The Party at Carousel 3

The Party at Carousel 3
by Alexander "KG" Hwang

Marx Shukla was at a party.
The party was not actually there, though one could argue about the nuances of existence, if it came down to it. At any rate, the party was real enough in one sense to him.
Marx was upset. More upset than he could ever remember being. It was the reason he came here, to this party of unreality taking place on real Earth during a potentially real time.
He was in the kitchen area, an enormous white room filled with tables of food, though what people defined as "food" varied from person to person, and thus from table to table.
Marx's plate contained several days, as well as two weeks. It was, he reflected, something funny. He was not entirely sure why he found it funny, though. His cup was filled with hours, which were somewhat less funny.
A flower approached him. The flower was in the form of a pale-skinned man wearing a dark green suit, decorated only by a pink flower blossom on the chest of his coat. There was a beige shirt visible beneath his suit shirt and his shoes were dark brown. He was about Marx's height, his hair was black with the slightest hint of purple, and his eyes were green. His plate held a large clump of moist soil and a sphere of sunlight and his cup was filled with water.
"You look a little down," the flower murmured. "What's your name?"
"Marx," Marx replied, absently consuming a day. "Yours?"
"Oleander," came the reply. He was quiet, his voice as gentle as a spring breeze.
"I don't really want to talk about it," Marx said, looking down at his plate. "Sometimes, things happen. And you wish they didn't happen, you know?"
Oleander nodded. "I understand."
Marx said nothing for some time, drinking hours in his glass.
"Congratulations on your usefulness," Marx suddenly said, in monotone.
"You sound like you've said that a lot today," Oleander replied, eating some dirt.
"Today," Marx agreed, "and the past few days. I've been here for a long time, now."
Oleander looked at Marx for a while in silence.
A religious movement approached the two of them, then. The religious movement was in the form of a Jewish man wearing a gray suit, complete with a black tie and a white shirt visible beneath, a black hat with a moderate brim, typical reading glasses, and black shoes. He was about the same height as Marx and Oleander, his short hair and beard were a dark brown, and his eyes were hazel. His plate held pieces of some sort of lumpy bread covered in sesame seeds, a miniature bowl filled with a deep-red soup, large dumplings, and sliced carrots. His cup was filled with wine.
"Evening, gentlemen," the religious movement said, nodding graciously. He sounded like a jolly middle-aged adult. "Having a good time?"
Marx furrowed his brow at the religious movement. "I'm guessing you're a sect of Judaism, but which one?"
"Isn't it obvious, boy?" the religious movement asked, laughing. "I am Humanistic Judaism."
"Ah," Marx said, not sure exactly what made it obvious. "Congratulations on your usefulness."
"How's it going?" Oleander asked, inspecting a spoonful of dirt.
"Quite well," Humanistic Judaism said, sitting near them on the outward-jutting side of the wall. "I think I prefer Brahma's parties over the other two."
"I could never tell the difference," Marx murmured, thoughtful.
"My siblings," Humanistic Judaism explained, "Orthodox Judaism and several sects of Christianity, frequent Visnu's parties. And I'm not one to go to Siva's parties."
"Not a fan of your siblings?" Oleander asked.
"Oh, it's not that," Humanistic Judaism replied. "Rather, they're not fans of me. They're usually not fans of each other, when it comes down to it. They're fighting practically all the time. And, well, I'm the secular one."
"Do you even count as a religious movement?" Marx asked.
"Oh, of course," Humanistic Judaism said. "I'm still a part of the family, though you might say I was adopted by Humanism, and I do encompass cultural belief systems and world views. I'm sort of like Confucianism."
"Sort of," Marx repeated.
Humanistic Judaism laughed. "So who are you two?"
"Oleander," Oleander answered.
"I'm Marx," Marx said.
"You, Marx, strike me as someone with a lot on his mind," Humanistic Judaism murmured, responding to Marx's glum tone.
"It's not something I want to talk about," Marx said. "I... I want to disappear. I don't know, I guess that's why I came here."
"How long have you been here?" Humanistic Judaism asked.
"Four days," Marx responded.
Humanistic Judaism choked on a piece of bread and had a brief coughing fit.
Oleander didn't say anything, though a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"Four days!" Humanistic Judaism exclaimed, after drinking some wine. "That's a long time to be away from your place. It's not healthy, boy."
Marx nodded. "I know. I guess I'm just punishing myself."
"You really do regret something," Humanistic Judaism murmured thoughtfully.
"Maybe you should leave the party," Oleander suggested quietly.
"I don't want to go back now," Marx muttered.
"No," Oleander said in a low voice. "I mean leave the party. Through the back door."
Marx became silent.
"You realize what that would do," Humanistic Judaism said.
"Yes," Marx eventually said. "Maybe that is what I want."
Humanistic Judaism gave Marx a stern stare for a while, then shook his head.
"Sometimes," Oleander mused, "people need to take a break, don't you think?"
"It can be a permanent break," Humanistic Judaism warned. "Maybe even a fatal one."
Marx stood up, setting his now-empty plate down.
"You're going to try?" Humanistic Judaism asked.
"I will try," Marx murmured. "I want to know what will happen. I feel like... it's time for a change."
Marx walked away from Oleander and Humanistic Judaism, who remained where they were, and headed toward the dance room.
Along the way, he encountered a music sub-genre he had seen before, Shoegaze. Shoegaze was in the form of an almost-pink-skinned woman, slightly shorter than Marx, wearing a bright pink cropped top that might as well have been an alternative bra, purple pants of no particular design, red high-heeled shoes, and golden jewelery in the form of bracelets, rings, and earrings. Her hair was long, wiry, and bright violet and her eyes were gray.
She appeared to be looking around at the kitchen area, thoughtfully.
"Shoegaze," Marx murmured, approaching her.
"Oh hey Marx," Shoegaze replied, seeing him, her voice subdued in a way that made it almost sound like part of the background, even though the music coming from the dance room was a Lavani song.
"You're still here?" Marx asked. He saw her at the party on the second day he was there.
"What do you mean, still?" Shoegaze shot back, one eyebrow raised. "My outfit is totally different. Obviously I came here again after leaving."
"Ah," Marx said, eyeing her outfit. "I forget."
"Don't tell me you've been here the whole time?" Shoegaze asked, looking concerned.
"Well, yes," Marx said. "I haven't felt like going back just yet."
Shoegaze frowned at Marx. "Well, I'm sure you'll go back when you're ready. Nothing wrong with taking your time, I guess."
"Yeah," Marx said. "Nothing to worry about."
Shoegaze gazed down at her shoes thoughtfully.
"Anyway, I'll see you around," Marx said.
"Next time," Shoegaze acknowledged, watching him through a tangle of hair as he walked into the dance room.
The music had changed to German heavy metal, which would probably have been more suitable for Shoegaze. Marx grimaced as he began to thread through the crowd, as the music did not exactly appeal to him.
He recognized Heliotrope, Pluto (the dwarf planet), Arthacias, Pi, Howaito De, Hungary, Kest, Nowruz, and Dhrtarāstra. He waved to each of them as he saw them, though he did not take up any of their invitations to dance.
When he reached the back corridor, he ran into someone.
It seemed to be a concept, though it was hard to tell, exactly. There was a strange kind of uncertainty that evoked a sense of importance to Marx. The concept was in the form of a tall and ancient gray-eyed man wearing a long gray robe that folded around him in a manner that somehow resembled wings. His wrinkled face held a sizable gray beard that reached his chest and the gray hair on his head was thick and curled. He held a sturdy scythe in his right hand, the blade turned behind him, and an hourglass half-filled with gray sand in his left hand.
Marx stared at him blankly for some time, then he realized who it was. Of course.
"You recognize me," the old man acknowledged, smiling. "Marx, you're distraught."
"Yes," Marx murmured, looking down.
"I know," the old man said, "to some extent you maybe blame me for what happened. It is understandable that you do, and really something people do all the time. But to another extent you think it is your fault. This isn't fair on you, and I'm sure you realize this too."
"You already know what I am going to do," Marx said, looking up at eyes that defined and defied age.
"Your people have always seen me as a kind of parent," the old man mumbled. "Let me endorse this view and tell you that I care about you."
"I can't ask you about what I'm going to do, can I?" Marx asked.
"Not this time," the old man admitted, almost sadly.
"Well," Marx said, "thank you anyway. Congratulations on your usefulness."
The old man laughed then, though offered no further comment. He approached Marx and half-embraced him with his left arm. As he did so, Marx could feel the coldness of the hourglass upon his shoulder.
Then the old man released him, nodded to him, and continued toward the dance room, slowly but surely. Marx watched the old man vanish into the crowd before continuing on.
When he rounded the next corner, he found a group of nine beings in the way. Marx was not sure what they were, exactly, though he got the impression they were concepts of some sort. Yet they almost seemed to be of the real and living.
They were all wearing cowls of different colors, though from a distance they all looked black, with the hoods up in a way that mostly obscured their faces. They were of somewhat varying heights, though one was rather hunched over and another was larger than the rest. Most of them carried objects as well.
The one in the dark gray cowl leaned on a golden scepter. His face was that of a somewhat elderly man with some kind of black stone embedded in his forehead.
The one in the dark red cowl held a long knife in one hand and some papers in the other. Her face was obscured not only by her hood but by long black hair over her eyes, allowing nothing but red lips to be seen, though more of her black hair reached out of the edges of her hood.
The one in the dark brown cowl was the hunched one, apparently holding nothing. His posture made did not allow Marx to see his face, though, oddly, a drooling tongue could be seen beneath the hood.
The one in the dark blue cowl kept his hands hidden from view, though the outline of what Marx suspected was a gun could be seen. His face revealed a pair of dark glasses and a thin mouth.
The one in the dark green cowl held two curved swords, one in each hand. Her face revealed a bitter-looking woman.
The one in the dark yellow cowl held a cat o' nine tails. His face was significantly taken up by orangish-brown beard.
The one in the dark violet cowl held a conical flask half-filled with a bubbling red liquid. Her face revealed a pair of severely reflective glasses and a smiling mouth, with some of her almost-white hair to either side.
The one in the dark cyan cowl was the large one, apparently holding nothing, though metallic gloves could be seen worn over big hands. His face was fierce and intimidating, consisting of two large eyes that stared directly at Marx and a massive frown.
The one in the black cowl also held nothing. His face revealed a grinning man, his eyes thin.
Marx realized that he recognized some of them, despite their cowls. Pieces of a puzzle fit together in his mind, and he guessed what this encounter meant. He was supposed to act passive and resigned, based on what he remembered, but it occurred to him that there was no need to act, because he was already so inclined anyway.
"So," Marx said. "I guess it's time I met you guys, huh?"
"You know of us," the one in black rasped in a stereotypically dark and sinister voice.
"Sort of," Marx replied. "I'm guessing you know why."
"You will reveal nothing," the one in black murmured.
"That's right," Marx agreed.
"He's a smug bastard," the one in green growled, her voice sounding like a great feline. She had moved her swords to a slightly more menacing angle. Marx eyed the swords with a frown, knowing that any violence would lead to intervention by Brahma and end the party early. The one in violet giggled a high-pitched laugh, presumably at what the one in green said.
Marx then realized he was angry.
"We're not doing anything here," the one in black said, as if reminding the one in green.
"His smugness," the one in yellow murmured in the voice of a chain smoker, "indicates that he believes his side will win. If he knows something we don't..."
"Both sides," the one in black murmured, "know things their opponents do not. We're not backing out of this game now. And, obviously, we didn't anyway. We will acquire the advantage, in time."
"We perhaps ought to quicken this pace," the one blue stated in a monotone voice that resembled a machine. "This corridor is not used infrequently."
"Not to mention that we're wasting time here, anyway," the one in green muttered.
"All right," the one in black said, addressing Marx. "Leave through the back door. You know what'll happen?"
"I know," Marx replied.
"Huh," the one in black said. "You must be depressed. Anyway, just wait for us when you get there. We're taking the long way around."
Marx nodded and kept going down the corridor, wondering how they had originally planned to persuade him to do this without using force. He avoiding looking at them, knowing they were watching him walk.
"Why are you doing this?" the one in gray asked when Marx passed. His voice was a permanent whisper.
"I'm going to get information out of all of you," Marx said, fairly certain this was safe to say.
"You poor fool," the one in gray replied, visibly shaking his head.
Marx continued down the corridor and met Student, a sort of concept that always watched the back door in a way not unlike the Doorman, who watched the front door.
"I'm leaving, Student," Marx murmured.
"Out... this way?" Student asked, looking vaguely concerned. "You know what will happen."
"Yes," Marx said. "I will become one of the humans."
Student said nothing more and opened the door for him, bowing.
As Marx passed the threshold of the doorway, he felt a strong wrenching that he had never felt before. It did not hurt, but it was as if something was trying to keep him from passing through to the human world. He forced himself through anyway, and felt himself become something very different.
Outside, the party did not exist. Rather, it did not exist for him, because he was now a simple human, destined to stay so unless, by a freak chance, he stumbled back into the party at Carousel.