Bullets Under The Big Top!

The family and I (all 12 of us) had been hiding inside of the musty, circus zebra costume for a month now. We each took turns using the flap in the back leg end to relieve ourselves and, as you can imagine, sleeping was very difficult if not nearly impossible. We existed on cotton candy and popcorn...sometimes the occasional half-eaten corn dog. Times were tough, but we were on the run from the law and we weren't about to take any foolish chances. When I say "the family" I mean that more spiritually than genetically. We were not related in the classic sense...but we had grown close as a blood-thirsty cult of murderers traveling together on a cross country kill-crazy rampage. Together we bonded as only a like-minded band of depraved killers could while all living inside of a cramped zebra costume with very little oxygen. Every day at 12:00 and 5:00 PM we were trotted out before the big top audience to prance around to the tune of "Tutti Fruiti" and then led back to our stall in the stable. The routine was getting very old indeed. It was time to get the hell of of Dodge. We were also afraid that the weird clown who called himself "Choo Choo" might try to sodomize us with that Elvis Presley whiskey decanter again.

Angel Dust Jim, the leader of the cult, had left the camp in Death Valley two days ahead of us to prepare for the coming of the Great Mama Titty Jocky Jocky (The blood ritual of the Temple of Dragon of Sunshine ). He had to gather the required presto logs and shower caps for the blood ritual....and we'd all need plenty of fresh underwear. That was a month and two days ago. We had been instructed to kill "all Zionist, flying monkey, astronaut, Frankenstein, mind control, zombie, capitalist, soul drinkers" by Angel Dust Jim. We weren't sure who he meant by that so well just killed everyone we could. We even killed that kindly old hobo who had shared his sardines with us, leaving his head impaled on a stick outside the shanty town as a warning for the other hobos not to track us and try to skin us and use our valuable pelts to keep warm during the coming winter months. At least we did honor the kindly hobo by eating the rest of his body so that he was now one with us spiritually, although, frankly he could have used more tenderizing and seasoning. He tasted like an old leather shoe.

I wondered if Angel Dust Jim awaited our arrival in New Mexico...if he did, I wondered why, as he told us to meet him in Idaho. Soon we would join him for the blood ritual. Tonight we would escape this circus hideout once and for all. I had a plan...over the course of the previous month we had assembled several wizard costumes, composed a short rock opera, built a 7 foot high, motorized, unicorn and performed amateur plastic surgery on each other's faces to assure that we could not be identified by our existing mug shots. I had opted for a "Bobby Vinton-like" visage, as I had hoped to wow the big top audience with my stunning rendition of "Polish and Proud". Instead, my face now looked like a cross between a melted Halloween mask and a pound of raw hamburger with some dentures shoved into the meat. That's what I get for trusting "Country" Clem to perform my facial reconstruction.

The plan was simple: wizards burst out of zebra costume riding unicorn, perform rock opera as distraction, commandeer 25 foot long car shaped like great white shark, ride off into the sunset, make sure to pick up that vagina-shaped bachelor party cake for Angel Dust Jim to serve as communion after blood ritual.

During the 5:00 show, the plan went into effect. Despite my careful planning, there were more than a few casualties...and by more that a few, I mean that I'm the only one left alive. I was lucky in the sense that I opted to kill everyone in sight, including my fellow cult members, before something went wrong with the plan. I'm typing this blog entry using a stolen Blackberry as I ride precariously atop a unicycle into the sunset...now the only task that lay ahead is to kill Angel Dust Jim and become God.