90. God of the Game

The crowd is mesmerized by those spiralling teats. Ladies and gentlemen sucked into her voluminous breasts. “For the first act, no prisoners are spared,” the emcee’s voice is bitchy and witchy, “voyeurs not allowed. You watch; you partake; you pay!” Her teeth cringed and her eyes narrowed in evil light.

Circus theme fires up. Evil clowns torment the so called cream of society. They get to watch, alright, from bottom up. Made to lie supine, an aristocrat flooring is formed. Actors step all over them; and the ground grimaces. I’m still the immovable centrepiece. The action heats up around me. The performers represent the bohemian, the avant-garde, the proletariat, the eccentric geniuses born in the wrong century and the worthless dead sacrificed to feed fat bellies of the rich. “It’s payback time, baby,” ringmaster in a hideous mask shouts.

He peels the masquerade, and what’s revealed is twice as horrible a mug. An acid victim, a perpetual grin; jowly flesh flapping from the cheeks, and puffy eyes appearing more like dunked-out soggy tea bags.

Fire-eaters and fire-farters: a precarious mix. Arson specialists these are. They burned the Horny Hound down - the pong of ammonia - taking the festivities outside. A prismatic celebration presides. Heaven and hell combined could not have been jollier.

A single streak of light through the looking glass, a prism procreates for the birth of rainbow. Need I elaborate the power of animation? Take a man, he is a boring stick-man; but draw him out, art him up, and he becomes interesting, fascinating. And so many styles to reanimate that tragic figure: longer limbs than natural, ghastly proportions, childlike puppy fatness, Manga amplification, a Disney succulence, Marvel or DC flamboyance; so much more excitement being a cartoon.

AI generated art prompted by author

All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.