The next act to behold at the Hemophiliac Circus is “The Strong Man.” This guy is enormous and muscle-bound, with jet-black hair. He boasts that he can lift any object that the crowd desires.
“My name is Zapato,” he informs us; “and I am fifty years old.” Now he cups his ear and leans toward the audience, to hear our requests.
A voice from the crowd shouts: “Try lifting a can of ham and some candied yams in just one hand.”
Another audience member yells: “Pick up a dumbbell that weighs 500 kilos.”
Mister Zapato promptly performs each challenge as it is spoken.
“Now toss a building directly into the sun,” says a jokester from the back.
Zapato complies, and the audience is impressed.
“Hey, I bet you can’t rip out your heart and display it on a platter,” says a sinister voice. And, after a tense moment of waiting for Zapato, the same voice laughs: “Ha, sucker, now you’re dead, because your blood won’t clot.”
Zapato the Strong Man is wide-eyed and short of breath. Realizing that he’s been tricked, he begins to lurch toward our section of the crowd, since the voice that duped him came from this direction. . . . Now the Strong Man Zapato mistakes me myself for the culprit and reaches for my neck, but my assistant Tertz protects me by squawking threateningly. The Strong Man flinches: “Where did you get that crazy monkey?” Then Tertz springs forth and scratches him, drawing blood. — “Ow!” Zapato swoons.
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