I
ego

(continued)

Adelaide straightens up as if she's just been poked in the kidneys. Oxidation. Surely that stuff going into the bathtub couldn't be ...?

She puts a hand on Emily's arm. Emily lights a cigarette. Adelaide turns her attention back to the show.

Beverley -- aka Casa Loma, Mistress of the Ceremony and Master of the Sausage -- obviously loves the chemical colour-changing effect. She loves it so much that she tips the whole bucket into the tub. All of it. A shower of purple, glistening crystals, a waterfall of tiny jewels patters crisply into the water. A lavender monsoon that lasts eight seconds or more. The water blushes so deeply and so violently it is almost black in the centre. Fingers of blood shoot out from the nucleus, spreading throughout the bathtub, turning its contents red. Red. Red. Red.

Adelaide pushes her way through the fascinated audience toward the Installation. Her fingers are at her temples, keeping her thoughts from vanishing like those purple crystals. Oxidation. Oxidation. She repeats her mantra, trying to get through the crowd, trying to get closer to the Installation. She glances up to the sound booth where D'Arcy is staring intently at the performance, but she can't seem to catch his eye. Oxidation.

With a squeal of delight Beverley jumps into the tub. She disappears beneath the surface. The bloodied waters swallow her up.

The crowd cheers. Six seconds ... seven seconds ...

"Get out of the tub!" yells Adelaide against the crowd. "Get that girl out of the tub!"

As if on cue, Beverley surfaces, an exploding fountain. The Great White Whale. The sausage is now in her upheld right hand, her symbol of self-castration -- the Emancipation of Casa Loma; she must have pulled it off while under water. It is her trophy. She stands with the shrivelled tube of meat held high for all to see. The cheers are irrepressible.

"D'Arcy!"

Something is wrong. D'Arcy cannot pinpoint it, but something is definitely very wrong. Perhaps it's the performance; that would be enough to disorient anyone. He wasn't expecting the sausage. Perhaps it's Beverley's screams of delight as she waves her trophy around; she's certainly getting louder and that's never a good sign.

"D'Arcy!"

Something seems to be going on at the edge of the moat. A disturbance on the far side; perhaps some over-exuberant fan wants to join her in the tub. The disturbance moves closer.

"D'Arcy! It's me! D'Arcy!"

He leans over the edge of the sound booth. Adelaide Simcoe is shouting up at him.

"What is it?"

"Get her out of the tub! It's oxi--"

He can't hear her, but already she has one leg over the edge of the moat. If Adelaide is going to douse her Hush Puppies then something really is wrong. He looks back up at Beverley.

She is still standing with the sausage held high in her hand. But now her head is jerking sideways, irregularly, to an unknown, crazy beat; her shoulders twitch; her throat is glistening. She falls to her knees. Hard. The sausage falls and the arms follow swiftly, violently, splashing, splashing, grasping handfuls of water. No, that's not water any more. It's thick enough to be gelatin.

The screams are from the belly now. Deep, unbelievable, terrifying screams that turn into moans at the sternum and come out with tears from her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes are turning brown around the edges -- burning. He can tell; he can feel it. Her eyes. Staring right at him. Right at him. Not Casa Loma, Mistress of the Ceremony or Sausage, not the efficient love-machine, not any one of the multiple personalities he's been dealing with over the past month, but Beverley. Beverley the lost child. Beverley -- his Beverley -- with the pain of life forever branded in her wide, sad eyes that burn, burn, burn. The acrid stench of chemicals. Her mouth opens, her brown lips part -- a twisted, horrific oriface in a painted face. Her tongue tries to move, but it is no longer a tongue, it is now a gruesome parody of a charred slug.

And above it all, the noise: the screams, the sound of her inner core being burned alive, her private pain being ripped open for the world to see.

Sweet Jesus, Beverley, what have you done?