A Proverbial Circus

There’s no safe wading in unknown waters like in this Historical Science Fiction tale.

                

                During the darkest time of a still and starry night, an extremely strange and incredibly secretive traveling circus rolled into town. Entirely unnoticed by the slumbering townspeople, I discovered the bizarre unannounced circus wasn’t staying in town because the elephantine parade lumbered nose to tail onward to another site in question. As an incurable insomniac and budding reporter, I always had a bloodshot but youthful eye out for an exceptional story to make my indelible mark, and this looked like the best they come in my neck of the woods. Discreetly, I shadowed the stealthy convoy on my trusty bicycle wielding ready pad and pen. Finally, after several dusty miles the long caravan of vehicles and I, maintaining a safe, discreet distance with increasingly tired legs, thankfully pulled to a halt. The gloom of the ungodly hour hindered my anxious and studious observation.

 Disembarking from a Jeep, ringmaster B.G Humdrum proved to be a lanky patrician man who flaunted a stuffed shirt decorated in a multitude of shiny accouterments, a shimmering top hat, and a lengthy whip. I took up a furtive position to watch as B.G. perused a small blue book and recited odd dictums. 

            “Gather up the whole ball of wax,” I heard B.G say. “A quiet tongue shows a wise head. “

Next to him his secretary Brunhilda stood, a plump matron who wore a two-day-old beard.  “Some men are wise, some otherwise,” she read from her own book.

                “Let not your heart be troubled,” the undaunted B.G. said pocketing his book. “Great gifts are for the taking by great men.” He cracked his whip and turned to his second in command, Maj Magnus the Magnificent, a brawny bald ogre. “We need to lock the barn before the horse gets out.”

                Magnus ripped off his shirt, flexed his whopping muscles, and bellowed. “Sooner said than done. What is done by night appears by day. One may have good eyes and see nothing, so you clowns will see nothing; that’s an order.”

                Magnus performed shoulder presses with oversized dumbbells as the ridiculous horde of clowns jumped, tripped, and tumbled out of the trucks. Displaying mosquito wings on their sleeves, they scurried about performing nonsensical antics such as slapping each other about, erecting a big peaked tent, and setting up three ringed cordons. With grainy eyes and a befuddled brain, I noted their antics as the sun ascended to fully illuminate the curious scene. Soon enough though, spectators and my rival reporters arrived.

                “Every day brings a new light,” B.G. remarked to Brunhilda who stepped aside to avoid his hand.

                She stroked her stubbly chin and said to him, “Meddle not with what you do not comprehend; there is no safe wading in unknown waters.”

                 “Smooth words make smooth ways. Pull some strings and lower the wool over their eyes,” said B.G. to L.T. Oris the Oracle. “Remember: on lookers always see more than the players. Better one word in time than two after.”

                A dark, exotic man, Oris Shalom appeared natty in a black suit and gray cape with an incredible white turban on his head. Oris closed his book, dipped his head, and gestured over a crystal ball.

                “What has been may be,” Oris said to us bewildered reporters. “Be mindful that not all your words deserve answers.”

                “Strange circus you have here,” one reporter commented. “We heard that you were collecting peculiar metallic objects out here.” 

                “Did someone let the cat out of the bag?” Magnus hollered threatening the clowns with his imposing muscles before facing us reporters. “One story is good until another is told.”

                “But a report said you were hiding the truth of what’s going on out here,” a reporter accused.

                “Doesn’t a false report ride post?” Asked Oris as he gazed at us with glazed-over eyes. “A tale makes the wolf bigger, and a twice-told tale ought to be telling.”

                “So then, what is your official statement?” Another reporter asked.

                “I find facts are stubborn things,” Magnus interjected boldly with an upraised fist. “All truth is not to be told at all times, so a little explained is a little endured.”

                It seemed like we weren’t going anywhere talking to those supposedly in charge, so we wandered away. We saw some clowns on hands and knees picking through the dirt with tweezers before a large truck hid them. Fascinated, I watched as other clowns juggled a large chard of shiny metal into the back of a truck. I tried to investigate but was herded back by three clowns wearing barrels around their middles.

                 “So, what are your men picking up out here anyway?”  Another reporter pointedly asked.

                B.G. strode up, smiled, and snapped his whip, “Possession is nine points of the law.”

                “Nothing succeeds like success,” A satisfied Magnus said while doing bicep curls with his huge dumbbells.

                “Aren’t you going to put on a show?” A local asked.

                “The world is my stage, but the sky is the limit,” B.G. said with his arms outstretched to space.  In awe, Magnus, Oris, and Brunhilda stared at him with star-struck eyes as I continued to observe from a safe distance. As the strange members of the proverbial circus shepherded us reporters back to our vehicles, we heard B.G. shout to us, “All’s well that ends well, and the end justifies the means!”

 After riding my bicycle back to town to write my article, I surprisingly slept well for the first time in years, but the townspeople of Roswell, New Mexico would never sleep easy again.