People come to Juicy street, not for the joyful atmosphere it lacks, but to see the Circus of Perversions, for which we are famous. Want to see an elephant with a tumour the same size as it's body? What about a Siamese twin slowly digesting his other half? Or maybe just the boy without a bone in his body, careful where you step? The Circus of Perversions is the place for you.
The religious groups try to prevent the Circus and it's goings on, but mostly since so many of the congregation, (and clergy for that matter, though enrobed and wearing thick glasses of ambiguity), come to see the show, the delights, that it never does get closed down.
I do trapeze. We fly through the air without nets. We're not very good and falling is common, but of course, that's the attraction that keeps the wolves coming to watch. I'm thinking of getting into a different line of work. The Spandex does feel nice though.
What's upsetting us in Juicy street though, is a recent rash of murders. Men and children are shot from afar by what seems to be a sniper bloke who's rather a crack shot. One bullet to the brain each time. Simple but perfect. Through a door, a window or a crack within a crack that a mouse would have a hard time getting in. Always cleanly, masterfully done.
Women don't get off so easy though, and this is the part that worries us circus folk. The women get kidnapped, stripped, put in harlequin-like costumes and have their faces painted white in a garish mess across their face, as though done by someone with terrible eyesight but who makes up for it with enthusiasm. They are forced to do strange and unusual things that result in their death. One was twisted about in barbed wire, more and more and more till it cut right through bone and jugular alike. Another was forced to juggle unsheathed blades over and over until blood loss from thousand nicks and cuts proved a mercy.
These killing were, of course, believed to have been done by a previous member of the Circus, and, having had many previous members, some of which left mostly whole, the Circus couldn't exactly say it wasn't at fault. IT did not bode well for job security.
Focus now shifts to a young woman, slim, bobbed black hair and about 20-ish, coming home from a long shift as a waitress and acrobat. (There are actually people out there who enjoy simple acts as well as the more bloody and dark...). She's walking down an alley way when something covers her mouth, so fast and effectively she barely registers it before she passes out.
And so wakes up in a little apartment, full of junk, half eaten food,dead animals and, more alarmingly, various sharp implements that looked none too clean in the blood and gore department. Getting up groggily, still too drugged to realize there should be a healthy dose of panic manifesting, she moves to the small bathroom and in so doing, sees her face in the small grimy mirror in the hall.
Her face is smeared with white paint. She touches it, feeling a stirring of horror. More and more she moves it until it covers her face smoothly. That panic is beginning to make itself felt. Not the most comfortable feeling ever. She barely notices the harlequin outfit on her, not even when the bells chime merrily as she moves..
The outer door opens with a creak and groan like a hopeless dying thing.
In walks a small, viciously scarred, old man. Viciously scarred might actually be an understatement. His face is just a mass of scars that merely suggest at a nose, a mouth and something that might be an eye in cyclops.
The man see's here and rolls his eyes. He talks in a French accent, not harsh and silly like, "How do you like ze potatoes?" but softly, seductively and terribly at odds with his outer shell.
Seems the chloroform was supposed to have kept her out for another hour at least. Oops. He's tut-tutting but seems not too unhappy all in all. He offers her a biscuit that looks like it's seen finer decades. She turns it down, perhaps not too hungry at the moment.
She can see now, off to the left, a huge gun, built up and black, sleek and beautiful, and very, very deadly looking. The guy notices her peeking and, like a proud parent, explains happily how, with this nifty, self-engineered child of his, he can shoot anyone, at all, anywhere on Juicy street and that, well, he pretty much has been doing just that from this towering perk of his. He blushes a bit here, proud but modest, though not expecting praise.
When he looks up, he discovers his intended victim has made a bit of a dash outside the door and bolted for freedom. He watches from his tower room as she flees far down below and heads off wobbly, but surprisingly fast, towards the grimy, thick bricked building that is the police station.
He can see she's looking about in absolute fear. Any moment now he could use that superior weapon on her and mow her down where she stands.
Again he rolls his eyes, the gun is destined for the men and children of this town, it's tastes being selective and finicky. Silly woman.
She's close to the police station now, really she has very good form running down those cobble stones, she should have been an athlete, maybe not long distance though, she does look winded, but she has heart and, he thinks, that's most of the battle already there.
She's made it to the granite stairs and reaches out a hand to open the thick, castle gates of the station entrance.
So he smiles softly and reaches into his pocket pulling out a pretty, delicate device in gold and silver wiring, with a smooth ivory switch nestled within. With quiet reverence he thumbs the switch down and watches as a row of lights, each a different and beautiful colour, light up around the girls waist.
She stops, arm still stretched out and looks down at the glowing belt around her. Emerald, sapphire, ruby, the colours and lovely. She suspects she should have thought of taking it off in her mad scrabble for freedom.
That's the last thing to go through her head, besides a small piece of skull bone, as the belt blows her in half, neatly and yet with enough flare to do an artist proud.
Her body falls to the floor, a bit of a time delay between the bottom half and recently removed top half. Still very gracefully done.
The old scarred man watches approvingly.
He goes out for coffee and a croissant, ignoring the police and screaming and crowds that materialize for just such an even. The sky is a smooth gray, the fog hardly noticeable. It's going to be a lovely day.
