A wide eyed, bushy tailed (his fox-fucking grandfather was the black sheep
of the family), young whippersnapper, 13, ran away to form the circus. His
parents, for reasons of sex in the kitchen, were happy to be shot of him; no
police reports were filed, and he was allowed to wend his merry way as many
times a day as he could manage at his tender, sore, age. Clearing out his
savings account he bought a tent. Blackmailing a sweet little old lady who
hadn't done anything wrong but didn't want to risk it in case she had, he
bought a bigger tent. Blackmailing her again, he bought a tent big enough
for a circus and his other two tents.
Leaving aside clowns, lion tamers, tightrope walkers, all he needed now was
a name. Yes it's true, this sweet little boy with nary a care in the world
other than a fledgling circus business had no name. His parents, bastards
that they were, had never seen fit to call him anything other than Roy.
Making sure that the size was properly stitched in, and insisting upon power
of veto in the lottery rules and regulations he picked his name out of a
hat. He set the old lady to work sewing "Boy's Fantastic Circus" in really
big letters on the biggest tent, slightly smaller letters on the medium
tent, and told her to sew nothing on the final tent so he'd have somewhere
to go and be private when the pressures of life became too much for him and
he wanted to slice into his wrists and neck without timely intervention.
Boy took to the road like a duck to water, a human to air, a human to water
and a duck to air - it's a rich tapestry of rich tapestries of elements. The
old lady, whom Boy called Old Lady (and mighty grateful for the capitals she
was too), followed at a respectful distance, doing any necessary sewing and
paying for everything monetarily, emotionally and sexually. From town to
town he'd go, pitching his tents, gathering an audience, then explaining to
the paid up onlookers that all his performers had just died in a really
moving way. They were welcome to a refund, but they'd have to fight Old Lady
for it and be thought of as unsympathetic by their peers and subordinates.
They were welcome to go home and cry. They were welcome to stay and put on
the show themselves. Most chose to fight Old Lady, most died from their
injuries, some died from other people's injuries - one man drowned when the
spurting artery of a young school teacher took him unawares, filled his
lungs and congealed before he could say "My lungs are filling with blood."
Scouting, y'see. In tents. Those that lived did silly little dances, tried
to do backflips, rode horses using just one leg, juggled with tigers, threw
flaming strongmen at women in thongs. There were many, many deaths. Those
that lived felt a strong bond with the circus: they'd all been through so
much together that they felt compelled to stay together, sharing their
grief, living off Old Lady. Boy's Fantastic Circus had performers, the
violent deaths were no longer necessary to separate the wheat from the
chaff, they were just a precursor to the proper entertainment.
The money came rolling in, but it wasn't enough, it's never enough. Boy
wanted more and more, more than Old Lady could pony up, more than the circus
was bringing in, more than his shrewd investments in arms and tobacco
companies were paying. He would be the star of the show, he would be the
closing number, he would milk the crowds for all they had. Boy the Amazing
Money-Swallowing Boy was born. Spotlight. Dramatic music. A bucket. Boy
would go amongst the audience - the true indication of a prophet - and
collect all their money in a bucket. He would proceed to swallow it, piece
by piece, paying no heed to the absence of hygiene. The gasps just stirred
him on further, he would become more daring, throwing coins high in the air,
where they would glisten in the spotlight, then catching them in his mouth
and swallowing them. Two coins at once, three, four, a roll of notes in a
waterproof bag, it all went into Boy's stomach. He would invite a pretty
young lady in the front row to come down and jiggle his belly to hear the
chinking of the coins. The audience would dig deeper into their pockets, not
aware of the laws of gravity which states that all coins must fall to the
bottom of a pocket in the first place. Somehow, somewhere, more money was
found. Boy wouldn't stop swallowing until every coin in the tent was firmly
ensconced in his stomach. Out walked the audience, amazed and delighted,
down came the tents, the circus moved on to the next town, Boy waited for
nature to take its course.
Like the first Doors album, The End is track 11. One day in a restaurant Old
Lady was mean with her tip, and with an attractive waitress as his motive
Boy did something he'd never done before: he coughed up the money. I don't
know if you've ever tried to cough up just a coin or two when your stomach
has nearly £800 in change in it, but it's not easy. Boy lost control. He
vomited money all over his carrots. Many coins became lodged between Boy's
teeth, and there was no way he could get them out. It's simply impossible to
continue to run a circus if you have coins stuck between your teeth, Boy
knew this and jumped ship, selling the tents and lives of the performers to
Old Lady for £210,000 plus stock options. Boy returned home and walked in on
his parents having sex. He took some of his money and bought a new
wipe-clean kitchen table.