Muzukashi Otoko stared at what had become of his American host. To think, he had been sent to America to make a business deal with this rich buffoon, who not only acted like some boisterous bumpkin, but actually allowed himself to become a mere object. Granted, Mr. Jones had become a very nice looking vehicle. It was larger and less efficient than Otoko might have seen in his home country, but the idling 1985 Sierra truly looked and sounded brand new. It was indeed brand new. Created by the performer by some magic that seemed to go beyond illusions. It was hard to comprehend, but it was easy to see. And it was undeniable that the American slob Larry Jones would willingly give up his human life to wield the strength and power of a truck, even if that meant obeying a random driver.
Muzukashi thought back to the thumbs up Larry had given him before his hands turned into wheels. The joy on his face when his voice became a musical truck horn. It was unthinkable. It was unseemly. It was American. Muzu's grimace began to show, his face began to flush, his formal pants began to tent--wait, what? This was making him horny--no, that couldn't be right. Disgusted, it was making him disgusted. More disgusted than he had been when Larry was a man.
"So, do you still think I am a very talented woman, Mr. Otoko?" asked Madame Illusia. How did she know his name? How had she known Larry's name? He didn't know. He could only nod in confirmation.
"It's alright, you know. This isn't Japan anymore. Inside this tent of mine, I daresay it isn't even America. This is a space where people become who they really are. You can tell the truth inside these canvas walls."
The foreigner's pants grew tighter, his face grew redder, his mouth grew drier, watching this passionate magician circling him like a tiger circling its prey. She spoke again: "What do you think of my venue, Muzukashi Otoko? What say you about my performance?"
"It is incomparable," said the black-haired, white-faced, sharply dressed, white-collar monk of the religion of capitalism. His three words did not technically communicate approval, but they did not sound impolite.
"Yes, yes, of course. My show is like nothing else. But that isn't what you were thinking to yourself down in that seat beside this nice pickup here. When he was a man. What have you been wanting to say since you got here, Mr. Otoko? What do you think of my show?"
The sweating, red-faced, painfully erect male could take no more. He thought he might manage to hide his disdain once more, but what came out of his mouth was astonishingly blunt, to his own complete amazement and horror:
"I think it's disgusting! Spoiled Western fools, lining up to throw their lives away. If they had an ounce of care for anything other than their own pleasure, they might take some responsibility in their lives! But no, they want to be gas-guzzling automobiles, helpless sex toys, or rutting animals! I came here to make respectable business connections, not to wallow in this decadent filth!"
The audience booed and jeered. Muzu tried to catch his breath. He could not believe he had been so scathing. He would never had said that in Japan. He had offended the country he came to make pleasantries in. He had shamed his company. Yet he had held his tongue all night. Had her magic made him say what he'd just said? Drinks and carnival foods were thrown toward the stage, which oddly didn't dirty it in the slightest. The Madame held up her hand to calm the angry mob.
"Now now, ladies and gentlemen, do not be so harsh. This is a place of truth. You've seen people need convincing to let their true selves show. What you've heard is what this man has wished to say all night. What he's wished to believe. But it isn't what he REALLY thinks of us here. Now is it, Mr. Otoko?"
What? Of course it was! He didn't WANT to see what he'd seen tonight. He was only here for Larry, for their businesses, for the money, for the--
"FREEDOM! I've never seen people so uninhibited, so free to leave their problems behind. I wanted my company to send me to America. I wanted to see if the ugly Americans were real. I WANTED them to be real. I was tired of being the perfect businessman everyday, just to climb a little higher and live a little more comfortably. When Mr. Jones told me this show makes dreams come true, I wanted to set myself free for once. At least for tonight."
Everyone was in awe. Muzukashi was in awe. He hadn't meant any of that had he? Her magic that had made him tell the truth was making him lie now! But the pressure in his groin didn't lie. The tears of exhaustion--of relief!--streaming down his face didn't lie. The suppressed envy and LUST he felt for Larry, even his truck form, was not a lie. A pair of hands in the audience began clapping. Soon a standing ovation had erupted. Madame Illusia touched her finger to his chin and lifted the businessman's eyes toward her face.
"Be free, Muzukashi," she said nuturingly. "Be the kind of man you wished to see."
The Japanese man's slim suit became tight. His belly swelled. His height increased. Some buttons split. The dress pants turned blue. Some holes appeared. The shirt became a gray, faded, stained tank top with a large flying eagle picture on the front. His office-worker arms swelled up into farmer biceps. He flexed them and spoke with a much different accent than his Japanese one:
"Yeehaw! I feel great! And damn that is one fiiiine-looking truck."
"Well, someone's going to have to manage Mr. Jones's American business's, don't you think? How about we magically re-register those to a Mr. Leeroy Braxley Austin?"
The name sounded right to Leeroy. Wait, that wasn't his name, was it? It was Muzi-, Musty-, what was it? Leeroy sounded better. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out an Alabama driver's license. Sure enough, the name was Leeroy Braxley Austin. The face looked new and different, but somehow he knew it was HIS face now.
"There's a truck ramp down the back of this stage," said the Madame. "Japanese corporate culture is thousands of miles away from you. Why not take carefree a joyride out into the night?" She pulled out a right, white and blue bandana from a pocket he didn't know she had. She handed it to him, and somehow he knew how to tie it perfectly around his head.
"Cain't thaink ya enuff, missus," said Leeroy, opening the Sierra door and sliding into the front seat. He wheeled around and revved the engine as the crowd cheered. Then the redneck and the pickup disappeared behind the stage to somewhere far behind the tent. The last anyone in the audience heard of them was the loud but distant roar of the accelerating truck and the joyful howling of its driver leaving their old lives behind.