Proverbial Circus

One of my personal favorites, a crunch of satire and science fiction.

        

Axiom Circus

 

            It was late on a bright, starry night that a very strange traveling circus rolled into town. Entirely unnoticed by the townspeople, I discovered the 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 had a bloodshot but youthful eye out for an exceptional story to make my mark, and this looked like the best as they came in my neck of the woods. Discreetly, I shadowed the stealthy convoy on my trusty bicycle with ready pad and pen.

After several dusty miles, the long caravan of vehicles, and I maintaining a safe distance, pulled to a halt. Disembarking from a Jeep, the ringmaster B.G Humdrum proved 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 B.G. peruse a small blue book.  

            “Gather up the whole ball of wax,” I heard B.G say. He reached for his secretary, Brunhilda, a plump matron who wore a two-day-old beard. She stepped aside to avoid his hand.

 “Meddle not with what you do not comprehend,” 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. “Get to work you lousy clowns. 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 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 illuminate the curious scene. Soon enough though, spectators and my rival reporters arrived.

“Everyday brings a new light,” B.G. remarked to a nonplussed Brunhilda.

Brunhilde stroked her stubbly chin and said, “Some men are wise, some otherwise.”

 “Smooth words make smooth ways. Pull some strings and lower the wool over their eyes,” said B.G.to 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 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 the reporters. “Be mindful that not all your words deserve answers.”

“Not much of a circus,” one reporter commented. “We heard that you were collecting strange metallic objects out here.”  

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

“Doesn’t a false report ride post?” Asked Oris.

“So what is your official statement?” another reporter asked.

“I find facts are stubborn things,” Oris answered in a dreamy state. “All truth is not to be told at all times, so a little explained is a little endured.”

Some clowns were seen on hands and knees picking through the dirt with tweezers. I watched as other clowns juggled a large chard of shiny metal into a truck. I tried to investigate but was herded back by three clowns wearing barrels around their middles.

 “So, what are you picking up out here?” a reporter asked.

B.G. 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 huge barbells.

“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. Magnus, Oris, and Brunhilda stared at him incredulously as I continued to observe from a distance. One day later, the anomalous circus rolled off to vanish into the starry night. After riding back to write my article, I slept well for the first time in years, but the townspeople of Roswell, New Mexico would never sleep easy again.

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