Good evening my Friday Fictioneering Friends and Relations, once again Rochelle has somehow managed to keep everything together under increasing pressure from the wordpress fascists who are trying to bring us down with this new block system. Well not me, not this time, I will (in the words of Gaynor) survive and somehow continue until the next time by which it will be too late and Trump would have starved everyone to death using the power which he wields like an out of control self propelled lawnmower in the biome on Mars.
Thanks to J Hardy Carroll for the snapshot, I’m thinking its a circus or Britains got Talent, and with that, I’d better get my thinking cap on,
On My Marks…
Their shiny leggings detracted from the comminatory cadavers hanging from the Circus roof behind. The tent was pumped full of a sweetly smelling sticky aroma; cut grass.
Back stage the ringmaster took a huge hit and shakily wiped his nose planning to go down the K-hole, as the Elephants; soporific, shuffled shackled heels, blood soaked under the Laotian patterned leggings.
The Liontamer was reclining as the bearded woman bounced up and down on his trunk, her dreadlocked mane filthy as her Mandrax soaked hair dripped greasy into her dead bloodshot eyes.
Wicked Circus was in town; Everyone was a target.
There we are folks, 100 words of pure foulness for you all.