La Camaraderie du Cirque
By dave ring
Gather round, and let me tell you the story of Veronica’s Oiseau de Feu.
They were dark times, for me. Every bloody day, Chuckles, Magda and Felix tried to trip me when I walked by, ugly faces snickering underneath their greasepaint. My everything, Michel, ignored them, even when they pull that shit right in front of him. It infuriated me. He said it was to preserve “the camaraderie du cirque.” I loved Michel. But when Michel stood by doing nothing while those painted-mouth idiots tormented me, my love was lost in a rage that could turn a forest into cinders.
On those days, I screamed into my pillow: “Fuck the camaraderie du cirque!” Though my pillow did just as little as Michel to salve my wounds.
Before my banishment from the tent, I used to lurk behind the cheap velvet curtains and watch Michel and Lars from backstage after all the tickets had been sold and the punters put in their seats. Dear Michel and sweet, foolish Lars. Our main act. Under the lights, they gleamed. They wore tiny silver posing pouches and white cords criss-crossed around their muscled limbs, like they’d been the pawns of bondage-minded sailors. As if you could pull at a loose string and the two of them would fall apart into a sloppy pile of oiled pectorals, triceps and thighs. (Continue Reading…)