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-shot. Shee-it, Dolman tolt me that poor gal looked like a dang rum bun time them stunt cocks was done a-cummin’.”
    The driver percolated laughter.
    My element, surely, this was not, but I stood determined to go along since Nate’s inference that a free ticket had my name on it. My only interest was the change of scenery & possibly–should finances allow–a candied apple. I’d leave the “peep-tents,” & the “hoo-ers,” to them.
    Nate cracked his hands together like a pistol shot. “Well, hail. What’re we’se waitin’ for, boys? It ain’t far, and I’se got my truck.”
    “I’m much obliged to be included,” I told him.
    “Ee-yuh,” added the driver for the nth time, &–for goodness sake, he rubbed his crotch! “I need ta fuck me a hoo-er in the wuss way.”
    Nate fumbled for keys in his pocket. “I just hope that blondie with hands for feet is there this year.”
    A moment previously, my eyes found their way back to the poster advertisement. “If this hanging is timely, I’d say you’re in luck.”
    Both men drifted over as my finger directed their attention. The poster turned out to be an elaborate artistic endeavor &, in specificity, a helix of detailed sketch-illustrations which furnished an eye-catching border for the sensational lettering. I’ll add that the artist demonstrated a talent akin to a hybridization of Dore & Brundage: evocative & if anything too -detailed representations of the carnival’s repertoire of personnel. It was here that I became engrossed, as did my associates. It was a rich & grotesque tableau that formed the poster’s curtilage, commencing, first, typically: the Bearded Lady; the Mermaid of Ponape; the World’s Oldest Man, the Sword Swallower; the 500-Pound Woman; an interspersion of double-headed livestock & an Oddities Room proffering jars of variously anomalous fetuses; then, far more attention-arresting: a cadaverous, sunk-eyed female (Cadaveressa, Revived From the Clutches of Death By African Magic!), an impish little girl (The 45-Year-Old Child!), a ghostly 3-eyed man (The Tri-Clops!), &, at the bottom, the target of my notice: Bliss! The Girl with Hands for Feet!
    It was this drawing that the 3 of us scrutinized.
    The tiny yet intricate oddment of art depicted a robustly bosomed young woman sitting spraddled & smiling brightly through a most beatific & even angelic visage; arms extended as well as legs, the latter sporting hands where nature would ordinarily attach feet.
    “Dang if that ain’t her!” Nate cried out.
    “Juss like yew’re buddy said,” added the moronic driver.
    All a likely story, I presumed. The majority of such outlandish carnival exhibits would turn out, after more scrutinous review, to be rife with fraud &, hence, bait for the gullible. But what did I care? A few hours of distraction would surely benefit my mood, & the ticket was any writer’s favorite price.
    The passage of a few minutes found us on our way. The means of our transport? Nate’s dent-ridden & rust-patched rattletrap of a truck, which endeavored noisily along the road that wound about the darkening woodline. The vehicle’s inferior suspension brought a frown to my lips over each bump, while further frowns were elicited due to my 2 unpolished companions, both of whose body odor raged, not to mention incessant discourse replete with language the likes of which might urge the lowliest of gargoyles to become sickened to the point of projectile emesis. Simple decency demands that I repeat no excerpts in this humble travelogue.
    Dusk brought the day’s quiescence, slowly draining vivid darkness into the quaint rural scenes ahead. I chuckled as a duo of bats glided crazily across our passage, for Nate & the driver curtailed their coarse talk momentarily as if the tiny black chiropterans foreran doom. Of other motorists/pedestrians on the road, we encountered none, though the trek did clatter us past a handful of decrepit, wood-slat domiciles complete with