(Hello fellow writers. I was hoping that my arm injury would be better in time for me to write my November challenge. But as it hasn't healed, I am forced to subject you to a previously written piece. I am single-finger poking this explanation, so it would have taken me over a month to write anything. Anyhoo, I hope you get a giggle from this Rock Hard mystery.
AT)
I hate circuses. Ever since I was a kid, I hated them. Bearded ladies scared the hell out of me, the high-wire acts made me shiver like a bald mongoose in an igloo and the animals depressed the hell out of me, what with their sad, mopey faces and the sound of the whips cracking over their heads to get them to play around with a coloured ball or something. Why people paid good money to go to these cheap spectacles was beyond me. And don’t get me started about the Fat Man in the side show. Who wants to see some gluttonous pig, squatting in a stall like a knocked-up hippo? And even that cost ya an extra two bits.
But the thing about the circus I hated the most, hands down, were the clowns. To begin with, they were supposed to be funny and they never were. If I wanted to laugh at some goofy looking guy with his pants around his ankles, I’d watch Tim Pot trying to get his suspenders on in the morning. Pathetic. And not only weren’t they humourous in any way; their blank, lifeless, shark-eyes and painted red faces followed me around in my dreams like being tailed by an amateur; you couldn’t shake them, but you could see them all the time. Yeah, I hated clowns all right.
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