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that wasn’t covered in scar tissue. When the Bill Vlad Circus of Oddities rolled into town, people would flock from all around to watch an adolescent boy get tortured on stage. Sick world we live in.
    As Bill Vlad’s Circus grew increasingly more bizarre so did the acts I was forced to perform. I was put into a pit to wrestle bobcats and wild dogs. Once, when I was ten or eleven, I was pitted against a Komodo dragon that Vlad had starved and tortured to make crazy mean. Its razor sharp claws nearly ripped me apart before I snapped its neck. That act became a sensation, and soon I was being matched against increasingly bizarre creatures from alligators to anacondas. The crowds would watch aghast as I was mauled and my flesh was rent to glistening red ribbons, then be amazed when my bleeding body was taken out of the pit and I was given ice cream or a toy. Whenever anyone would protest and accuse Vlad of child abuse, he would cheerfully remind them that: “He can’t feel a thing.”
    I would smile and go back to playing my video games as paramedics rushed to stitch my wounds. As soon as I became an adult, Vlad wanted me to add sex to my act, so I began torturing my genitals onstage. I would stab my testicles with spikes and then cauterize the wounds with a Bunsen burner as the crowd cringed and gasped in horror. I grew to hate Bill Vlad. Each time I injured myself I imagined that it was his penis being twisted with vice grips and pierced with spikes and needles, his testes being sliced open and zapped with a taser gun.
    The one thing Vlad was good for was anticipating my needs and accommodating them and usually before I was even aware of them. Right after I hit puberty he began supplying me with whores after every show. I didn’t know where he was getting them from but he seemed to know my taste in women without even having to ask. He knew me. He knew all my secret desires.
    Every prostitute he sent to my trailer in the middle of the night was of the same type, plain, average, no excessive amounts of make-up, no gaudy, overtly-sexual outfits, a shy demure personality. They looked like anything but prostitutes. They could have been the girl next door who babysat your kid brother on the weekends. They never screamed or winced when they saw my scars, always showing the appropriate amount of sympathy and concern but without the outrage or revulsion that normal women displayed when faced with the multifarious wounds and injuries that decorated my flesh. These girls were pros.
    They would take my scarred penis down their throats sucking and licking it like it was the world’s richest source of nourishment and then ride it like they were on a merry-go-round pony. Always with a smile, as if taking my gnarled and tortured flesh between their legs was the most joy they could imagine. But then, once my hour was up, they would leave and I would be alone again. No matter how good they were at maintaining the illusion that they really wanted to be there with me, the illusion always had a time limit. Even if they stayed all night there was no fooling myself that they would stick around in the morning without being paid extra for it. My heart broke every time I watched one of them walk out my door. By the time I was twenty-one I had had enough. I left the circus to become a fighter.
    I thought it would be one hell of an asset to be a no-holds-barred fighter who felt no pain, and often it was. I would fight until the last drop of my blood splashed onto the awe-struck faces of the ringside observers. I would fight with broken bones and lacerations, with a concussion, or even when my lungs could not take in enough oxygen to maintain my aggression. I was relentless. Other times it just led to really gruesome defeats. My survival instincts were extremely dull due to the lack of pain response. I discovered that you need pain to be a successful fighter. It tells you when to increase your defense, or fight harder, or when to give up. I was