Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury Page B

beside Jim. They stared down at bright flamered hair, bright flameblue eyes, and rippling biceps.
        'Out of order,' said the man. 'Can't you read?'
        'Put them down.' said a gentle voice.
        Hung high, Jim and Will glanced over at a second man standing tall beyond the chains.
        'Down,' he said again.
        And they were carried through the brass forest of wild but uncomplaining brutes and set in the dust.
        'We were - ' said Will
        'Curious?' This second man was tall as a lamp post. His pale face, lunar pockmarks denting it, cast light on those who stood below. His vest was the colour of fresh blood. His eyesbrows, his hair, his suit were licorice black, and the sunyellow gem which stared from the tiepin thrust in his cravat was the same unblinking shade and bright crystal as his eyes. But in this instant, swiftly, and with utter clearness, it was the suit which fascinated Will. For it seemed woven of boarbramble, clockspring hair, bristle, and a sort of evertrembling, everglistening dark hemp. The suit caught light and stirred like a bed of black tweedthorns, interminably itching, covering the man's long body with motion so it seemed he should excruciate, cry out, and tear the clothes free. Yet here he stood, mooncalm, inhabiting his itchweed suit and watching Jim's mouth with his yellow eyes. He never looked once at Will.
        'The name is Dark.'
        He flourished a white calling card. It turned blue.
        Whisper. Red.
        Whisk. A green man dangled from a tree stamped on the card.
        Flit. Shh.
        'Dark. And my friend with the red hair there is Mr Cooger. Of Cooger and Dark's. . .'
        Flipflickshhh.
        Names appeared, disappeared on the white square:
        '. . .Combined Shadow Shows. . .'
        Tickwash.
        A mushroomwitch stirred mouldering herb pots.
        '. . .and crosscontinental Pandemonium Theatre Company. . .'
        He handed the card to Jim. It now read:
       
        Our speciality: to examine, oil,
        polish, and repair Death Watch
        Beetles.
     
        Calmly, Jim read it. Calmly, Jim put a fist into his copious and richly treasured pockets, rummaged, and held out his hand.
        On his palm lay a dead brown insect.
        'Here,' Jim said. 'Fix this.'
         Mr Dark exploded his laugh. 'Superb! I will!' He extended his hand. His shirt sleeve pulled up.
        Bright purple, black green and lightningblue eels, worms, and Latin scrolls slid to view on his wrist.
        'Boy!' cried Will. 'You must be the Tattooed Man!'
        'No.' Jim studied the stranger. 'The Illustrated Man. There's a difference.'
        Mr Dark nodded, pleased. 'What's your name, boy?'
        Don't tell him! thought Will, and stopped. Why not? he wondered, why?
        Jim's lips hardly twitched.
        'Simon,' he said.
        He smiled to show it was a lie.
        Mr Dark smiled to show he knew it.
        'Want to see more, “Simon”?'
        Jim would not give him the satisfaction of a nod.
        Slowly, with great mouthworking pleasure, Mr Dark pushed his sleeve high to his elbow.
        Jim.stared. The arm was like a cobra weaving, bobbing, swaying, to strike. Mr Dark clenched his fist, wriggled his fingers. The muscles danced.
        Will wanted to run around and see, but could only watch, thinking Jim, oh, Jim!
        For there stood Jim and there was this tall man, each examining the other as if he were a reflection in a shop window late at night. The tall man's brambled suit, shadowed out now to colour     Jim's cheeks and storm over his wide and drinking eyes with a look of rain instead of the sharp catgreen they always were. Jim stood like a runner who has come a long way, fever in his mouth, hands open to receive any gift. And right now it was a gift of pictures twitched in pantomime, as Mr Dark made his illustrious jerk coldskinned over his warmpulsed wrist as the stars came out above and, Jim stared and