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The Impossible at the Fair, Harker World Building
🕑 Added 2025-06-22 16:00:10 +0000 UTCDaily Union, 19 August, Frederick Trumper
I want you to imagine you are standing with me.
It's a warm August day, the sky only hints at clouds. we're standing in the middle of the fair, with the sounds of people all around us, food vendors left and right, along with game booths. Screams erupt, but those are just the people in the switchback as their carts plummet down from the top of the incline. It's perfectly safe, we're told by the hawker in front of the new attraction, he also yells about how it's a perfect replica of the one at Conney island, so we shouldn't miss our chance, once the fair ends, the switchback might not ever come back.
But it's not why we're here.
We walk away from the games and the food, leaving the smells of funnel-cake, powdered sugar, cakes, jams...you know, maybe we should indulge a little? After all, the paper is paying for us to be here, and the reason they have sent us here isn't going away. The pamphlet we've been handed says his show is every half hour. Come on, I'm told we have to try the funnel-cakes, and they're just a penny.
Imaging the snap of the outer edge as your teeth bite into the fried dough, the fluffy tenderness of the inside, which they achieve by making sure the oil is hot enough it only takes a few seconds for the 'cake' to cook. Now you wonder why I've put emphasis on cake?
A funnel-cake is nothing like a cake. that should have been apparent when I mentioned frying. If you've had deep-fried shrimp, or anything coated in batter and then deep-fried, you have any ideas of what a funnel-cake is. That batter, poured in a string in hot oil over itself, forming the 'cake', then it's coated with powdered sugar. take my word for it, since you're only imagining being with me, it is delicious. An indulgence you have to partake in at least once this summer.
With the funnel-cake eaten, we proceed to the tent the man we're here to see performs in, paying our nickel to get in. The tent is somber, with an opening in the canvas roof letting in the sunlight in the center, where the stage is. It simply consists of a marked circle on the dirt, around which the chairs are positioned in a semi-circle. There are thirty chairs, we sit at the front because we're early and because as reporters, we need to have a good view of the performance.
The paper sent us here to watch Brutus Fagan, the man the carnies call Bullet Bouncer. According to the stories that made it back to the city, the man is going to be shot with a variety of firearms, and the bullets will bounce off him, hence the name. The drawing on the pamphlet shows a bare-chested muscular man more reminiscent of the muscle men than someone who claims to bounce bullets off his chest.
Since we have to wait, let us theorize about what we'll see. This is a carnival, so there's a trick. The drawing leads us to think the man will be bare-chested, making the feat seem impossible, but I expect he'll wear a shirt, something that seems flimsy, too thin to matter at all. He might even have someone from the audience look the shirt over, to ensure it's authentic. Then there will be a distraction, probably as he puts the shirt on. In the audience I expect, a plant to make us look away as the man switches to a different shirt, one lined with metal plates? It would explain the apparent strength in the drawing. the skill then comes in making us believe the shirt is still normal.
A man steps onto the center, the show is about to start.
He is too thin to be Brutus. He is the “ring leader”, and he tells us what to expect, the miracle of the act, the impossibility of a man bouncing bullets off his chest. He takes a revolver from the holster at his hips, and he walks around the front row, showing it to us.
He is captivating and good-looking. The women in the audience can't seem to take their eyes off him, to the annoyance of their husbands. He draws even me into his story to the point I'm hurrying to write this after he's done because I simply listened to him explain how he came across Brutus the first time, when a bull rushed him and instead of being gored, Brutus picked himself off the ground more annoyed at his ripped jacket then the bull.
It also only occurs to me now, that showing us the revolver could indicate that is where the trick is. Maybe instead of real bullets, it will be loaded with 'Hollywood bullets'.
Brutus enters.
He seems put off by the crowd, but steps through us at the ring leader’s insistence. Despite the impossibility of the claim, Brutus doesn't seem like a man seeking recognition and fame. His smile is bashful as he looks us over and gives a shy wave. As I expected he wears a shirt that looks like — no, he takes it off.
Bare-chested he looks very much like a shier version of the drawing on the pamphlet. The artist gave the drawing a confidence Brutus doesn't share. Now I can believe the gunman when he said he had to insist and prod Brutus in joining the carnival and show what he could do. Which makes the act that much more impressive.
Brutus stands at the back, away from us, so that the bullets won't bounce into the audience the gunman explains as a table is brought in on which rests more revolvers and hand pistols. Each one is as real as the one the gunman holds, he explains. He gives a quick rundown of who makes them, more advertising than explanation.
The audience falls into a hush silence as the gunman takes position, aims at Brutus, and fires.
The gunshot is such that I startle, even expecting it. I didn't realize they were so loud.
Brutus didn't move under the 'impact'. I'm not sure there was an impact. The shot itself distracted me and others in the audience claim the detonation was a distraction. The gunman smiles, clearly used to such a reaction. He tells us that now that we know what to expect, we can pay attention.
He aims; this time he tells us what he is doing, where to look, at Brutus' stomach, for signs of the impact, and fires. I startle again and miss if there is an impact or not, but a few in the audience express awe, which makes me want to join in, but i'm a reporter, I didn't see anything warranting awe yet. I'm also not the only doubter here.
Again the gunman isn't surprised. He aims again and fires. This time I don't startle enough to make me take my eyes off Brutus and I see something. What exactly I saw, I'm not certain, but my imagination wants me to believe it's the bullet impacting and bouncing.
We want to believe there are impossible things out there. We want wonderment in our lives, and that is what places like this thrive on. To give us that illusion. Part of me wants to believe the bullet really bounced, but the rational part knows, it's just some act; and I am here to see through it. To understand how they pull it off.
I want to be clear, I'm not against what they are going. I've paid my nickel and unless they start selling me on how they can make me like Brutus, this is just harmless entertainment, but it is a reporter's job to seek the truth, even if that means shattering a beautiful illusion.
From the sound of it, I'm the only holdout left. The gunman glances at me, with my notebook, I do stand out as a reporter, but he doesn't comment. He takes a slightly larger handgun and fires at Brutus. The caliber weight is larger, but Brutus' control of his stomach muscle is impressive because I am certain I see the bullet hit, the flesh dent in and ripple a little.
For ten minutes the gunman fires one of the multiple handguns on the table after the other. Each time I am certain I see the impact, and not only on the stomach, but the chest, and even one misaimed shot ripping Brutus' pant leg and making him dance around in pain before showing the undamaged leg, at the gunman's insistence. Brutus now looks like he prefers being anywhere else but here.
The act ends on a show stopper of the gunman firing eight times in Brutus with the same handgun, something he calls a semi-automatic handgun. The men in the crowd are up after that, wanting to know about the weapon more than Brutus. The gunman simply tells them to go to Borchardt booth, since he is who provided it for the demonstration.
And now we know what this is all about.
This act is to push this new weapon.
Still, I don't know how they did it. And I owe it to all of you to explain it.
I approach the gunman and Brutus, and ask about the performance. I don't hide that I believe it's an act, and the gunman is amused by it.
Here I must state that what follows was written after the fact as I then asked to see and hold the revolver because I believe it's fake. The gunman lets me hold it. Shows me how to open the cylinder to see that it's loaded. I take out the bullets and they look real. Although I must admit to a lack of experience with such things. Still, if the trick is with this revolver, I'm at a loss to explain how they did it.
The gunman comments to Brutus, who seems more comfortable now that it's only the three of us in the tent. They won't let the next group in for another ten minutes, and a crazy thought occurs to me. I'm holding the revolver, Brutus is meer feet away. I can test the veracity of their claim myself.
I admit that under the excitement of the revelation, the potential danger of what I was contemplating escaped me. All I felt was the power of revealing charlatans for what they were. I'd seen the gunman move the switch on the revolver before and after he fired. I flick it and fire at Brutus.
I hit Brutus and he staggered back, but the recoil whipped my hand up and instead of the stomach, the bullet hit his face. Without meaning too I press the trigger again and this pullet misses Brutus entirely and shatters a tent pole behind him.
I let go of the weapon in horror. Brutus and the gunman are panicking too, Brutus keeping the gunman from looking at his face and the gunman does what he can to help his friend. In that instant of horror at the damage I may have done, I have a moment of clarity.
There is no blood. Not on the floor, not dripping down Brutus' body.
The gunman finally manages to pull Brutus' hand away and is amazed at what he sees. He turns Brutus to show me, his face is intact.
The amazement on the gunman's face along with the fear on Brutus’ is what finally convinces me.
This is no act.
Brutus Fagan is a bulletproof man.
