II The tents were always striped, smaller than you’d think. Hot in there. The hay soaked up most of the piss but the smell, O that delicious, disgusting smell… Some nights the lions would draw real blood. I never let on. There’s only one way I’ll die; feast. How else, after all the years? They watch me, ragged, wondering Who will go first? I whisper, me.
III She fell. He watched her, couldn’t believe – everything In slow motion as you’d expect. She fell. No one even tried to catch her. It was too, Too beautiful. He stood with his black top hat raised in one white-gloved hand.