The Devil's Amusement Park
A Short Story
It was located an hour northeast of Pittsburgh, in the valley of a dissected plateau where men had dug coal and steel had been forged in the mills of a hundred small towns. No advertisements were placed in the newspapers, and no television station or billboard hawked its wares – people simply knew that it was there, and those daring or foolish enough to venture the journey told their friends at home.
The rides were not much – rickety wooden roller coasters, a terrifying vertical plunge from a parachute tower, an underground boat ride through the skeleton of a flooded coal mine – to a connoisseur of amusements, the whole thing would have appeared tacky. And it was tacky: it shops were filled with shoddy tee shirts and poorly-blown glass bongs, its beer taps provided the cheapest foam on the market, and its vending machines dispensed cigarettes and flat round cans of snuff, their only concession to legal nicety a hand-lettered sign – NO UNDERAGE SALES. But for those who passed through the iron gates, the park was a place of legend.
“If you die on one of the rides, they throw your body in the incinerator.”
“It's run by the army, and you have to survive a trip if you want to get into Special Forces.”
“Everything’s cheap. They make a profit because they don’t use any safety equipment.”
This last was not strictly true, for thick seat belts and iron restraints rendered the rides mostly safe if used properly. The park, however, had a simple rule – every guest was expected to see to their own well-being, and those who failed to do so were not the problem of the owners. A few times per year, someone unbuckled on the roller coaster or touched the exposed wires that powered the Ferris wheel, and the results provided a spectacular lesson on safety to the surviving patrons. Small-town teenagers, college kids, and urban street toughs passed the hot summer days in its environs.
At sunset, the youngsters retreated to the safety of the parking lot, for a different crowd waited at the turnstiles. These were serious men and women, their limbs hardened by countless push-ups and their hearts tuned by punishing runs, for among those who moved in the right circles, the legendarium of the park was wholly different.
“Bring cash, tens and twenties, and steal what you need if you run out of money.”
“Get in shape. You will need every ounce of fitness, and even that may not be enough.”
“If you survive the night, your commemorative tattoo will be a unique symbol that no one may duplicate.”
The bravest of the day trippers camped in the parking lot and listened to the night sounds – barking dogs, sirens, the occasional scream – as the neon sign over the gate flickered and died.
THE DEVIL’S AMUSEMENT PARK — ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK