“Mom, can we go see the Hemophiliac Circus?”
“OK, Bryan; put on your knee-breeches and call Tertz.”
“Yay! Alright! Now, mom, can I have some spending cash?”
“Sure, here you go. Now summon Tertz, the monkey who is your personal assistant.”
“OK, hey Tertz, c’mon: we’re going to the show!”
The monkey says huh, huh, hee, hee, hee.
Now, the first thing we behold, flying up in the air, is a trapeze artist who’s dripping blood and on the verge of dying.
“Oh, why, Tertz? Why does he bleed? How is it that his wounds continue gushing and will never heal?”
The droplets of blood sprinkle down on us like rain, vouchsafing a burgundy tint to our clothing and fur, while Tertz attempts to answer my question.
The flying trapeze act continues as the wind increases. The man is hanging upside-down by his bent knees from a small wooden swing.
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