Monday, November 9, 2009

The Long, Dark Path: Carnie is as Carnie does

Let's explore my past. It is restless, and demons need to be chased from time to time, instead of doing the chasing.

You'll find my past to be quite interesting, seeming it has not been written yet, only lived.

I, for one, find it very interesting, since I lived it.

This might be a little... eclectic, but bear with me.

The Long, Dark Path

by Tangalor

Carnie is as Carnie Does


Chapter 2

Chapter 1


There's a Black chick getting a tattoo of a white rabbit from my dad, which even at nine, I find ironic. The irony doesn't stop there, however. She's very nice-looking, and somewhat young (25? 26?). She steps into the Winnebusso with my father for about 30 minutes. She doesn't have to pay a dime for that tattoo.


This assclown of a kid is 7 years old, and he's pushing my temper, which, at this time, is quite hard to accomplish. Being his elder at 8 years old, I decide to invite him to come into the 'ring' (Boxing ring... at the carnival.. it was rather new at the time). He comes in, thinking he'll win over all of these 10-year-old chicks. We don't fight, because he makes an excuse or some such; he gets out, sits down on a folding chair, gets a bunch of girls around him, and smiles big.

I've had quite enough of this jackass.

I climb over the ropes, drop down, walk over to him, where he's still smiling... so are the girls.

I punch him, square in the mouth, and knock out a tooth (I still have a scar where my knuckle landed on his tooth. Ha!). He falls backward, and lands head-over-heels over the chair. I let out a deafening guffaw! This is hilarious! Asshole deserved it, all the times he picked on me for living in a bus.

The girls scream, he screams, bloody mouth running away to get his 17 year old brother..

I'm on my back 10 minutes later, his brother punching my chest 'how you like it now, fucker?!' spittling out of his slack-jawed, fool mouth.

My father comes out of the bus with a hatchet.

"Touch him again and I'll chop your fucking head off"; sidearm slightly showing from his western-style shirt.


Walking in a cloud is a lot like... walking in a cloud, and a lot less like walking in fog... there's something... surreal about it... I think I'm 7 or 8..


Bruce, my fathers' friend at the time (before he ruined that, too) is showing me how to set up a fish trap in a small creek, overlooking a beaver pond. Thus my teachings of wilderness begin.


I'm somehow fieldstripping an AR15 blindfolded... I think I'm 10 by now...

(I couldn't tell you if I could still do it, but be damned if my father didn't ingrain that into me)


I love "The Zipper" ride... in the early mornings, before the drunken ride-jocks awaken from their stupors, you can find wallets, keys, loose change, cash, smokes, drugs... all under one ride, and no one's smart enough to not come with this shit in their pockets to a carnival they know they'll lose it at.


Again, the demons are chased... for now. Maybe I'll have good sleep tonight... or maybe I'll dream about the time.... oh, I'll just write it down here next time

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