Last edit made on February 28th 2015.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own DGM – which is a pity, truly.
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The First Testament
- The Clown and the Dog -
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Red. That had been his name for as far as he could remember. He had been called Robin too on occasion, but he had always liked Red better; Robin sounded like a girl's name.
He was Red, because of his deformed left hand, scaly and red, imbedded with a glowing green cross which he hid beneath gloves and long sleeves more often than not.
He was Red, like his hair which was a reddish brown, yet so dirty at times that it seemed to be the colour of mud.
His eyes ‒ a stormy grey with a hint of silver in them ‒ were cold as they calmly observed the world around them, memorising what seemed even remotely important and forgetting the rest.
At one point in time, his eyes had been just like those seen possessed by other children his age, like the ones who were taken for a visit to the circus, brought there by their parents, their eyes twinkling with delight over all the magical and mysterious and utterly fantastic things that they saw while there, some of them even dreaming of staying there and joining the circus to experience that kind of magic each and every day.
There was no magic.
Red threw another freshly peeled potato into the water bucket with the rest.
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Red was by no means bitter, not in the slightest actually; he was merely realistic, and a bit cynical yes, but if someone who had lived a life like his actually turned out an optimist then Red would have been fully content to go and label the other person mentally retarded, before going off to drown himself.
It was just too bad that he was such a great swimmer.
Abandoned at an early age ‒ thrown away like garbage by his biological parents simply because they couldn't bear looking at his so called "deformity" ‒ Red had ended up in a London orphanage operated by the Church. He certainly hadn't stayed there for long though, mostly because the nuns had this peculiar idea that he was possessed by the Devil and needed to undergo an exorcism every odd week or so.
It was following such an experience that Red had initially concluded that if God really did exist, then he was a sadistic and twisted bastard who should be avoided as much as humanly possible. This conclusion also applied to anyone who proclaimed themselves messengers of said sadistic and twisted bastard or to people who claimed to be doing said bastard's work.
Red didn't like people; people were deceitful and trusting them could very well equal suicide in his case. He trusted himself and himself alone, and had good manners only when it suited him, that is, not very often. Potential provocations were answered with hits, kicks and bites and he cursed people who bothered him on a regular basis. He was a decent fighter, for a person his size at least, but that wasn't to say that he didn't take a hit every now and then, at times when he wasn't quick enough.
That lousy performer Cosimo in particular liked to seek him out to 'teach him a lesson' whenever the man had gotten some alcohol into his system, and in time, courtesy of a fair number of beatings, Red had come to develop an intense feeling of dislike towards the man.
It was not hatred per se, but rather a very distinctive dislike, in a "hating-you-is-way-too-bothersome-so-I-will-just-dance-on-top-of-your-grave-when-you-finally-keel-over" kind of way.
Intense emotions were a bother; they were hurtful and he didn't exactly enjoy being in pain. Besides, if he could avoid it, then why bother with feelings in the first place?
But really, if he was still around by the time that Cosimo finally perished then he would almost definitely do it; dance on top of his grave, that is.
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Mana Walker was a strange prick in Red's world.
The clown had come to the circus pretty recently along with his dog, Allen, and had stayed there since. They performed tricks together and were quite good at entertaining the audience and in the end that was really all that mattered.
Mana Walker was quite unlike any other person, at the circus or otherwise, that Red had met. First of all, it was blatantly obvious to anyone with even half a brain that the man was not completely sane. With the whole clown getup and all, it was quite difficult to tell exactly how mentally unstable the man was. As such, Red made good measure to stay away from him as much as possible.
His dog however was pretty nice, as nice as any dog could be, Red privately supposed.
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Dogs were honest, not particularly clever, but honest. They did not deceive others and were completely honest about their feelings. Were they scared or provoked, they either bit or ran, just like Red himself, and that may have been one of the reasons as to why Red had found himself relating to them.
There was one thing however, that dogs had which he certainly didn't have, and that was a sense of unwavering loyalty for the people whom they viewed as their masters.
Red had no master and he had no owner, regardless of the illusions held by the ringmaster of the circus. Then again, Red himself was probably pretty unimportant; he was just another waif that had appeared before him looking for a job – any job – regardless of the meagre wages. Any waifs that weren't desperate enough or merely unsuited for acts such as thievery or selling their bodies on the street eventually ended up looking for a job at a circus, to the extent of Red's knowledge at least.
Red himself was a bit of everything. Certainly, with his abnormal arm and all, he was considered a freak and probably belonged there with the circus. There was a bit more to him that that though. Thievery certainly wasn't below him; he just did it at times when there was the least risk of him getting caught. Prostitution however was an area into which he held no intention to tread. Even though he was young, Red knew what eventually happened to those who went down that road, just as he knew that very few lived to tell the tale.
In any case, Red did not consider himself a dog that could be collared and simply be expected to obey whichever commands were issued by whoever held onto the leash. If anything, then he was a cat – a stray – that kept to whoever fed him and on occasion lowered himself to perform tricks to attain more food.
Indeed, he was most definitely a cat and a fairly wild one at that as he hissed, clawed and bit just about anyone who came too close whilst harbouring dubious intentions. It was simply too bad that his meagre body was insufficient and dreadfully so, because no matter how much of a fighter he was, he usually ended up being beaten in the face of bigger and stronger opponents if he was not quick enough in his retreat.
Red hissed in pain when he tried to use both his legs to support himself as the world tilted dangerously in his vision. He soon grew to favour his right leg as he got a move on, limping heavily but hiding it well as he made his way out of there.
Cosimo had gotten him good again.
There wouldn't be a next time.
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On a late December morning, one he would later recall as one of the days surrounding Christmas, a clown sat hunched next to a leafless tree, digging a hole into the ground. Once finished, the bruised body – or carcass or whatever – of Allen the Dog was gently laid to rest within it.
"Is he dead?" Red asked, even though it was all quite obvious and his question was far more rhetorical than anything else.
The clown turned around and Red found himself averting his eyes, trying to look inconspicuous or something. Red really wondered why he had bothered in the first place; he really hated clowns.
"He's dead," the clown eventually confirmed, looking at the dog down in the pit.
"He's covered in bruises," Red said, once again pointing out the obvious rather than trying to get personal. This was just small talk; it held no meaning other than to keep an uncomfortable silence at bay. When there was no reply from the other he was forced to continue, once again by pointing out things so obvious to him that they were on par with the sky being blue and grass being green.
"Cosimo probably did it," he deadpanned. "Because the audience likes you more than him. He hates that, when people are better than him. He's got no talent, except for when it comes to things like this."
There was a brief pause as the clown started filling the makeshift grave with soil, covering the carcass entirely before patting the pile almost affectionately, placing a small star-patterned ball on top of it. "He was an old dog," he said, brushing the dirt away from his palms. "He wouldn't have lived for much longer anyway, so it's alright."
Red let out a thoughtful hum. Then, he huffed. "You're not getting revenge?"
The clown merely clapped his hands together in what could be seen as a mockery of a prayer before answering him in a light-hearted tone of voice. "If I do that, then I'll get thrown out of here and won't get paid," he said, still wearing that false clown smile on his face. "I'm a newcomer after all. After tomorrow, I'll head off somewhere new."
"I see," Red said. It was a sound reasoning, he had give it that much, even if it annoyed the Hell out of him for some reason.
Next to him, the clown made a thoughtful sound. "So, who are you anyway?"
"I do odd jobs around here. I brought you food the other day," Red responded, deliberately forgetting to offer up his name.
"I have a bad memory for faces," the clown responded.
Red let out a slight huff out of irritation. How long would this absolutely pointless conversation drag on?
"Oh my!" the clown suddenly exclaimed. "You're covered in bruises too, aren't you?"
Said deranged clown then proceeded to lick his finger and to smear it onto Red's cheek, something Red obviously protested against.
"Gross," he stated, wiping it off of his cheek with his sleeve while scooting away from the deranged spit-smearing maniac.
"It's disinfectant," said clown offered up as an explanation.
Red huffed indignantly. "If I wanted to disinfect my wounds, then I would've done so myself; being smeared with old-man spit is gross…"
"Did Cosimo beat you up?" the clown asked, not paying any attention to his earlier insult.
"Shut up," Red responded, still fervently wiping the spit off of his face.
"Don't you have any friends?" the clown went on, seemingly oblivious to his growing irritation.
For some reason, Red wanted to hit this man – to hit him hard and to hit him repeatedly. He honestly couldn't figure out why he even bothered humouring the man. "As soon as I'm strong enough, I'm getting out of here. I don't need friends," he eventually responded, looking at the ground as he did so.
The clown resorted to clowning around in an attempt to cheer him up, making grimaces and stuff.
Red found himself wanting to hit him again.
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"I hate clowns."
"Well, I hate crowds and children who don't laugh."
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"Aren't you gonna cry?"
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"He lived with you for a long time, didn't he?"
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"Aren't you sad?"
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"I'm so sad I could die."
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"But I can't cry."
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"Maybe my tears have dried up."
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"They just won't come."
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Silver-grey eyes watched the man with a kind of dull disinterest bordering on interest.
Red really didn't understand humans.
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"What's up with that?"
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"What was his name?"
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"He licked my hand yesterday. His tongue was warm."
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He was staring down at the makeshift grave, the pile of dirt and the ball lying on top of it.
Such useless gestures they were; it wasn't like the dog needed that ball in the afterlife anyway, right?
Humans and their strange sentimental gestures…
Something wet trickled down his cheek, but his overall facial expression didn't change.
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How come I'm the one crying?
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