He’s always giddy. Very content with himself. His laughter is the wind, a horrifically cold noise in the sky. It’s shrill, deafening, and jittery. The man arrives at 2:14 AM, never a moment sooner or later. The exact time my wall clock’s elongated hand brushes against the final tick before 3, he shows. My neighbourhood is middle-class suburban, I suppose. The street is a long stretch, a back area near the end of town with a few houses to and fro. The streetlights, starting all the way to the left of my house, are relatively dark. I’ve no idea why this is, but it continues down the straight road, darkened and dim lights, like a rotary dimmer switch only half on. Sometimes they flash and frizzle and some will burn out at times, completely blacking out a part of the street. Tonight, this is not the case. They are dimly awake, following down the street in rows that only illuminate a semicircle of the area.
Until it reaches the streetlights in front of my house.
These lights, my lights, are always the brightest. They are normal streetlights unlike the shoddy ones surrounding it. They stand out with fantastic prominence, claiming the middle of the street like a spotlight. They are never broken, never flashing, always shining proudly.
I guess that’s why they attract the man with the wheel.
I see him right now. It’s 2:10 AM, and he’ll be here soon again, just like every night. His howling laughter is far at the moment, but it’s getting ever so close. I can see his silhouette in the darkened shadows, pushing the wheel steadily forward. Rolling it gently in the smooth asphalt, hoping not to make a sound until his act can begin, until he’s under the spotlight and singing, serenading us all with rotted laughter as the wheel bounces, twirls around his arms and legs like a hula hoop, and his grand finale: fitting his body through the spokes of the wheel.
He almost had it, once. It might’ve even been the first time he ever did it. That was five months ago. Of course at the time I was deathly frightened of this random figure, but now I assume he’s mentally ill or some ludicrous junkie.
I called the police on him the first night, but they came and he disappeared back into the shadows, managing to evade them. He was back the second night, I called again and he pulled the same magic trick. I told the police to have a cop wait in my house for him, and jump him when he arrived in the light. I was not exactly afraid of him at this point, as I knew he was performing his act and he would never come up to someone in the audience. As far as I know he is unaware that I watch him. Plus, I felt bad for the guy at this point. Clearly he was well off in the head.
The cop was some bloated yapper named Brenner. Talked my ear off and nearly missed the figure, but he showed. He always shows, he’ll never miss an act in his life.
Brenner pounced at him quickly. Laced him in cuffs while I watched from inside. The man made no noise. The wheel sat in the middle of the road.
Brenner threw him in his squad car and sped off. I was sure that man was going to get the help he needed. Unfortunately, I’ve learned not to trust the subject of optimism.
I looked out the window one more time before falling asleep that night. The wheel had disappeared. Perhaps Brenner took it.
The very next night, I had hoped to finally get a peaceful night’s rest. I was sound asleep at 2:14 AM when the laughter came again.
I shot up, shocked and chilled to my bones. I peered out the window again, and there was the man. Singing, laughing, dancing, and fitting himself through the spokes. He failed once again. He spun the wheel and walked away, 2:39 AM. I made sure to keep that time in mind since that night, as he always arrives and departs at the exact minute. I never called the police again, as it seemed too much a hassle to deal with. Plus, it was strange how quickly he got out.
It’s 2:14 now, and his appearance has emerged into the spotlight once again.
Something looks different about him tonight. He’s laughing. But there’s no smile.
The creaking from the wheel sounds worse than ever. Like it’s rusted.
Ah, I see. There’s something in the wheel. No wonder. Whatever it is, it’s pushed through the spokes. It seems the man has finally brought a prop to his act. Quite a show this should be.
What? No. My eyes must be playing tricks on me.
That can’t be.
Oh no. Oh no no no
It’s Brenner in the spokes
His body is squelched like a crushed tomato in there
The man is looking at me through my window
He’s smiling and laughing again
The man speaks. He tells me: Watch. He pulls Brenner out of the spokes, deteriorating into pieces like the aftermath of a blender. This is all god awful and disturbing but I feel I must keep watching. I cannot take my eyes away. I watch with terrifying delight as the man grasps each spoke with his hand and spreads Brenner’s blood all around it. He speaks again.
“This should be slippery enough.”
His final act.
The man is hugging himself tight, giggling and squirming his body into the most compact position possible. He is putting his two feet from the crimson spokes first, as he always does. They fit. His bloody bare feet are pointing up at me.
His hands are on the outer tire. He tucks his legs farther in and now he’s pushing his hands through. Success as well. He laughs triumphantly.
Now the body.
He sturdies himself and pushes hard. I hear a faint mushing noise, and then a crack, then multiple. And I look close. His body is through, mangled and disfigured, but it’s through. He giggles.
He tilts his head down and decides to force it through the spokes, skull-top first. He pushes and pushes, blood and jagged lines slit deep in his head but he’s still laughing, he will always be laughing, for the wheel is what I believe created him, and what I believe is about to end him. He serves his purpose with pride.
He says through a brutal slurring: WATCH!
He laughs one more time, and forces his head through in ultimate finality. A horrible crushing sound echoes through the sky, and sitting in the street is an unrecognizable body of nothingness. The wheel spins stationery in the street, the lights begin to dim, as well as mine, and a final chuckle escapes from the pile of organs and bones.
I don’t even know what number I’m supposed to dial for this.