I: Moral Hate Circus

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

We hate with reason, hate with compassion, hate with conviction. Do you hate? Stupid question. Everyone hates. Who do you hate? What do you hate? What do you loathe beyond the point you ever thought you could loathe something? Hate enough to kill, set, destroy? Lock on, target. Point. Pull.

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

Welcome to my Moral Hate Circus.

What colour should we have the curtains this season?

 

The curtains are that colour of fresh, untrodden snow because it’s summer here. We dislike the current season. We always wish it was the opposite one. Summer is too hot so we surround ourselves with cold colours. Autumn is too windy so we surround ourselves with heavy curtains. Winter is too cold so we surround ourselves with hot colours. Spring is… well, spring is just unpredictable. So we pin horoscopes everywhere.

Not that we ever read them. No point. Who are we? Not some poxy fortune teller’s parlour. This is the Moral Hate Circus and we are the acts. We are only human. Or, at least, human enough. That is why we hate the season we live in at the moment. Human petty shit. At least it’s moral. The cold could kill us. The hot could kill us. The wind could kill us. The uncertainty of unpredictability could kill us.

Oh! We tried living underground for years but it didn’t suit us. We are only human enough to want, to need the sun on our faces!

Ah, the sun’s too hot. Retreat underground! Retreat! One of my less fortunate acts got sunburned because he went from one tent to the other. My God. Damn U.V. rays. I’ll ban them. When I’m Prime Minister. Ray-bans. That’s what I’ll call my policy.

Ha!

No.

Old-school sunglasses. I have some aviators. Or I did. My act stood on them as he came in, his skin peeling everywhere. He’d been in the sun for literally three seconds. He was in pain and he stumbled. Caught my sunglasses off a table with his elbow and crunched them into the sod with the heel of his shoe. He still owes me.

I never wore them.

But it’s the principle that counts.

 

One of my acts says he once saw a blimp.

I think my act was lying about seeing a blimp. Probably just getting cataracts. Blimp-shaped splodge on his eye. That’ll be it.

I wasn’t aware he had cataracts.

I’ll have to get rid of him. Find a new Heckler.

I’ll replace him. Do two stages. Oh, yes, I’m part of the piece. I am an act. I am not just the owner of the Moral Hate Circus, I am an act. I hate. I morally hate. I morally hate, in a circus. My skill? I can scream louder than anyone else in the world.

I can scream louder than a baby at birth.

I can scream louder than a howler monkey.

I can scream louder than a jet plane taking off.

I can scream louder than a thousand baby howler monkeys on a jet plane as it is taking off.

Guess my name.

 

I’m the Screamer.

The Screamer.

The.

It’s cool. I scream.

All the time.

Well.

Most of the time.

Helps. I’m am erudite at my job, at my act. I am one of nine in the Moral Hate Circus. I own the thing, the circus, but we all look after it. I started it. I found eight talented people, all of whom I both love and hate simultaneously. I want to hug them but I want to squeeze the breath out of them. I want to kiss them but I want to bite out their tongues.

It’s hard in love and hate.

There’s me. The Screamer.

Then there’s the Speaker. He speaks.

Then there’re the A’Lonz Siblings, three of them, two guys and a girl. They act. They’re damn good at it.

Then there’s the Heckler. He heckles. We need heckles. It’s the only way we make the act work.

Then there’s the Doubler. His role isn’t so clear. He doubles the trouble. Heckler puts the pot on the stove, Doubler makes it boil.

How many is that? Seven. Seven in the act.

Two outside of the act.

Who?
Easy.

The Director and Producer. Names, Ema Schopenhauer and Ira Schopenhauer. Ema directs. She’s hellish. If she doesn’t like something, it doesn’t go. On stage. Not in life. We can’t argue on stage. We argue in life. We’ve learned, all of us, to understand her over the years. Now we understand even if we put a foot half a centimetre out of line. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Just sits there scowling at us. Or smiling.

I prefer smiles.

It means we’re doing well.

Ema directs the show during practices. Of course we have to practice. We get a couple days to practice before the show.

Now.

Ira Schopenhauer.

Producer. Advertiser. Money raiser.

Con man.

Professional.

Who else would buy tickets? £25 a head. I hear he’s still waiting for Siamese twins to turn up so he can charge them double.

We should put on a sale.

£25 a head, £45 if you have two heads.

It’s a deal. Steal.

Ira has to poster up adverts all over the town we’re circussing in. He doesn’t write ‘Moral Hate Circus’ on the poster though. He just writes ‘M.H.C.’ so it’s less clear.

It’s advertised as, “Entertainment through Speech.”

Such a circus!

No, the speaking isn’t the circus. It starts the circus.

“Controversial Conversations Covered – The M.H.C. Presents its Very Own Professional Public Speaker for One Night Only!”

“Tickets £25… refreshments supplied… please provide your own hot-blooded attitude.”

We do provide refreshments.

Warm beer.

Cocktail sausages.

We get complaints.

We don’t listen to them.

Hot-blooded attitude, that’s essential to our circus.

Oh, and we don’t provide refunds.

Read the small print. Always.

It’s on the back of the ticket.

In Swahili.

We do attract a crowd – mostly it’s people who like speeches and controversial issues. Hot-headed English Graduates. And people who like ‘only available now!’ deals.

Have to admit, I’m one of them.

Something rare. That’s why I’d pick up a record signed by someone I didn’t even know existed. Just because it’s that special one-of-a-kind thing. Pick up a boxing glove owned for nine years by some infamous boxer who’s sweated in it.

It’s mine! All mine.

I collect. I hoard. Eventually, people get sick of me hoarding and steal stuff. I don’t mind. I don’t care what they take – no idea what I’ve even got anymore.

I know the Heckler likes to take things. Shiny things.

He’s like a crow. Magpie.

Stupid idiot misplaced his trailer key because it was shiny. Put it in his secret stash of collectables. It’s a box behind the portaloo.

Everyone knows.

But no one uses the portaloo. Even the girls. Go squat in the trees over some moss, there’s a good lass.

Come to think of it, we only have two girls.

Ema.

And Celile A’Lonz. Her name is pronounced Seh-lee-l.

Celile.

It’s an odd one. I think it’s French.

Anyway.

Two girls.

We used to have a female Heckler. But we had to let her go.

Not sexism. She was just useless.

And she ate my food. My secret stash of food. She ate some. I let her go. Angrily, but carefully.

Didn’t have to pay her.

Gross misconduct.

Bang!

You’re fired!

I win!

 

II: Moral Hate Circus  III: Moral Hate Circus  IV: Moral Hate Circus  V: Moral Hate Circus
VI: Moral Hate Circus  VII: Moral Hate Circus  VIII: Moral Hate Circus  IX: Moral Hate Circus
X: Moral Hate Circus (Final)

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