The One-Man Show

The sound of the stone door sealing shut was less of a majestic boom and more of a disappointing *thud*, like a heavy book being dropped in a quiet library.

Barnaby the Bold stood in the sudden darkness, adjusting his cap. The bells on the tips of his coxcomb gave a defiant, singular jingle. He was not afraid. Fear was for amateurs, for jugglers who dropped their pins, for mimes who got stuck in actual boxes. Barnaby was a professional.

"A cave," he announced to the stagnant air. "How derivative. King Theobald really has no imagination."

He dusted off his motley. It was a fine ensemble—checkered red and yellow velvet, slightly damp from the dungeon, but still striking. The King had called his last performance "an act of treason against humor itself," but Barnaby knew the truth. The court just wasn't ready for avant-garde puns. They lacked the intellectual capacity to appreciate a good vegetable-based witticism.

Barnaby took a step forward and immediately crunched down on something sharp. He winced, hopping on one foot, his curled shoes providing absolutely no arch support.

"Gold?" he squinted. The faint phosphorescent moss clinging to the ceiling offered just enough light to see the floor. It wasn't stone. It was a sea of coins, chalices, and plates, all rusted together into a singular, jagged topography of wealth. It smelled terrible—not like riches, but like sulfur and old mothballs.

"Hello?" Barnaby called out, projecting his voice from the diaphragm, just as his vocal coach had taught him. "I am here to negotiate terms of surrender! Yours, specifically!"

Silence answered him.

He picked his way across the hoard, the uneven ground wreaking havoc on his ankles. He needed high ground. A place to stage his entrance. Ahead, a massive, craggy hill rose out of the sea of coins. It was dark, textured like slate, and offered a perfect vantage point.

"Excellent," Barnaby muttered. He scrambled up the side of the hill, his bells jingling with every slip and slide. The surface was warm, which was a nice change from the drafty castle. He reached the summit, planted his hands on his hips, and prepared his opening monologue.

Then the hill sneezed.

It was a wet, tumultuous sound, like a geyser erupting inside a tuba. Barnaby was launched three feet into the air, flailing wildly, before landing hard on his backside.

The hill shifted. Two massive plates of rock slid open to reveal eyes the size of carriage wheels. They were milky with cataracts and narrowed in extreme suspicion.

"Bless you," Barnaby squeaked, his professional composure cracking just a fraction.