“Now let’s go watch the lion tamer tame lions,” I say, as my monkey Tertz and I proceed to the next exhibit at the Hemophiliac Circus. When we arrive, Tertz points and gesticulates in a way that means “Wow, those lions sure are being tamed.” For the lion tamer cracked his whip, which enraged the beasts; then he commanded them all to do tricks such as standing on one hind-paw while balancing a beach-ball on their snout.
We continue to watch the act. The lions are forced to hold various poses.
Then, at one point, the tamer turns toward us and teasingly cracks the whip straight at my monkey. “Hey, watch it,” I yell to the tamer; “you almost hit my personal assistant, whose name is Tertz.” — Now Tertz is furious: he leaps in the air and bites the man like this: Ach! The lions gaze on in disbelief as their tamer collapses under this rapid monkey-attack. Tertz repeatedly bites the tamer all over his body. Blood is now spraying from the cuts like a series of ornate fountains watering a pleasure-garden in Rome.
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