The show must go on...

But the show must go on. The circus and the circus people never cease.

Ladies, Gentlemen, boys and girls - for your attention, your bewilderment, your consideration, delectation, entertainment and fascination, general hysteria, intellectual jollyment, kaleidoscopic levity, magnificence, notwithstanding outrageous perfection, quite resplendent satellites trampolining unexposed, vibrant with extraordinarily yielding zeal… I give you…The Flying Fellinis, the greatest trapeze act in the world, high-fliers extraordinaire!

Ta Daaaaaaaaa!

They swung, they swooped, they flew, they leapt, the audience gasping at their glorious grace, goose bumped and gripped by their gymnastic glory, groaning, then grasping with every ground defying grapple and grip until….

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Thump! Thud! Thlup! Thwack!

GASP!

Sometimes no matter how good you are at a thing, how hard you try, how perfectly practiced, finely attuned, no matter the thousand on thousand rehearsal hours - your time runs out and things go terribly wrong. A single slip is all it takes.

And so it was on that fateful night, as the audience gasped and screamed and cried, the Flying Fellinis Two slipped, and fell, and were no more!

GASP!

Bent, broken, bowed, and buckled the Fellinis lay upon the sawdust floor. They were the best in the business. People came from miles around to see them fly and Smudge was reticent to let them go.

“They must be mended,” he screamed at the Ju-Ju. “You will fix them and fix them good. Work your marvellous miracles, make them fly as before. Bring them back. Raise them. Bring them back!”

The Ju-Ju sadly shook his holy head and glanced towards the floor. There was nothing he could do. Even the hoodoo voodoo heart could not work that dark magic, they were too mangled, misshapen, marred, their mortality massacred. No magic, nor magnetism, might make them malleable.

They were gone.

“You fix them!” Smudge cried once more - then struck the Ju-Ju hard.

He fell to the ground and lay there, quivering, quaking, quashed and queasy, quelled by Smudge’s quickly questionable blow. Smudge knew not what he did, nor did he know what he had done; and had he known he would not have done it. But the deed was done. Amen.

The Ju Ju lay on the floor looking at the broken bodies before him. Their skill had not been enough to save them, and skill is only one small letter away from the kill that was their ending.

There is only skill. Life is skill. Death is skill. Skill is skill. It is all skill.

The deed was done and they were dead. Indeed if Smudge could have undone that deed, deducted it from delivery, decreased its destructive discharge, deferred it’s deadly due date, then he would have.

But it was not to be.

And then the whirling began...

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