I got a call from Bawnie, the Ringmaster. She said a bunch of all dolled-up girly models had just been dropped off on a tour bus, and that she needed me on the midway as soon as possible, even though it was supposed to be my day off. It was the crack of dawn, dammit! Who did she think she was? I grumbled and sat on the edge of the bed. My feet hit the floor and I said good morning to the King, in what has turned out to be my morning ritual here at the trailer park.




Step right up! Step right up! You sir, with the mustache? Madame, how about you? Yes, you! No? Oh, well, how about you! Yes, you! You right there! You have a curious glint in your eyes! Have you come to stimulate your senses? Have you come to shatter your mind, smash into it into little powder and float on a tide of creativity? No! Wait, what, no? Seriously? You just want to hear about the Carnival of Doom? Well, fine, I mean, I’m not judging you or anything. Why would I? I'm a friendly, laid back sort of a guy. The kind that does not stab random passers-by with sharp objects when they give me the stinkeye. The kind that doesn't bury their bodies in shallow graves out by the chicken coop. No sir, no ma'am, no gender-neutral pronoun, no way.











