set some way back, in a tunnel. And the tunnel shifted as they changed perspective.
Sam suddenly got it - the door wasn't painted on at all. "It's a cleverly hidden secret door that looks like a cheap-looking painting of a castle," he said. But they were already past, and it was too late to hop off.

Shortly, the swan came to a halt. Sam and Max bounded out. "Well, that was fun," said Sam.
Max seemed to agree. "My little body's covered with swanpimples."
Sam didn't respond - he'd just remembered the torch! Of course, how bloody stupid. Before the swan could move off, he bundled Max back inside. "Wanna ride the Tunnel of Love again," he asked, once they were inside.
"Why not?" asked Max, as they started moving.
Sam flicked on the torch. This time, with light, they saw a lot more. Max was immediately interested in their first discovery - by the Adam and Eve artwork, a whole bunch of boxes labelled Corn Dogs. "Corn dogs, gimme!" he exclaimed.
Sam was looking closely at the topmost box of corn dogs - it was open, and on them a huge blue rat was staring at them with red hating eyes. "No way, Max," he said. "Look what they did to that rat." More softly, he added, "Nothing like rotting corn dogs to lend ambience to a Tunnel of Love."
In the gap between the first and second artwork, another discovery. A skeleton was standing by the wall, holding a broom, and in the position of floor sweeping. "Why, it's old Mr McReedy, the janitor!" said Sam.
"I guess he's off the list of suspects," said Max.
"Funny how Mr McReedy looks so much more lifelike now he's dead," mused Sam.
There wasn't anything interesting in the second art piece. But now they were coming to the interesting part - the electrical discharge. Swinging the torch toward it, Sam first saw a small mummy resting against the wall. Next to it was a thick metal box with rows of squares on it. A fuse box. Obviously it controlled the power to the ride.
The fuse box and the swan were almost level. Sam had to act quick.
What he did was something he never would have done given time to think of the consequences. He grabbed Max by the ankles, dunked his head in the water, then jammed it against the fuse box.
Yellow bolts of electricity flew out from the impact. The lights flickered, and the whole tunnel went pitch black, making the display of violent discharge at the fuse box all the more spectacular.
The swan jerked to a halt.
Sam pulled Max back, and the lights came on. Max's head was a mess - blackened, covered in soot, and lolling about like a doll's. Then he shook his head, instantly clearing away the dirt, and was back to his normal self.
They got out of the swan and onto the narrow path which skirted the waterway. Along this they walked, coming to the panorama with its curious door. It was only four feet tall, but still large enough to squeeze through.
There was a problem. No doorknob. Sam tried pushing the door, then pushing harder, then kicking it. No response. He gave up, and came back to the plaster figures. Maybe you had to do something with them. The executioner seemed immobile, as did the poor witch, but there was something about the leader. More specifically, his beard.
It was real hair. Such attention to detail in a poor artwork such as this could only be suspicious.
Max was playing around with the axe. "Max, get off of there," said Sam.
Max did. "Why?"
"Check this out," said Sam. He pulled the chin of the leader.
The leader's right arm suddenly shot up. The plaster arms of the executioner rattled, then the axe came hurtling down. With a horribly unexpected meaty sound, the axe sliced through the neck of the witch. Her head fell down into the basket.
"I'll never shave again," said Max, horrified.
"You never did," reminded Sam. He'd been watching the door the whole time, and it had opened upward the moment the axe made contact.
They walked through the narrow entrance.

The smell, that's what they first noticed - a dank, cloying whiff of air that blew outward. It reminded Sam of those rotting corn dogs.
The corridor went on straight for a short distance, then turned right. At this corner, they could see a flickering light source, reflected from further on. And there was noise, too - faint snatches of dialogue and loud crashing sounds.
Then they rounded the corner, and found the residence of the legendary Tunnel of Love occupant.
It was a bachelor pad, Sam and Max quickly noticed - though they'd never seen one quite so pathetic. The light, all grey and artificial, came from a spotlight in the ceiling, nestled beside the dangling heads and legs of crash test dummies. It revealed a lot of shelves, stuffed full of tool boxes and sugary foods, a refrigerator and (severely disused) oven, and a desk that possibly hadn't seen the day of light in two decades.
Not illuminated by the spotlight was the large green chair in the corner, surrounded by discarded food wrappings two inches deep on the floor. What illuminated the chair, and its pasty occupant, was the flickering tube light from the TV.
They walked into the windowless room. The guy in the chair took no notice of them, being content to watch some outdoor stunts show while shovelling blue lollies (Lil' Boy Blue Blobz - enough sugar to keep him going for hours) from a large bowl into his mouth. He looked young, had small tufts of fizzy red hair, and eyes like two undercooked eggs. Sitting on the chair his feet didn't even reach the edge of the cushion - his limbs were babyish, malformed, and far smaller than the rest of his plump body. He looked happy and contented, like a bug snug in a rug, wriggling his bare feet when the action got hectic. Couchus Spudus in his native habitat.
"What a cool pad!" said Sam.
The noise, and possibly the fresh air wafting in, finally attracted the guy's attention. "It's home," he said.
"It's alive!" exclaimed Max. "I thought it was just a cleverly animated plush toy."
"Who are you?" asked Sam.
"I'm Doug, the Mole Man," said Doug. "Who are you?"
"I'm Sam. He's Max. We fight crime," said Sam, keeping it short. Mole Man? he was wondering. Whatever that was, this guy looked just like one.
"And we like long walks along the beach," said Max.
"Wadda ya want from me?" asked Doug.
The leading question was, "Do you know anything about Bruno the Bigfoot?"
Doug's eyes went wide. "Bruno the Bigfoot? Why, the stories I could tell you-"
"Stop him, Sam!" said Max urgently. "He's gonna tell us a story!"
Doug was lost in nostalgia and hadn't heard him. Eyes going misty, he started reciting. "I first met Bruno twenty five years ago in Saigon..."

Several long, tedious hours later...
"...and then there was the time we all had our taxes done by a platypus, and-"
Max was at the end of his tether. "SHUT UP!" he yelled. "FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST SHUT UP!"
"Look, we just want to know where Bruno is now," said Sam.
Now Doug looked perplexed. "Gee, I have no idea where he went. Maybe you should talk to my uncle?"
"Your uncle?"
"Yeah. My uncle Shuv-Oohl. He's really into bigfoots. When I was a kid, he used to tell me stories about giant bigfoot parties, where all the bigfoots in the world would get together and dance bigfoot dances, and-"
"That's great, kid," said Sam quickly. "Where can we find your uncle?"
"I don't know," admitted Doug. "He disappeared shortly after he helped build the Largest Ball of Twine on the Earth."
Sam memorised the location.
"I think I may weep openly," said Max in a small voice.
"Look, you two seem trustworthy," said Doug.
"Oh, we are," assured Sam.
Max agreed. "Yeah, you can trust us, as far as we can throw you."
Doug continued, "So if you bring me some pecan-flavoured candy, I'll give you my key to Trixie's trailer. I'll also tell you a big secret about how Bruno escaped." This was something Sam had been wondering about - obviously he couldn't have broken out on his own, and Trixie didn't sound like she could melt a block of solid ice, so there must have been a third person. But who?
"Why not tell us now?" asked Sam, reasonably.
"Because I'm hungry," said Doug. He turned back to the TV.
It seemed the interview was over for now. "I think that's all for now," said Sam.
"Fine," said Doug. "You can find your own way out."
It didn't take much ingenuity to do this. By the door was a large metal switch connected to another fuse box. A faded label identified it as the Tunnel of Love reset switch. Sam pushed it, saying, "There, that should get things running again." And they walked back to the swan.

Sam and Max were in unfamiliar territory. Back home, they could have gotten some pecan flavoured candy before you could say 'frabjabbit'. But here, who knew where to go? Eventually, they pulled into the parking lot of the local Snuckeys.
Snuckeys was still on the up curve, having now been established for three decades. From a single store in Des Moines, Iowa, Snuckeys now carpeted the country with four hundred branches.
Snuckeys was versatile. You could fill up your tank, have your windows washed and pump up the tires. You could sit down and have a bar meal, buy soft drinks and chips, or get a takeaway. You could buy your weekly groceries there, or your cat food, or your favourite magazine, or the daily paper. Snuckeys was convenient. Snuckeys was clinical - the benches were always freshly wiped, and not a mote of dust spent more than twenty four hours inside the store. And Snuckeys was friendly - all Snuckeys employees were smiling and helpful, and large skylights and windows let daylight illuminate.
Walking in, Sam and Max felt they were a little out of their territory. This was a place for the family tourists, Florida retirees by the busload, middle America. Nevertheless, they kept on going. The aisles (there were three) were chock full of disposables, but empty of people.
On inspection, there wasn't all that much on sale in Snuckey's. If you had an eye for souvenirs, and a fierce desire to lose all your teeth, you were well catered for. Sam took note of the genuine Native American drums manufactured by genuine native Koreans, and some chocolate Jackalopes, the bastard children of Piltdown man. Also, the official Snuckey's flyswatter (?, thought Sam)
Sam finally found a box of pecan-flavoured candies in the chocolate bar section, near, strangely enough, a carousel of bootleg Sam and Max portable Carbomb games. Sam took the box to the counter, hearing behind him Max whining about going to the bathroom.
Snuckey's had a big counter, covering one full side of the store. It was used for a lot of things - buying goods, ordering eat in or takeaway, buying petrol, getting directions, in fact all business was conducted around here. There wasn't much business at the moment, however. Just a fat guy sitting down at one corner of the bench, eating a huge icecream sundae.
Sam wasn't watching him. He was looking at the guy behind the counter. The guy had a dinky Snuckey's white and red hat, the regulation striped red and white shirt, a bowtie, thin arms, and what had to be a fake moustache. One hell of a soda jerk, thought Sam, studying his patient and earnest expression. If this guy had a name, it would be Clarence.
"You're awfully cheery for a minimum wage earner," said Sam.
Clarence smiled an obviously rehearsed smile. "All Snuckey U graduates have completed courses in excessive and unwarranted cheerfulness!" he said, and the voice suited the man. Limp and cheerful. "But enough about me; what can I do for you?"
"Snuckey U?" asked Sam. "What's that?"
"I sense exposition, Sam," warned Max.
"I'm glad you asked, Mister," said Clarence. He looked into space, remembering how it went. "Snuckey U. is where all Snuckey's employees are sent to learn the ins, the outs, the ups, the downs, the overs, and the unders, of the amazing gastronomical and cultural phenomenon that is Snuckey's."
"Fascinating," said Sam.
"No it's not," said Max, from under the counter.
"Humour him."
Clarence had clearly not finished. "At Snuckey U. we're given intensive courses in Patty Pounding, Choosing the Right Button for Soft Drinks, and the all-important Pickle Jar Opening."
"I had no idea you were so rigorously trained," said Sam.
"Hey, I can open any jar in the country," said Clarence, with a touch of pride.
"Cool," enthused Sam.
"No it's not."
"Now," said Clarence, "how can I put all that intensive Snuckey U. training to use for you?"
"Do you know anything about Bigfoots?" asked Sam hopefully. It was a long shot, but they weren't all that far from the Carnival.
Clarence shook his head slightly. "Only what I read about in the Weekly International Evening Enquirer Star. Anything else?"
Sam handed him the box of candy. "I'd like to buy these," he said. They completed the transaction with a minimum of fuss.
"That's a box of our world-famous Snuckey's pecan-flavoured candy, beloved treat of couch potatoes everywhere!" said Clarence conversationally, handing Sam the box. "Anything else?"
"I gotta go to the bathroom," said Max irritably.
"My little buddy has to use the facilities," explained Sam.
"Facilities be damned! I need a bathroom!"
Clarence reached under the counter. "They're in the back. Here's the key." Max reached over the counter for the keys, which were attached to a thick, heavy rasp large enough to rule a piece of paper with.
"That's an awfully big rasp attached to that keychain," commented Sam.
"Out of toilet paper?" asked Max.
Clarence shook his head again, in that slight manner of his. "Naw, we just had problems with thugs stealing our restroom keys. They're the cleanest in nine counties."
"The keys?" asked Sam dubiously.
"The restrooms," corrected Clarence.
Sam looked at Max, standing there with the keys in one hand. "You need some help, lil' buddy?"
"I think I can handle this myself, Sam," said Max. He walked toward the doors, jangling the keys loudly.
"Now, anything else I can do for you?" asked Clarence hopefully.
"Nothing," said Sam.
"You have no idea how often I hear that," said Clarence sadly. Sam heard the doors swish open as Max walked outside.

Sam caught up with Max outside, as he was returning from the duties. "Max!" he called out.
Max stopped.
"I think we should keep the rasp," explained Sam, looking at it in Max's right hand.
"You're probably right," said Max, reflecting. "No one deserves to use restrooms that clean." He gave Sam the rasp (which Sam put in his box, of course), and they got back into the trusty DeSoto.
A short, but eventful car trip later, they were back at the Carnival gates. No one important seemed to have turned up while they were gone - the car park was as empty as ever. They walked on in, past the firebreather who gave no sign of recognition but let them through anyway.
After some mild protestations from Max, Sam worked out a better way of getting into the Tunnel of Love. They walked in at the point where the swans emerged, along the thin walkway. Straight back to the lair of the Mole Man.
"Hey, Spud!" said Sam, finding Doug glued once more to the TV.
"Wha'?" said Doug, eyes glazed.
Sam gave him the box. "Here. I thought you might like some pecan flavoured candy."
Doug looked eager, and licked his lips as he took the box. "Thanks. Pecan's my favourite. Hey, you're all right! Take this key as a token of my appreciation." He reached down by the side of the chair for the key. It was a complicated operation, as he not only had to overcome his short limbs, but also had to keep the bowl of Lil' Boy Blue Blobz balanced. Finally he grasped the key, and gave it to Sam. Sam looked a little surprised - this was a crowbar.
"Wow. This is some key," said Sam, making a mental note to keep it well away from Max.
"Okay, Sam, let's get the hell outta here," said Max, a faint note of urgency in his voice. Somehow he knew what was coming up.
"Wait!" said Doug. "I've got a great story you should hear."
"AAAAACCCCCHHHHHH!" groaned Max melodramatically, gasping.
"Keep it short, kid," advised Sam. "My partner's got a low tolerance for long stories."
Doug stared into the past. "Well, it all started the day before today. I remember it like it was yesterday..."
Sam stood there patiently, as Doug turned into a semi-skilled raconteur.
"It's not widely known," began Doug, "but Trixie had fallen in love with Bruno. Every night she'd sneak into the freakshow tent, and read to him what she imagined to be his favourite bedtime stories. She seemed as happy as a self mutilated parody of nature could be. But she could never truly be happy into her beloved Bruno was set free. Finally, she decided to do something about her predicament. She begged Flambe, the fire-breather, to free the bigfoot from his icy cage. Flambe took pity on poor Trixie, and liberated Bruno. And the happy couple haven't been seen since."
Doug looked happily at Sam. "Helluva story, ain't it?"
Sam nodded noncommitally, and followed Max outside. In the sunlight, he got a better look at the crowbar - it was really nasty. "It's a key's key," said Sam.
"No, Sam, it's a crowbar!" said Max. "Let's pummel somebody!"
"You're such a cute, misguided little bunny," said Sam. Together they walked through the Carnival, finally finding Trixie's trailer.
"It's the door to Trixie's trailer," said Sam, looking at the huge non-bulletproof lock.
"That sounds like a country-and-western song, Sam."
Sam stood on the short stool at the door, and stared at the door at close quarters. He hefted the crowbar menacingly. "Watch this, Max," he said, about to do something spectacular.
Max kept quiet, diplomatically, as Sam shoved the crowbar into the gap between the top of the door and the trailer, pulled, and fell backward as the door came out, hinges and all, finally landing on his back in the dirt, the door squashed on top of him, his nose just peeking out over the top.
"Well, this is undignified," said Sam.

They entered the warm, one-room trailer.
This was too cute. Sam felt a violent reaction within himself, against the pink eiderdown, the vase of flowers on the table, the faint, flowery wallpaper. Such an atmosphere of hope and innocence.
"Oh boy!" said Max, and leapt onto the huge, billowing bed. He jumped up and down, enjoying the trampoline motion.
Sam kept his feet, and his head, and started looking around for clues. He saw something interesting on the grocery shelf - "Oooh," he said, "they're genuine Scrantonese potions of fertility!"
"Let's take 'em!"
Sam shook his head. "I don't think we should risk being any more fertile than we already are, Max." He didn't want to spend too much time rummaging around here -these lotions reminded him of traumatic childhood trips to the groomer.
There was nothing interesting on the table, or on the seats around it (there were some fluffy animals, but these were strictly peripheral). That left a pink, seven foot closet, and a blue chest with a yellow star on it.
"That's a big closet," said Sam, wonderingly.
"Trixie's a big girl," said Max.
Sam seized the handles and wrenched the doors open. The closet was empty.
It was starting to look like Trixie had purposefully eloped with Bruno. No signs of struggle in the trailer, a working lock, and most of her stuff gone. Just as he was about to shut the closet, he saw something stuck to the inside of the door.
Sam pulled it off. It was a scorecard from the Gator Golf emporium in Rheumy Eyes, Florida. The scorecard went in the box, along with a mental note to head down to Florida sometime. That left the chest - a hope chest, Sam now saw.
"I hope it's filled with more gold than my poor eyes can stand!" said Max.
It wasn't. All Sam could find was a blue costume. Unfolding it, the costume was of enormous lengths, and had huge legs - this must be a stiltwalker's costume. There was nothing incriminating or useful in the pockets, but Sam shoved it into his box anyway. You never knew when things might come in handy.

Walking back toward the front gate, Sam was glad. This was probably the last they'd be spending at the carnival for some time. They'd been getting just a bit sick of it.
At the gate, they caught Flambe. "Hey, flame boy!" called out Sam.
"Yes?"
Sam indicated the flaming stick Flambe used to light his breath. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"A lot," admitted Flambe. "I suppose there's a trick to it. I just haven't been able to figure it out."
"Your ineptitude gives hope to all of us further down on the food chain," said Max.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" asked Flambe.
Sam had him right where he wanted him. He attacked. "You can drop the act," he said. "We know it was your kerosene-soaked breath that freed Bruno!"
"And we know that you sometimes go for days on the same pair of socks!" added Max triumphantly.
Flambe looked around carefully. Finally, he said, "Okay, you caught me. Just don't tell my bosses."
"Maybe we should rat him out, Sam," said Max. "The thought of him out on the streets, drinking lighter fluid, seems somehow ironic." He grinned, showing a full set of his rounded, cobbled teeth.
"It's scary to watch you wrestle with abstract concepts, Max," remarked Sam. He looked back at Flambe. "Did you ever talk to Bruno before he escaped?"
"How could I?" protested Flambe. "He was in a block of ice!"
Sam had to concede that point. "Did Trixie tell you anything useful before she and Bruno escaped?"
"Nope," said Flambe. "She's not a very talkative girl."
"How'd Trixie talk you into freeing Bruno?"
Flambe looked uncomfortable. "She charmed me with her feminine wiles. She also promised to pay me twenty bucks."
"Sure you never talked to Trixie?"
Flambe shook his head. "Nope. Never. Not me."
"So you don't know anything about her." It was a statement.
"Absolutely nothing," confirmed Flambe. "We never talked to each other. Ever."
That seemed to be all they could get out of Flambe.

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