Folded Thought of the Day:

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No sign of that promised concession.  Standing now outside 
the circus tent in which he witnessed quite the display 
of organized human endeavor, the boy wonders how the crowd 
could have dispersed so quickly -- not a soul in sight.  
He does hear a faint laughing, but it's hard to pinpoint 
the source.  

Surveying the landscape, the carnival seems to have taken 
on a sinister feel.  In the light of the waning afternoon 
shadows are stretching deep, yawning over the proceeding, 
boxing out paths of escape, making a play for the boy's 
deepest fears... giant puppets looming on the horizon.

Moving past long-dormant rides with paint fading beyond 
distinction, bleeding into despair, chipped off the old 
block.  Trying to home in on that laughter.  Wondering 
why he doesn't make a beeline in the opposite direction.  
Morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

Sure enough, all roads and intentions lead to the fun 
house, standing in ominous seclusion at the end of 
desolation row -- a particularly broken-down collection 
of hawkers' booths and misdirected neon signs.  All coming 
to life now that the boy nears his destination.  Yeah, 
it's that ol' ship captain again, awake at the switch, 
pulling the lever and swinging on over to the fun house 
gate entrance, Tarzan-style.

Quite the showman.

-- Step right up.  Take a tour of our little house of 
fun.  Hey there little shaver, you don't want to miss 
this opportunity.  Who knows when you might get back.  
We have a special today.  All children and sailors 
on shore leave get in half price.  I'm sure you qualify 
for one of these distinctions.  Right this way...

Boy this guy's creepy.  The boy wonders how he got 
this job.  Was he schooled?  What kind of career 
path would lead one to this stage?  

But the boy also finds the man oddly fascinating.  
As if he knows the man's intentions are good.  This 
sudden bit of good will now overriding all those 
motherly stranger warnings.  Purchasing his cut-rate 
ticket and stepping now past the threshold of the 
fun house...

Inside, the darkness surrounds.  The boy stands 
motionless waiting for some sign, any indication of 
direction, a light in the distance.  And sure enough 
he gets all three.  A far off beam of light casting 
a path right from his toes to the unknown.  Wadd'ya 
going to do?  Follow and hope for the best.  

The boy senses a change in the temperature.  He's 
walking outdoors now, or so it seems.  And before 
he can reach down to feel the ground a horse goes  
riding past him, with an American Indian riding 
bareback.  Or is it Native American?  Can't quite 
remember all those terms he learned that day in 
school.  The horse and rider seem to be in hot 
pursuit.  A buffalo in front and a posse of ten 
gallon desperados on their collective tails.  
Blood in all of their eyes.  

Leaving the boy in the dust.  Heading deeper into 
the fun house.  Or whatever this place has become.  
Coming upon an old man sitting beside a fire.  Is 
this who we think it is?  Sure, why not?  He knows 
the terrain.

-- Better keep moving along there little shaver.  
This ain't no place for a boy to get caught... might 
just lose your head.  

Putting a serious scare in the boy.  Remembering 
all the news stories of disappearances in the region 
of town he last remembers moving through, before 
he happened upon all this circus craziness.  Oh 
well, if you gotta go, you'd better keep going.  

He continues his journey -- through battle fields 
and courtroom dramas, past plot-hatching hand 
wringers and warehouses containing crated artworks... 
he finds himself presiding as master of ceremonies 
over a walnut parade and witnessing various 
politically and personally motivated assassinations.  
Quite a ride.  

A whistle sounds and the floor opens.  The boy 
finds himself falling at great speed for what 
seems to be many minutes.  Swirls of images 
fly past, billboards of the diabolical, making 
the boy sick to his stomach.  He is blacking 
out, losing consciousness, waiting for the 
end... drawing now very near.  

Hitting bottom.  Waking.  In the back seat of 
a city bus.  Breathing normally.  Looking out 
the window, recognizing every detail.  

The ticket held between his fingers triggers 
a raised eyebrow.  But little more.

Stepping off two blocks from his home, the boy 
imagines the dinner waiting in the oven for him.  
And the lecture he'll have to endure before he 
can sink his teeth in.  Running late.  

He skirts past a man who appears to be a vagrant, 
with unkempt hair and clothes and overgrown 
beard, muttering to himself in riddles.  Catching 
the boy's passing eyes.

-- Hey there little shaver.


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