Chapter 64: Guinness World Record

(Warning: Adult Themes)

​

When I’d originally bought my first sword-swallowing swords on Pier 39 in San Francisco, they’d come in a two-pack. And one day, after a mountain biking session with my brother, as I put my bike away, I saw the extra sword sitting in my car’s backseat. I didn’t really need it, so I asked him, “Hey, you want this sword-swallowing sword?”
My brother said, “Sure,” so I gave it to him.

And I probably wouldn’t have ever thought about that moment again if I hadn’t gotten this e-mail:

—

Dear Bill, 
My name is Dan Meyer, sword swallower and founder of the Sword Swallowers Association International (SSAI). I just bought a sword-swallowing sword on eBay, and when I messaged the seller, I reached your brother. He gave me your information, so I wanted to reach out and say hello. 

We’re hosting the world’s first-ever Sword Swallowers convention with the Sideshow Gathering in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and I wanted to extend you an invitation. Representatives from Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Guinness World Records, and major media will be there, and we hope to set a group record for the most sword swallowers in one place, all sword swallowing at the same time. 

Let me know if you’re interested, and I’ll get you more details. 
Keep your chin up!
Dan Meyer

—

Dan Meyer… I didn’t recognize the name, but an online search said he was one of the most decorated living sword swallowers. Known for pulling a car with chains attached to a swallowed sword, sword swallowing underwater while surrounded by sharks in the New England Aquarium, swallowing a car axle, and lots more. A sword-swallowing badass! 
I wrote back.

—

Dear Dan, 
It’s so good to meet you, and I appreciate you reaching out. That all sounds amazing. I’d love to be a part of it. Just send me all the info, and as long as I’m available, I’m in. 
Sincerely,
Bill Berry

—

When I got his response, I learned the event was being held in conjunction with a sideshow and tattoo convention. I also heard that fire-eater, performer, and tattoo artist Levi Cross of the Black Adder Cabaret would be in attendance. I’d run into Levi at a few festivals, and I knew he was a fixture in the NY scene, so I reached out and asked how he was planning to get to the convention. 

He said he planned to drive and graciously offered me a spot in his van. This was a win; Levi had been running his DIY cabaret for years, and he had a reputation for being a walking encyclopedia of road stories. A few hours in a van with a guy who’d survived that many tours sounded like an education in itself. 

I thanked him and asked for all the details so I could arrange my flights.
Levi gave me his home address and told me the day/time he intended to leave. Armed with all the necessary information, I booked my flights.

* * *

I didn’t have a penny to spare, and just attending would stretch my meager resources. So when I landed in New York, I pulled out some directions and maps I’d printed off the internet, hoping they would help me get to Brooklyn via the subway. I didn’t grow up in a place with subways or a culture of public transportation, so I was worried I’d get lost. After collecting my bags from the baggage claim, I followed the signs to the subway, bought a ticket, lugged my gear down some staircases, and got on a train. There wasn’t a direct to Brooklyn, and I wasn’t sure where I needed to transfer. I stood in the moving car, balancing myself and gear, poring over the maps I’d printed, listening to the announcements, and praying to hear something about Brooklyn. 

Nearby, a guy with muscles that looked as if they might tear through his wife-beater shirt asked, “Yo, where you tryin’ to get?”
“Brooklyn?” I answered hesitantly. 

He nodded sagely, “You’re gon hafta transfer. Relax, I’m’za tell you when.”
“Thank you,” I said, not 100% certain if I could trust him, but having no better option. I folded up my map and put it in my pocket.

The next few stops went by, and the big guy didn’t look at me or give me any indication. I started to get nervous again; I didn’t have enough time to miss a stop, so I started paying attention to the announcements again. Noticing this, the man waved his hand reassuringly as if to say, “You good, chill.”
I nodded and tried to “chill.”

Finally, an announcement came, and the man nodded, “This yo stop.”

I thanked him and gathered my gear for another run of the underground gauntlet. 

As the subway doors opened, people flooded out, weaving effortlessly through the crowd that was waiting to flood in. I tried to do what they did, but they were all lightly encumbered; with all my gear, I was clumsy. Once I’d cleared the crowd, an attractive woman in her early thirties came alongside and matched me step for step. “Bhooklyn,” she said in a German accent. It wasn’t a question.

“Uh, yeah,” I said in surprise. 

“Follow mehh,” she commanded. 

I did, and she led me through another labyrinth of walkways and tunnels. When we emerged onto another platform, she instructed me to look for a particular train with a particular name and board it when it arrived. 

I nodded my understanding, and without another word, she left me. I wanted to say thanks, but she was already ascending a nearby staircase. As she went, I noticed that her dark stockings had a thin black line down the back, ending in shiny black three-inch heels. 

When the correct train arrived, I boarded along with a few other passengers. Once we were in motion, a man in a hat and business coat asked, “What stop are you supposed to take?”
“What?” I asked.

“In Brooklyn, which station do you need to get to?”
At this point, I was tempted to look around to see if I was on camera. How do all these people know I’m lost? And where I’m going? Was he on the first train, too? Or did he see the German woman giving me directions? I wanted to think about it more, but he was waiting for an answer, so I had to say something: “Uh, I need the Marcy Ave stop?”

He nodded, “Ok, I won’t let you miss it.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, then opened his newspaper. His demeanor was the opposite of mine; clearly a veteran of this commute, he hadn’t a care in the world. 

When the stop approached, he waved and said, “You’re next.”

I thanked him and debarked. Once on the platform, there were multiple options to reach street level, and I didn’t know which was correct, so I chose one at random. As I lugged my cases up multiple sets of stairs, I began to second-guess the efficacy of my Pelican luggage strategy. It worked well on flat ground, but this subway and staircase stuff, not so much. 

Reaching street level, I tried to get my bearings. Opening my map, I looked for easily identifiable landmarks. As I did, a little old lady who was walking by stopped and asked, “Where are you headed?”
I told her the address, and she pointed, “Cross over there, go down nine blocks, then make a right. 

I nodded, and she continued along her way. 

I watched her as she went. I’d heard so many things about New Yorkers. They’re supposed to be fast, rude, and indifferent to others, too caught up in their own affairs to be bothered with anyone else. But when I’d landed and become lost in their city, they had helped me along every leg of the journey. Not because I’d asked, but because they’d noticed I needed help. Silently coordinating to pass me along to the next guide at just the right moments. The NY stereotype was far from accurate; they’re caring, salt-of-the-earth Americans who help one another out. At that moment, I no longer felt lost; millions of would-be friends surrounded me, and you can’t ever be lost with friends all around. 

I followed the little old lady’s directions and found myself in a warehouse district. 

Row after row of bare-faced buildings, two to six stories high, lined each side of the street. I walked along them, thinking I must have taken a wrong turn because this wasn’t like any neighborhood I’d ever seen. I checked my notes for the address and tried to find the matching number on a building, but I didn’t see it. Most of the buildings didn’t have any addresses, signage, or even mailboxes. A concrete jungle, row after row of rusty roll-up doors, with loading docks extending right out to the street. The few sidewalks were intermittent, and where they existed, they were jagged and strewn with rubble from hard industrial use. This street was designed for commerce rather than foot traffic. Yet, neither a truck, a person, nor a trace of life could be seen. I pulled out my flip phone and tried Levi’s number, but there was no answer. I didn’t want to nag, but having no other options, I called a few more times, but still, no answer. Waiting is a part of life; sometimes, you have to wait. I sat on one of the concrete loading docks and waited for something to happen. 

Eventually, a yellow taxi turned onto the street. It was the only car I’d seen since I got here, and I didn’t know who it was or what its intention was, so I watched its approach carefully. It wove back and forth between the two lanes, dodging broken-up pallets, concrete rubble, and the many cavernous potholes before stopping at the curb beside me. 

The far-side backseat door flew open, and a brown-haired guy in his mid-twenties leaped out. Running to the curb side, he opened the other backseat door and stood at attention like a chauffeur. An alabaster-white hand with perfectly manicured nails reached out, and the man took it, helping the occupant disembark. It struck me as unnecessarily theatrical, like a western movie where a lady is helped out of a carriage by a love-whupped cowboy.

Standing fully, she considered her assistant, evaluating his performance of duties and, finding it neither lacking nor exceptional, stepped past him. No thanks escaped her lips. 

Her long, straight mahogany hair, thick and full, framed her distinctly Mediterranean face, with a sharp nose and hazel, gold-flecked eyes. 

She looked at me and gave me a slow, deliberate, head-to-toe-then-back-to-head scan. We held eye contact, a long, penetrating exchange, silently looking into one another’s souls. Then she held her hand out, palm down, creating a shape that could easily be shaken, but equally invited a kiss. I popped myself off the loading dock and shook her hand, “Bill,” I said. 
“Isadora,” she responded, holding my hand longer than was necessary. 

At 6'5", I towered over her, but she stood confidently, chin lowered, looking up through thick eyebrows, wordlessly incanting a sultry spell that was surely the ruin of many men. 

Noticing the protracted meeting, the chauffeur coughed, “Ahem.” He slammed the door loudly before heading to the trunk of the cab. Knocking twice to get the driver to pop it, he started unloading the gear. 

Hearing him at work, Isadora said to me, “Help with the bags, would you?” It was asked nicely, but it wasn’t an ask.
“Looks like he’s got it under control,” I replied pleasantly.

She frowned slightly, looking at me with exaggerated disappointment. Then, telepathically, her eyes whispered, You’re going to be difficult, I see. That’s ok, you’ll be mine soon enough. 

My eyes whispered back, Some men exist to take orders; others are born to give them.

Her eyes widened a thousandth of a millimeter, then one eyebrow arched in silent response. We shall see. She walked dismissively past me to prove my unimportance. 

I looked over at the chauffeur, who stared daggers at me as he set another piece of luggage on the curb. His expression was clear, and I read his thoughts: Don’t you dare. She’s mine, all mine. Soon, you’ll see. She’ll come around if I do enough; I’ll show her. And she’ll fall in love with me; she must, so you stay away!
I shook my head from side to side, half telling him to give it up cuz it was not going to happen, and half telling him I wasn’t trying to take her. 

But he’d already decided I was a threat, and could hear neither of my messages.

Turning, I saw that Isadora was surveying the building, clearly trying to find an entrance just as I had. 
“I called him a few times, but no answer.” I supplied. 

She rapped loudly on one of the metal roll-up doors, causing it to rattle in its tracks. The echo bounced around inside the warehouse space. 

Without looking at me, she said, “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a juggler.”

“A juggler? Do you know Dimitris Papadopoulos?”
“I’ve met him.”

“He’s the best,” she declared. 

“He is very good,” I responded.

Turning steely eyes on me, she said, “No, he’s the best.”

This quickly degraded into an argument over the nuances of juggling, what it means to be the best, whether art can be judged, the name-dropping of Anthony Gatto, Sean McKinney, and Jay Gilligan as competing candidates for the title of “best,” and her doggedly standing by the statement that Dimitris Papadopoulos is “The best.” I think it was partly because she believed it and partly because she enjoyed riling me up by being adamant. I recognized it as a deliberate row but still found myself drawn into it. We’d have turned up the temperature a few more degrees had there not been a loud whirring of cables and a scraping sound from inside the building. We waited expectantly, then heard heavy locks groan as they were pulled back. Next to the roll-up door, a normal-sized door screeched in displeasure as it was pulled wide, the post-modern equivalent of the main gate at Dracula’s Castle. Then Levi, groggy-eyed but with the ever-present “I’ve just thought of something amusing” smile he’s known for, appeared. 

“Well, good morning,” he said, sounding like he was addressing an audience from the stage.
Greetings and hellos were exchanged, then he invited us inside. 

We, along with our luggage, crowded onto a small platform, and Levi pulled closed an eight-foot-tall, industrial-sized accordion gate to encase us in a freight elevator. Levi reached for a giant button, nestled in a rusty metal box with a broken faceplate, and said, “Keep your hands in; there’s no safety on this thing.” Then he pressed the button. The whirring cable sound we’d heard from outside returned, only much louder, and we were slowly lifted off the ground. 

::whirrrrrrr::
I watched as shattered bricks and crumbling mortar passed just inches outside the wire cage as we rode; the original red bricks were punctuated by other types, clearly patches, multi-colored, yellow and white, marking where repairs had been made over decades. 

We rose two floors without speaking, as it would have been hard to be heard over the squealing cables. 

Arriving at our floor, Levi let go of the button, then tapped it a few more times to align the floor of our platform with the floor we’d be stepping out onto. I’d never seen an elevator that didn’t automatically align with the arrival floor, so I asked about it. Levi said, “Depending on what you need to load or unload, sometimes it’s easier if you can fine-tune it.” He grabbed the steel accordion door, pulled it back, and we were presented with a vast warehouse space. Despite being on the third floor, the ceiling was two stories high, and before us were row after row of bookshelves stacked high with thousands of books. I’d never seen anything like this, and sensing our unasked questions, Levi began a tour. “If you’ve ever gone to a bookstore to get a book, only to find that it’s out of stock, and they tell you they can order it. This is where those books are stored.” 

Walking over to one of the industrial bookcases, I saw that the shelf had dozens of copies of the same book. Looking at the shelf above it, I found the same book. Walking to the next shelf, I saw different books, but always in droves, some with hundreds of copies. There was no overhead electric lighting, so my eye was drawn to the far corner of the space, where the light from what I presumed to be a big window shone in. Wanting a closer look, I walked towards it, but when I got there, I came upon a giant pile of brick rubble instead of a window. The entire corner of the building had collapsed into the space, toppling several of the bookshelves in the process. The books lay where they’d fallen, victims of the decay. The floor itself, made from thick, old-growth wooden planks, felt secure enough, so I climbed onto the pile of rubble to look out the hole. Below, I could see the rooftops of a few smaller buildings and the street where we’d just been waiting. I silently wondered if Levi had come to this very spot to see who was banging on his door before coming to greet us. 

I heard Levi’s voice from behind me: “Last winter, we had six feet of snow blow in here. I cleared it, but it came right back, so I just left it. We’re responsible for watching the place to make sure there’s no theft or vandalism, but there’s not a lot of maintenance going on.”

“But why? Why is it like this? Why don’t they fix it up?”
Levi looked at me, trying to think of the best way to answer the question: “The buildings on the block have been condemned, so it’s supposed to be torn down, but the owners and residents have it all tied up in court, so everything is in limbo.”
“How long will it be in limbo?”
Levi shook his head, “Years, maybe even decades, no one knows.”

“What happens if they make a ruling to tear it down?”
Levi shrugged, “Then we’ll move, but for now, it’s cheap, and it’s home. I just wish it didn’t get so darned cold in here.”
“How do you deal with the cold?”
“We wear our winter coats.”
“Inside?”
Levi smiled, “Inside.” Then he turned, “Shall we continue the tour?”
I glanced out the collapsed wall and saw a rusty metal fire escape meant to service Levi’s building. It dangled ominously off the side of the structure. Looking at the attachment points, I saw that all but one of the bolts that initially anchored it to the building had given way, and now that one bolt was preventing the entire thing from crashing down to the street below. I wondered if it would hold if someone had to escape a fire on it, and whether I’d trust it enough to even try. The sound of the group’s departing footsteps broke my reverie, and not wanting to be left behind, I ran to catch up with Levi as he traveled deeper into the building. 

Beyond the rows of bookshelves was a large industrial door, big enough to drive a forklift through. As we passed through it, we found ourselves in Levi’s home. Walking into the Black Adder lair was like the circus equivalent of when Harry Potter went to Ollivanders to buy his wand. A two-story stack of antique circus props, posters, books, and old medical paraphernalia, all wrapped around a room that served as a bedroom, kitchen, office, and training space. I slowly turned in a circle, trying to take it all in, wanting to appreciate what I was seeing, but it was impossible to absorb it as individual items or treasures. I got the feeling that I could pick up any item and, by asking, “What’s this?” send Levi into a nostalgic story of who, where, when, what, and why it had come into his possession. 

Levi gave us a quick tour, but my ADD was kicking in as I tried to take it all in, so I ended up missing most of what he said. Then it was time for us to load up, so it was back to the elevator and down to the street. Levi went to get his van and pull it around. I waited with Isadora and her chauffeur. As Levi pulled the van to the curb. I thought, I really should offer her the front seat; it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but then I thought, I don't know her, and I don't know the chauffeur. I know Levi, and one of the things I was most looking forward to was talking to him. So when the van’s back doors were opened, I quickly loaded my gear, then claimed the front passenger seat to ride shotgun. Isadora and the chauffeur got into the backseat, and we hit the road. Levi said it would take us five hours to get there, but assured us that all would be well since we'd be blessing our trip with a stop at Cracker Barrel.

“What’s Cracker Barrel?” I asked. 

Levi’s jaw dropped, “You've never been to Cracker Barrel?!”
“I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s only the single greatest contribution to American life. You have not lived until you’ve had Uncle Herschel’s fried apples and hash brown casserole.”

Before he said that, I had not realized how hungry I was. But with that description, I was now very much looking forward to this Cracker Barrel place.

As promised, we stopped, and I enjoyed the old country store feel of my first Cracker Barrel. For the uninitiated, it’s essentially a diner, but a diner unto itself. It has an old-timey gift shop featuring toys and treats from a bygone era on one side, and the restaurant on the other.

After that, it was back on the road, and that’s when I got to hear Levi’s own story. He had been putting together touring circus shows for many years, playing clubs and dive bars across the country, bringing entertainment to any place that would have them. I asked him how profitable these touring shows could be, and he said that they had been quite profitable at one point. But with rising fuel costs, putting on a show was getting harder and harder — especially so because he insisted on having a live musician on stage and a diverse lineup to ensure the audience got a fantastic show.

“I know you can do almost everything: glass eating, fire manipulation, juggling, and lots more… So what kind of performers do you typically hire for these shows?” I asked.

“We’ve had just about everything,” he said, “I used to have a guy who would paint himself silver. And not with special silver makeup; he would take silver spray paint and cover himself.”

“Wait,” I interrupted, “isn’t spray paint super toxic? And how did he get it off after the show?”
“It is VERY toxic,” Levi confirmed, “which may explain why he was so crazy. As for taking it off, I saw him scrubbing down with gasoline one time; that seemed to work. But most of the time, he didn’t take it off. We would go into restaurants or wherever, and he’d be all silver.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“What else, oh, we had a pee drinker one time.”
“What did he do?”
Levi smiled his easy smile, “Well, he drank pee. Usually his own, but I saw him drink other people’s a time or two.” 
“Ew, gross!” I exclaimed. 

“Well, not everyone can be a skilled act like a sword swallower,” he teased, “Some of us gotta do it the hard way.” 

We kept this friendly banter going all the way to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

I’d already liked Levi before this trip, but as the miles passed, he quickly became one of my favorite people. 

* * *

The tattoo and sideshow convention was non-stop stimulation. Anywhere you turned, booths were set up, and people were scheduling tattoos, getting tattooed, talking about tattoos, or showing off fresh tattoos. Mixed up in it all were we freaks and geeks. I met Dan Meyer in person, the one who was organizing this “Big Swallow,” as this event was being called. He was every bit the gentleman in real life as he had been over our email correspondence. I met representatives from Ripley’s Believe It or Not and Guinness World Records. Natasha Veruska performed a sword-swallowing act while belly dancing. I got to meet Red, the Scottish sword-swallowing dwarf. And, of course, Eric was there, though you might know him better by his stage name, “The Lizard Man." He is tattooed head to toe in green, his teeth have been filed into fangs, and he has had subdermal implants installed that give him bony-looking ridges and protrusions around his face and body. Judging him by his appearance, you might assume him to be the biggest freak of all. But if you give him a chance, he’s pretty down to earth. And highly intelligent, but not the kind of intelligence that tries to assert and prove itself. That humble intelligence that reveals itself through knowledge and articulation without being trumpeted. A quintessential example of why we can’t judge a book by its cover, there’s a great thinker under those tattooed scales. 

On the second day, Friday, August 30, 2002, all of us sword swallowers took to the stage. In front of countless camera flashes and as many rolling cameras, we upended our swords. Nineteen sword swallowers, swallowing fifty swords in total, all at the same time. Once the photos were snapped, we all pulled out our swords, and that’s how I got my first Guinness World Record. 
Excitedly, I went to shake Dan Meyer’s hand, but he waved off my hand and hugged me instead, “I’m so glad you could be here!”
“Thank you for inviting me; really, this means so much for all of us.”

Always humble, Dan said, “I’m honored that all these amazing people came together to make it happen; you and they deserve all the credit.”

I wanted to say more, but the legend of sideshow, performer Todd Robbins, wearing his iconic straw boater hat with a red-and-white ribbon around its crown, walked up to shake Dan’s hand and offer congratulations.

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I turned to roll off, but Dan put his hand on my shoulder to stop me and said, “Bill, have you met Todd?”
“I haven’t,” I said, reaching out my hand. 

Todd shook my hand, said he was pleased to meet me, and congratulated me on a job well done. Then he turned to Dan and said, “Something like this has been far overdue. We should do this every year.”

Surprised, Dan said, “Aren’t we going to do this every year? It wouldn’t be much of a tradition if we didn’t do it again next year, and bigger, of course!”
“Of course,” Todd smiled. 

Dan continued, “You know, technically, just having nineteen sword swallowers in one room is a world record; you think they’d let us submit for that?”
Todd laughed, saying, “Dan Meyer, always the showman.” 

I quietly slipped away as they laughed to allow them this rare opportunity to catch up. As I did, I spied Needles and Isadora beside the stage in one of the booths, so I walked over to see what they were up to. 

I’d only met Needles in passing, but he had the demeanor of someone with clout, so I’d made a point to remember him. 
He didn’t look up as I approached; he was deep in the zone, his heavy, black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, held in place only by sweat and concentration. With gloved hands, he was carefully installing a series of barbless, oversized, stainless steel fish hooks into Isadora’s back, from the top of her shoulder blades down to the small of her back. He gently adjusted one that was trickling a steady rivulet of blood. The leakage had traced a crimson line down the small of her back before it was interrupted by the just visible elastic band of her underwear. She was topless, with only pasties stuck over her nipples for modesty. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, “How is it?”
“It’s ok,” he said, pushing his glasses back up with the gloved knuckle of his pinky finger. “But we might have to reposition this one if it doesn’t calm down. How are you doing?”
She nodded her head, clearly in pain but unwilling to acknowledge it, “I’m good,” she lied. 

Grabbing another three-inch hook, he pinched a wad of her back flesh. Hooking it in low so it would curl around and re-emerge a little higher up, he pressed it through her body. She “Umpff’ed” as it went, and I heard her exhale sharply. She looked at me as he settled this new piercing and admitted, “I felt that one.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“For my wings.”

“Wings?”
As if it were the most normal thing in the world, she said, “For my angel wings so that they can attach to me.”
I nodded as if that made sense, though I didn’t know what she was talking about. 

A gentleman acting as MC while the various performers took turns performing walked over and asked Isadora if she was ready. She nodded and said, “We just have to attach the wings, then I’ll be ready.”
He nodded and said, “Ok, let me know when, and I’ll introduce you.” Then he walked back to the stage to wait. 

Isadora told her chauffeur to make preparations, and he nodded. Standing to go, he graced me with a scowl, reminding me of my place, then disappeared backstage. 

Needles leaned back to inspect his work, and seemingly satisfied, he waved his hand, “I think that’s good.”

Leaning over, I saw the eight hooks looping through her back flesh, neatly aligned in two rows of four. The one was still oozing, but it had subsided somewhat. 

Isadora took a deep breath, then stood and regally made her way backstage. Whenever she walked, she appeared to be floating just above the actual earth that the rest of us were condemned to walk on.

Once backstage, I couldn’t see her anymore, but I could tell when she was ready because the MC nodded and reached for the microphone. Taking it, he shifted into a Greatest Show on Earth type announcer voice and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way to the main stage because we have a special treat in store for you. All the way from Patras, Greece, please put your hands together for The Incredible Isadora!!”
The crowd was appropriately enthusiastic, and the DJ pressed play. A haunting instrumental track exuded a melancholic atmosphere throughout the room. Its brooding, somber tones were slow and deliberate, promising performance with emotional weight. As the moment grew heavy, Isadora stepped out on stage. Scantily clad, she slowly walked to the center of the stage, each step revealing more and more of the fabric wings as they unfurled from off-stage, until finally the chauffeur became visible. He was holding two long poles, each attached to the fabric at its tip, then, as the music built, he lifted them. This raised the large wings, which he then flapped up and down rhythmically as she moved and danced. I’d never seen anything like it before — dark, elegant, beautiful. Admittedly, she looked quite good moving under the lights. As I watched, one of the sword swallowers, Thomas Blackthorne, walked up and, getting my attention, said, “Have you swallowed the sword yet?”
Breaking away from the performance, I asked dumbly, “Huh?”
“Do you know about the sword?” Judging by my blank look, he continued, “You don’t know about the sword. Okay, so I made this.” As he said this, he lifted the sword he was holding. “I’m trying to get every living sword swallower to swallow it, and once they do, I ask them to sign this book.”
“How many do you have so far?” I asked.
“Seventeen now, eighteen if you say yes.”
“Can I clean it?”
“Of course, do whatever you need to prepare.”
I nodded, then opened one of my nearby road cases to fetch my sword-swallowing kit. Opening it up, I went through my normal cleaning protocols, wiping the blade thoroughly with an alcohol wipe, then opened a second and wiped it again for good measure, since seventeen other people had already swallowed it.

I sprayed it down with a few spritzes of cool mint Listerine, my preferred sword spray, then upended the large blade. It slid down smoothly, and I was impressed by the craftsmanship; a truly fine blade. Then I pulled it back out. 

Opening another swab, I cleaned the blade and returned it to the man. 

“If you could just sign here, it’ll be officially eighteen.”
I took the pen and signed his ledger. 

“Thank you,” he said, then he wandered off to find number nineteen. 

Having finished her performance, Isadora returned to the booth where the hooks had originally been inserted, and now Needles began removing them. He worked with the detached efficiency of a mechanic, his glasses perched precariously at the very tip of his nose as he squinted at the wounds. Based on her groans and grimaces of pain, the removal was as painful as the piercing itself, and her already pale skin whitened all the more.

Once he had finished the extractions, Needles dropped the last bloodied hook into a tray with a hollow clink. He gave her back a final, clinical pat with a piece of gauze and muttered, “You’re clear, kid. Just try not to lean on anything. You got your bandages?”
Isadora reached for her bag, but after some searching, realized her bandages were still in the hotel room. So she draped herself in a white, see-through cloth, which promptly soaked up the blood trickling from the wounds. This created a gunshot wound sort of splatter effect across her back. Far from concealing, it only made the black pasties over her nipples, and the little black booty shorts she’d performed in seem more sensual. 

Turning to me, she said in a waifish, damsel-in-distress voice, “Would you accompany me to the room to tend my wounds?”
The gentleman in me wanted to leap to her assistance; after all, it would be difficult to dress wounds on one’s own back. But I also recognized it as a transparent attempt to get me into her room. In the split second I was considering this, another performer who was standing close enough to hear the request excitedly said, “I’ll help you!”
A wave of displeasure washed across her cheeks, and she glared at me unhappily, clearly wanting me to speak up and tell him I’d handle it, but I said nothing. She turned to him and, with a feigned smile, said, “Why, thank you, what a gentleman, in fact,” she turned to look at me again, “I think I’ll need both of you.” Without waiting to see if I’d agree, she turned and started for the elevators. The other performer fell in on her heels, and I figured, why not, so I trailed along as well. 

When we arrived at the room, she stripped off the little clothing she still wore and, now fully nude, walked towards the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she instructed me, “Grab a washcloth, would you?”

Immediately, the other performer said, “I’ll get it,” and darted over to grab one. She gave me a truly stormy look before turning and stepping into the tub. Once there, she turned on the water and, once it was temperate, activated the shower. She stood in the flow until the worst of the leakage had been rinsed away, then she sat on the edge of the tub and unenthusiastically told the other guy to clean the wounds, which he dutifully did. For all but the most painful moments of the procedure, she looked over her right shoulder, past him, through the door of the bathroom, until her eyes found mine. We held eye contact for a long time, all while he cleaned, until he finally said, “I think you’re good.”

She nodded silently, then said, “Thank you, I’ll shower now.”
It was clearly a dismissal, so he stood to leave, and I stood to go, too. But as we started to leave, she said to me, “Would you bring me the small black bag from my suitcase?”
The other performer started to oblige the request, but she stopped him. “Not you,” she said, then indicating me. “He’ll bring it.” 
The other performer nodded, then left us. 

I walked over to the luggage, picked up the small bag, and brought it to her in the shower. She took it, then tiptoed to the edge of the tub and leaned out so far she fell into my arms. I had to hold her so she wouldn’t tumble out. I felt her bare wet breasts pushing into my chest. She tilted her head back sensually and whispered, “Thank you,” in a breathy voice, then closed her eyes in anticipation of my kiss. Still supporting her so she wouldn’t slide out of the tub, I bent my head down and planted a loud peck on the top of her nose. 

Her eyes shot open, blazing in anger. But just as quickly, her composure returned, and turning back into the shower with a “humpfh,” she slid the glass door shut. 

I let myself out of her room and went back down to the convention floor. 

* * *

The next morning, I checked out of my room at 10:00 am, but since we weren’t going to return to NY until much later, I was “homeless.”
Dragging my gear through the lobby, I ran into Isadora, and she asked why I had all my gear. I explained the situation, and she offered to let me keep it all in her room. Puzzled, I asked, “Did you book for an extra night?”
“No, I asked the man at reception to extend my checkout, and he told me to take as much time as I needed.” She shrugged modestly as she said this, as if such a thing would have been offered to anyone who’d asked, but I knew she’d sweet-talked him into giving her perks. 

I didn’t want to schlep my gear around all afternoon, so I accepted her offer. But on the way to the elevator, one of the tattoo artists, who’d been aiming a romantic eye at Isadora all weekend, walked up and said, “We’re loading up some vans to go to breakfast, are you coming?”
Isadora smiled at him and said, “Yes, of course, we’ll be right there.”
“Well, we’re all loaded up and ready to leave, but I wanted to make sure you knew; I’ll tell them to wait.” Then he hurried off to hold the vans. 

Isadora and I went up to her room, and I set my cases unobtrusively off to one side. She went into the bathroom to touch up her makeup, and I looked out the window over the little square of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Time passed, and more time passed, until I got antsy because they were all waiting for us. 

Despite this, Isadora was in no hurry, going about her tasks as if there was nowhere we needed to be. I watched this for a bit and decided that she probably liked that everyone was waiting for us. Finally, fifteen minutes later, she walked over to me and, assuming a stance similar to the one she’d taken the day before in the bathtub, she leaned in close, head back, and breathily asked, “Are you ready?”
I thought it was sweet that she’d let me store my things in her room, and despite our initial off-putting row, she was growing on me. So I leaned in, and we enjoyed a real kiss. Which, I had to admit, was nice. 

Then we made our way down to the vans. 

I was sure everyone would be irate, but no one said a word. Isadora had a power, especially over men, and since the majority of the van’s occupants were men, none dared complain. 
Lunch was uneventful.

* * *

Later that afternoon, I was back in Isadora’s room, and she asked when my flight was leaving from New York.
“Tomorrow, early in the morning,” I answered, “5:00 am.”

“That is early, where did you book your room? Are you staying at the airport hotel?”
“Actually, no, I didn’t get a room; I figured I’d just go to the airport and wait there until morning.” 

Isadora’s eyes widened, “No, no, that won’t do, you’ll stay with me, at least until it’s time for you to go.”

“Thank you, but I’d have to leave your place at like 2:00 am to make my way on the subway.”
“Yes, they’re open then, you’ll be fine, I’ll make sure you make it.”

She was so confident about everything, and the way she spoke was hypnotic, so I acquiesced, “Okay.”

She smiled, “Okay then.” And, as if it had only just then occurred to her, she said, “You know, if you’re leaving that early, we should probably shower now, the place we’ll be staying tonight has a shared shower situation, and… It would be better.”

She stood up as if this plan was already agreed upon and made her way into the bathroom. I watched her unrobe, then she stood with her back to me. Her nude form was a perfect hourglass shape that flowed into a fit bottom with strong legs. Like something straight out of a Playboy photo spread. After giving me a moment to take in her perfection, she said over her shoulder, “Join me.” Then she stepped into the tub. 

I stood and made my way to the shower. I don’t even know why; as sometime only moments ago I’d still been thinking for myself, but now it was just so easy to do what she suggested. I stripped off all my clothes and joined her in the shower. She turned to me and leaned in, offering her intoxicating kisses. We kissed deeply, passionately. Hooking my arm around the small of her back, I pulled her tightly against me. Her round breasts pressed against my chest. Then, trusting my arms to arrest her, she arched back in invitation. I leaned in to kiss her neck, slowly kissing my way down to her breasts, then I took one of her nipples between my teeth. I bit down gently, gauging her sensitivity. In response, she grabbed my neck and pulled me in, asking for more.  I did as commanded, and she let out a moan of pleasure. She pulled again, pressing the other breast into my face. I gave the second nipple some attention, but this time, I bit ethereally, beyond gently, lightly flicking my tongue across it. She melted in my arms, and I bit a little harder, then inhaled to draw cool air across her wet nipple flesh. When I was sure she’d felt the cold of the inhalation breeze, I’d warm her skin again with a fleshy lick from my tongue, then repeat the inhale to send the alternating hot and cold sensations buzzing through her. Instinctively, she lifted one leg, suggestive of a standing face-to-face love-making session. But I pushed her leg down. Righting her, I slowly kissed my way down her chiseled abs, until I was suggestively kissing the creases where the upper leg and hip meet. I switch from side to side, kissing and teasing my way, but careful not to go between her legs, I wanted her to savor the touch, wanted her to want it more than anything. She grabbed my head and began to direct me to her center of pleasure. Obeying, I kissed and licked all through her well-trimmed mound, my tongue slowly making its way lower, edging closer and closer to her bliss. I could feel the start of the ridges of her outer lips, and knew I was only millimeters away from diving full-long into her sex. But at that moment, my senses returned to me, I remembered that I hardly knew her, and more than that, I wasn’t in love with her. Every intimate moment I’d had up until this moment had been with someone I loved. I stopped and looked down at my fully erect penis, clearly turned on by what was happening, but something about it not being love took me all out of the moment. Rather than delivering on the promises my tongue had been making, I stood up. Isadora took this surprisingly in stride; she looked at me with her bright, beautiful eyes. Then, unhesitatingly, she dropped to her knees and took me fully into her mouth. 

“Oh wow,” I whispered.

She looked up at me, and her eyes smiled knowingly, as if to say, “Of course it’s good, what’d you expect?”
Then she slid her mouth erotically down the sides of me, masterfully conducting a biological orchestra. She continued for a few more delicious seconds, then she stood up, leaving the promise unfinished. 

Sexual as it all was, the moment broke, we exchanged a few kisses, then had a relatively normal shower experience, mostly washing ourselves, not really interacting. Near the end, she turned to me and said, “You go ahead, I need to do a few more things.”

I had expected to finish the shower together, so I was curious what these “things” were. But I wasn’t going to argue, I got out to dry off and get dressed. And she did whatever she needed to do, which took about twenty minutes.

After that, we packed up and went to the lobby to meet Levi. Isadora, of course, checked out, which surprised the receptionist, who’d probably never seen anyone do their morning check-out at 5:00 pm before. 

We got in the van and headed back to New York…

* * *

​

By the time we arrived at Isadora’s flat, I was exhausted. The weekend itself had been non-stop, and I’d had little sleep. 
Our room was “private,” but was part of a larger apartment which housed other residents. So I asked, “Where’s your guy, the chauffeur, is he gonna turn up?” 
With a reassuring smile, she said, “No, he won’t be around.”
I didn’t ask how she knew this. 

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, already preparing something. 
“Sure,” I said.

Isadora made us both drinks, a tea of some sort, but with an earthy flavor I’d never tasted before. 
“What do you think?”
“It’s good,” I affirmed, still not 100% certain about it. 

While we were drinking our tea, there was some commotion in the hallway: two men fighting about something. I wanted to investigate and make sure we were safe and that the commotion wouldn’t spill into our room, but Isadora reassured me that everything was okay, and I felt so very tired.

Isadora took our cups to the kitchen, then dimmed the lights and settled in next to me. She was relaxed and reassuring; I’d even say snuggly, which was so different than how she’d been all weekend. It seems her normal, larger-than-life persona had been hung in the closet with the other costumes.

Then, as if by magic, she was suddenly wearing comfortable pajama-like clothes. And I wondered how I’d missed that. I felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and seeing this, she said, “Here, lay your head in my lap.”

At that moment, nothing in the world could have sounded better, and I lay down in her lap. She gently scritched her fingernails across my scalp, which felt amazing. Then, I looked up at her, into her big, hazel eyes. As I did, the whites around the edges began to retreat, as if black ink had been poured into them, gobbling up all the whites. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, so I kept staring in shock. Seeing my reaction, she asked, “What is it? What do you see?”
Now the black ink around the edges reformed in the middle, her round pupils elongated into cat-like slits, and their middles flared with a dark yellow glow. My own eyes must have widened because she asked again, “What is it? Tell me?”
Turning my head away and closing my eyes, I said, “Your eyes,” as if that explained everything. 

“What about my eyes?” she asked, her voice a calming salve of milk and honey. 

“They’re changing,” I said, not explaining.

I felt her hand grip my shoulder reassuringly, and she said, “It’s ok, everything is going to be ok.”

“Okay,” I said, sinking deeper into her lap. 

I lay there feeling as if I were outside time, and I marveled at how strange everything felt. Then, somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, a quiet question sounded: What kind of tea was that anyway?
Then everything went dark.

* * *

My next memory was Isadora shaking me, “You have to go; you’re going to miss your flight!” 
The thought of missing my flight brought me back to full awareness. I was so broke I couldn’t afford to re-book it if something went wrong, so I leaped up and started gathering my things. 

Rolling everything to the door, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know where I was, where the nearest subway was, what times they were running, how to get to the airport, or even what time it was! 
Seeming to read my thoughts, Isadora said, “Don’t worry, just walk three blocks, turn left, then two more blocks, and you’ll see the subway. Not having time to do anything more than act on that information, I dashed out without a kiss or even a goodbye. 
Bursting out the front door, I leaped down the steps of the brownstone with my road cases thunking heavily on the stairs behind me. Despite it being the middle of the night, there were a surprising number of people on the street for 2:00 am. 

Turning in the direction she’d indicated, I jogged the three blocks and made the left turn. As I did, I came face-to-face with a tall, thin homeless woman. She stared right into my soul, then screamed something unintelligible at me. Not knowing what she wanted, I apologized and tried to go around her. As I did, she sidestepped directly into my personal space, as close as could be without touching, and continued shouting her unintelligible tirade. I quickened my step to get around her. As I gained distance, I realized she was interspersing bible verses with words I could not understand, as if she were speaking in tongues. I continued my two-block jog to the subway, still hearing her shrieks all the way. When I got to the steps, I looked back to see where she was, and even from that distance, she still stared unblinkingly at me. She must be demon-possessed, I thought, and somehow, the demon had my number. 

I fled down the stairs, my cases bouncing loudly behind me, until I disappeared into the underground.