Chapter 3: "Buzzkill"

**Beat 1: "Harlequin Hopes"**

Arthur, now calling himself Arturo for this life, stared into the cracked mirror. He carefully dabbed a small, damp sponge into a pot of stark white face paint, pushing it across his skin. Each swipe obliterated the remnants of Archibald the taxidermist, a life already fading like a poorly preserved specimen. He was becoming accustomed to the ephemerality of existence, the strange in-between moments after rebirth, where echoes of past selves lingered. Today, he was Arturo, a harlequin with a patched costume and a painted smile masking a growing existential dread.

He meticulously applied the geometrical patterns, a diamond here, a stripe there, in bright primary colors. The red around his lips felt particularly jarring against the creeping emptiness he felt inside. *Just a job,* he told himself, *Just try to be good at it, Arthur...or Arturo, or whatever.* He winced as the sponge hit a small pimple near his chin. Even his skin seemed determined to betray him.

He adjusted his ruffled collar, making sure the small brass bells jingled merrily with each shake of his head. He had painstakingly sewn them on himself, using thread scavenged from a discarded coat. He took care with the details, a desperate attempt to control something, anything, in this chaotic carousel of lives. He looked in the mirror, smiling his biggest harlequin smile. The painted smile, he thought, looked a lot more sad than happy.

Next, he inspected his costume. The multi-colored patchwork suit had been a lucky find from a touring theatrical group that was passing through. It was, if not for a few odd patches and tears, a perfect fit, so he bartered his services to them painting props for them and getting the costume in return. Every seam was carefully reinforced, every button secured. He ran a hand over it, and a bell pinged slightly, a reminder that the costume was good and fit but also a constant reminder that he needed something better so he could collect a bigger audience.

He bent down and lifted a battered suitcase, its surface scarred with the remnants of countless journeys. Inside rested his meager tools: a unicycle with a rusty frame, a set of brightly colored juggling balls – worn smooth from use, and new to the case was a prop he worked on for days on a special ingredient his audience would enjoy. With some effort, he hauled the suitcase outside and closed the tiny flat up.

The city streets were already bustling. Vendors hawked their wares, children chased pigeons, and the air hung thick with the smells of frying food and exhaust fumes. Arturo walked through the crowds, trying to ignore the pitying glances directed his way. Some people gave him wide berth, assuming a harlequin must be mad. And perhaps they had a point.

He could feel their eyes on him, judging, analyzing. They saw a clown, a fool, a jester. They did not see the weight of countless deaths pressing down on him, the growing certainty that his existence was nothing more than a cosmic joke.

Brenda, the overly helpful HR-representative, was passing by as he walked out of his flat. "Oh, Arturo!" she called cheerfully, waving a brightly colored pamphlet. "I was just thinking about you! I know you like, died, a few weeks ago?" Arthur nodded slowly and gave a low sigh, she gave a look of sympathy to him and continued on. "Well, I wanted to let you know of this wonderful life coaching workshop that's happening next week. You know, to get you back on your feet!" Brenda was seemingly oblivious to the irony, a recurring presence in his lives, forever trying to "help" in ways that inevitably led to disaster.

"Thanks, Brenda," he muttered, trying to avoid eye contact. "I'll...think about it." He knew, with a chilling certainty, that Brenda's well-intentioned meddling would somehow feature in his next demise.

Arthur found his usual spot in the town square, a small patch of cobblestone near a dilapidated fountain. He took a deep breath, forcing down the rising tide of anxiety. He adjusted his painted smile, ready to face the day. A few coins jingled in his pocket, a reminder of his desperate need to earn a living, to survive.

"Alright, alright, gather round!" he called out, his voice a little shaky. "The amazing Arturo is here to delight and entertain!" The town square was his stage. But how long before the curtain fell on Arturo, too?

**Beat 2: "Juggling Jeopardy"**

Arturo planted his feet firmly on the cobblestones, trying to ignore the way they seemed to shift beneath him, like unstable ground. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smells of exhaust and stale pastries. He focused on the faces peering back at him—a few curious children, a bored teenager, an elderly woman knitting furiously. He needed to win them over, to make them forget their worries, at least for a little while. He needed the money, of course, but he mostly wondered when anything good would happen.

He mounted his unicycle, wobbling precariously for a moment. Years of practice gave him the balance he needed, and soon he was circling the fountain, a brightly colored blur against the gray stone. His legs pumped, his arms outstretched, and he focused on keeping steady.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!" he announced, his voice gaining confidence. "Prepare to be amazed by the feats of skill and daring of the one, the only, Arturo!"

He reached into his suitcase and pulled out the juggling balls, their bright colors a stark contrast to the drab surroundings. He tossed one, then another, then another, launching them high into the air. His hands moved in a blur, catching and releasing with practiced ease.

"Observe, my friends!" he cried, grinning beneath his painted smile. "The dance of the spheres! The poetry of motion!"

The children giggled, and even the bored teenager cracked a slight smile. The elderly woman, however, didn't even twitch, her needles clicking rhythmically.

He cracked a few jokes, corny puns and silly anecdotes, but the crowd remained mostly silent. He tried harder, injecting more energy into his performance, but the response was lukewarm. Arturo knew he needed something more, something to set him apart from the other street performers. This was when he remembered his new prop to play with: honey.

"And now, for my grand finale!" he announced, reaching back into his suitcase. "A feat never before attempted by mortal man! Juggling...with honey!"

He pulled out several clubs, they were painted red, gold, and black, but not fully. Honey-soaked and glistening, their surfaces reflecting the afternoon light. At first glance they looked normal, but Arthur had spent days hollowing them out and filling them with honey. "I'm sure it will be fun" he thought. As he juggled, he could taste hints of honey on his breath, a sweet, cloying scent that started to make him feel a little nauseous.

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Even the elderly woman paused in her knitting, her eyes narrowed.

He tossed the clubs into the air, higher than the balls, their honeyed surfaces catching the light as they spun. He moved with a new energy, fueled by desperation and a glimmer of hope. "I see you all gathering, my friends, " said a man from the distance, his tall figure watching Arthur from afar.

But as he juggled, he felt a strange vibration in his hands, a subtle tremor that ran through the clubs. The honey seemed to shift inside them, sloshing with a disturbing eagerness. He ignored the warning signs trying to play off his act, and continued to play with and juggle the honey. He focused on his form, his breath, pushing down the unease. Had he seen those fleeting glimpses of past lives, he may have stopped juggling.

"The sticky surprise, my friends, is only just beginning," shouted Arthur, as he juggled the honey-soaked clubs, "I bring to you, a festival sensation. Taste and see, that joy had found you and brought you and me to play with joy-"

Then, disaster struck.

**Beat 3: "The Bee-g Incident"**

As Arturo reached the climax of his juggling routine, the honey-soaked club closest to his left hand cracked unexpectedly. A hairline fracture snaked across its surface, then splintered into a web of fissures. The club then exploded dropping the honey out of it, scattering it around him and the immediate attendees.

A collective gasp arose from the crowd, but it was quickly drowned out by the rising hum of disturbed insects. "Oh no," said Arthur under his breath.

A swarm of angry bees erupted from the fractured club, bursting forth in a furious cloud of buzzing wings and stinging fury. He had foolishly assumed the honey would keep them docile, but the vibrations and the sudden release had unleashed a torrent of stinging insects.

The bees attacked Arturo, their stingers finding purchase in his painted face, his exposed neck, his hands. He flailed wildly, dropping the remaining clubs, his carefully rehearsed routine dissolving into a chaotic nightmare.

"Aaaah!" he screamed, his voice muffled by the swarm. "Get off me! Get off!"

He frantically tried to swat them away but they continued to swarm him, their attacks relentless and unforgiving. He staggered backward, losing his balance on the unicycle, which spun wildly and away from him as he fell back down to the cobble stone ground.

The crowd panicked, their curiosity replaced by terror. People screamed and scattered, swatting at the bees, trampling over dropped belongings in their desperate flight. Chairs were overturned, pastries were scattered, and the air filled with a cacophony of buzzing, shouts, and cries.

Brenda, who was observing from a safe distance, shrieked and fled, dropping her pamphlet about life coaching in her haste. *Well, guess I won't be attending that*, Arthur thought to himself sarcastically.

The bees swarmed around Arthur’s head, drawn to his painted features and the floral scent of his cheap cologne. He felt the sharp pricks of their stingers all over his face and neck, a burning sensation that intensified with each passing moment.

He stumbled towards the fountain, hoping to find some respite in the water, but the bees followed him relentlessly, their buzzing a deafening roar in his ears. The world spun around him, a blur of colors and frantic movements. He felt his own body start to shut down.

He tripped, falling heavily onto the cobblestones, the swarm descending upon him like a living blanket. The taste of the honey filled his mouth, a sickly sweet reminder of his failed ambition.

"This is it," he thought, his vision blurring. "This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a buzz."

**Beat 4: "Glue-rious Goodbye"**

As Arthur tried to escape the swarming bees, he stumbled backward, desperate to escape their relentless stings. His foot caught on the uneven cobblestones, sending him sprawling.

His unicycle, abandoned moments before, lay forgotten in the chaos. As he fell, his head slammed into a crack in the pavement, disorienting him further. His vision swam, the swarm of bees blurring into a dark, buzzing mass.

He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. He coughed, the honey tasting more and more rotten than sweet, but the bees swarming around his mouth and nose, stinging him relentlessly, made it difficult to breathe. He remembered. Images flashed through his mind: a spreadsheet, a snowflake, the cold bite of steel, the feeling of pencil on a piece of paper.

The world tilted, and he realized, with a surge of despair, that he was near an industrial construction site.

His flailing hand made contact with something cold and metallic. He twisted to see what he touched, and the vat was right there. It was right there. So close. He stumbled towards the light and pulled himself up to it, but his unicycle had other ideas. *Oh no.*

As if in slow motion, he slipped and fell headfirst into a vat of industrial-strength glue. The pool of viscous, pale-yellow adhesive swallowed him instantly, the surface tension breaking with a sickening "plunk".

The glue was cool at first, before getting steadily hotter, like tar. He didn't know why he got into this situation, and he didn't know anymore why or how he was going to get out of it any time soon. It would all eventually be over.

The glue hardened rapidly, encasing him in a suffocating cocoon especially trapping him with the bees: who stung him more and more. He tried to struggle, to pull himself free, but the glue held him fast, an inescapable prison of sticky horror.

The bees, still swarming around him, now had an easy target. They continued to sting him, unhindered by his feeble attempts to defend himself. The pain was excruciating, a burning, throbbing agony that intensified with each sting.

He was trapped, helpless, utterly vulnerable. The glue immobilized him, the bees tormented him, and the crowd, long since dispersed, was deaf to his muffled cries.

His last moments were a sticky, stinging blur of pain and humiliation. He could feel the glue hardening around his face, sealing his mouth and nose. He tried to scream, but only a gurgling sound escaped.

The taste of honey was replaced by the acrid tang of the glue, a chemical assault on his senses. He closed his eyes, his mind reeling as the darkness closed in.

Arturo’s last thought, as the glue hardened completely, was a bitter, ironic one: at least he wouldn't have to worry about finding a new job.

**Beat 5: "Taxidermy Trauma"**

Archibald Grimshaw awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. He sat bolt upright in his small, cluttered apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He winced, every nerve screaming in protest. The feeling of the hot, heavy glue still clung to him, a Phantom sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. It was a sticky, suffocating memory that clung to his skin, a constant reminder of his last, humiliating moments.

He has trouble breathing, his body remembering the previous inescapable sensation of being stuck. It felt as if an invisible force was pressing down on his chest, constricting his lungs. He gasped for air, his throat raw and burning. From that feeling, he could remember past similar situations he had been in.

Flashbacks haunted him, fragments of past lives flickering through his mind like broken shards of glass. He saw brief snips of his most horrific deaths: a spreadsheet looming over him by an overbearing boss, the taste of snow from gigantic icicles, the burning sting of bees. These fragments, once distant whispers, were now vivid and visceral, threatening to shatter his sanity.

He stumbled out of bed, his legs unsteady. He needed to ground himself, to find something tangible in this swirling vortex of memories.

He stumbled randomly down the dimly lit hallway. His vision went awry; his breathing remained heavy. He remembered something important. In an out-of-character action, his grabbed his keys and went outside of his apartment.

He reached the office through the heavy drizzle. His doctor's office was one door over, and that was where he needed to be. He slowly opened the door and closed it back and went to work on taking the item he wanted.

He reached into the hallway with his shaky hands and quickly, impulsively grabbed the stethoscope from a hook right next to the exit. He rushed back to his home as fast as he could, for he remembered a previous need for one, but couldn't remember where or especially why. A vague sense of panic gnawed at him, a feeling that he was forgetting something important.

Back at his home, he fiddled with the cold metal of the stethoscope. To any observer, this scene looked far more bizarre than just a taxidermist with a musical instrument.

It did not seem to help, for it made him remember the freezing, slippery neck of a melting popsicle from his second life as Barnaby when he tried to get out of giant icicles. The metallic, freezing rush from the stethoscope brought back the cold of his second life.

Archibald shuddered, dropping the stethoscope as if it had burned him. He stared at his hands, his mind reeling. What was happening to him? Why were these memories flooding his mind?

He knew that now – something profound had shifted. He actually *knew* now. He knew that he wasn't just Archibald the taxidermist. He was Arthur, and Arturo, and Barnaby, and countless others, all trapped in this endless cycle of life and death.

He was not alone. But there was also something more. There were also memories that felt extremely different. The memories did not feel connected, like a giant, confusing mess.

He picked up a bagpipe and played it.

Archibald briefly considered learning the bagpipes to improve his street act, because for some reason, playing the bagpipes made things very calm for him when things weren't supposed to be calm. For some reason, it brought solace and was as if it reconnected him to something from some past life, foreshadowing a future life where he’s forced into a miserable and hilariously inappropriate interpretive dance of stock market reports. Okay