Jacks Magic Beans

tale!

Not to be missed!

Starring:

Sid Vicious as Uoht

John Lennon as Thale

Mama Cass as Cassilda

Janis Joplin as The Queen

Karen Carpenter as Camilla

James Marshall Hendrix as Alar

Jim Morrison as Aldones, the Lizard King

Kurt Cobain as The Pallid Mask, or, Phantom of Truth

and

Elvis Presley as The King

Also featuring: Robert Johnson, Bon Scott, Roy Orbison, Freddy Mercury, Cliff Burton, Dimebag Darrell, Johnny Cash and more.

One Week Only! Nightly Performances Begin Promptly at Midnight

The R.W. Chambers Theatre

Fells Point, corner of Fedogan St. & Bremer Ave.

Baltimore, MD

The breeze coming off the harbor chilled him. This was what the crazy woman had been talking about— actors depicting dead musicians depicting characters in a play. This play. The same play the bum had recommended. The coincidence was unsettling.

“Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” Kathryn asked. “You should have tipped him more money.”

“Only in Baltimore can the homeless get jobs as ushers. Come on, let’s find a pub.”

“No, let’s go see this! Look, they’ve got actors pretending to be dead musicians playing actors. How cool is that?” She giggled, and looked at him pleadingly.

He told her what he’d overheard the woman say.

“Then that’s all the more reason,” she insisted. “Once people read about the connection in tomorrow’s Baltimore Sun, we won’t be able to get tickets because of the demand. People love morbid stuff like that!”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that this all happened in the same night? You said you wanted to forget about what happened. Don’t you think that attending a play that this same woman went to will just make it that more vivid?”

“Roger, you said that you agreed with me; that we never do anything fun anymore, that we’re not spontaneous. Here’s our chance! How much more spur-of-the-moment can we get?”

“Kathryn, it’s almost eleven-thirty! It’s late.”

“The poster says it doesn’t start until midnight.”

Finley sighed in reluctance. “Alright, we’ll go to the play. You’re right, it might be fun.”

He allowed her to lead him down the street and into Fells Point.

***

The R. W. Chambers Theatre wasn’t just off the beaten path—it was far, far beyond it. They picked their way through a maze of winding, twisting streets and alleyways, each more narrow than the previous. The throng of drunken college kids and office interns vanished, replaced by the occasional rat or pigeon. Kathryn’s heels clicked on the cobblestones, each step sounding like a rifle shot.

This is the old part of the city, Finley thought. The oldest. The dark heart.

The very atmosphere seemed to echo his discomfort, accentuating it as they went farther. There were no streetlights in this section, and no lights shining in the windows of the houses. The buildings crowded together; crumbling statues of crumbling nineteenth century architecture. The street smelled faintly of garbage and stale urine, and the only sound was that of dripping water, and of something small scuttling in the darkness. Kathryn gripped his hand tightly, and then—

—they emerged onto the corner, and the lights and noise flooded back again. A crowd milled about in front of the theatre. Finley’s apprehension dissipated, and he chided himself for being silly. At the same time, Kathryn’s grip loosened.

“Look at this crowd!” Kathryn exclaimed. “It’s more popular than we thought.”

“Word of mouth must have spread fast.”

“Maybe your homeless friend has been pimping it.”

Finley grinned. “Maybe.”

They took their place at the end of the line, behind a young Goth couple. The theatre had seen better days. The water-stained brickwork looked tired and faded. Several windows on the second floor had been boarded over, and the others were dark. Some of the light bulbs in the marquee had burned out, but HASTUR PRODUCTIONS’ YELLOW and the show time and ticket prices were prominently visible. One side of the building was plastered with paper billboards promoting the play. Others advertised bands with names like Your Kid’s On Fire, Suicide Run, and I, Chaos.

The line snaked forward, and finally it was their turn. Finley stared at the man behind the glass window of the ticket booth. His skin was pale, almost opaque, and tiny blue veins spider-webbed his face and hands. Gray lips flopped like two pieces of raw liver as he spoke.

“Enjoy the performance.”

Finley nodded. Placing his arm around Kathryn’s waist, he guided them into the building. The usher in the lobby had the same alabaster complexion, and was slightly more laconic than his sullen ticket booth counterpart. Without a word, he took their tickets, handed back the stubs and two programs, then silently parted a pair of black curtains and gestured for them to enter.

The theatre filled quickly. They found a spot midway down the center aisle. The red velvet-covered chairs squeaked as they sat down.

“I can’t get over it,” Kathryn whispered. “Look at all these people!”

Finley studied the program booklet. Like the posters, it was designed to appear as if it had been bound in serpent skin. He struggled to read the pale lettering.

“YELLOW was written in the late 19th century by a young playwright named Castaigne. Tragically, Castaigne took his own life immediately upon completing the work. When YELLOW was first published and performed, the city of Paris banned the play, followed by Munich and London, and eventually most of the world’s governments and churches. It was translated in 1930 by the scholar Daniel Mason Winfield-Harms; who, in a strange twist of fate echoing that of the original author, was found dead in Buffalo, New York after finishing the adaptation. YELLOW takes place, not on Earth, but on another world, in the city of Yhtill, on the shore of the Lake of Hali, under the stars of Aldebaran and Hyades.”

Kathryn stirred next to him. “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?”

“When I was in high school. At midnight on Saturdays, we’d go to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It has that feel to it.”

“Maybe they’ll sing ‘The Time Warp.’ ”

She reached over and squeezed his hand, and Finley felt good. Happy.

The lights dimmed, plunging them into darkness. The crowd grew silent as a burst of static coughed from the overhead speakers. Then, an eerie, unfamiliar style of music began. A light appeared at the back of the theatre. The performers entered from the rear, each of them carrying a single candle. The troupe walked slowly down the center aisle, singing as they approached the stage.

“Have you seen the Yellow Sign? Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

As they passed by, Finley forcibly resisting the urge to reach out and touch them. The resemblance to their dead alter egos was uncanny. The actress playing Janis Joplin (playing the Queen) was a perfect duplicate, down to the blue-tinged skin that must have adorned her face in death. Following her were Jim Morrison (a bloated Aldones) and John Lennon (a Thale with fresh bloodstains on his clothing). Mama Cass, Jimi Hendrix, Sid Vicious—the procession continued, until two-dozen actors had taken the stage.