The Cyberkink Sideshow Read Free Page A

lump where his rear should be and his bottom protruding through the neck hole. The last clown wore not very much at all, aside from an orange curly wig and matching pubic hairpiece with an oversize pair of shoes and a lot of makeup.
    The Hermaphrodite Twins–for want of anything better to call them–had rushed over and helped the ringmaster back to his feet. He pushed into the milling clowns, shouting indignantly. The first clown snatched the mic from him and shouted “Cunt!” through the ring’s sound system and blew a raspberry. The clown juggled the mic, with several phallic batons, while the ringmaster tried to grab it back. Brass band music played and the clowns started to fight, using desserts for ammunition. One of them somehow trapped his testicles in the steel jaws of a rattrap and ran about shrieking. The ringmaster tried to break them up and slipped in a pile of red jelly. He and the Hermaphrodite Twins eventually managed to round up all the lewd clowns, including the one who was by now behind the car with his knob stuck up the exhaust pipe, and force them back into the car.  
    The audience thundered with laughter, reminding Sylvia of nothing more than the crowd frenzy she’d experienced when she’d been on duty at Leicester City’s home football games. This was stupid and Sylvia felt embarrassed watching it, but these people were entitled to their entertainment, and she needed to keep an open mind. She’d never really got why people liked to watch two teams kick a ball up and down a muddy field either, but it was consensual and didn’t hurt anyone, and this was the same, so she needed to stop thinking like this and treat it in the same way. Because it was. And that was okay.
    As the clowns drove away, the ringmaster put the mic to his mouth, and his lips moved, but the sound didn’t seem to work. He looked at the thing in his hand and realized it was one of the clown’s batons, much to the crowd’s amusement.
    “...before I was so rudely interrupted,” the ringmaster continued as he picked up the real microphone from the floor, “I was about to introduce our magician.” He paused, frowning. “I hope there’s no one here who’s under eighteen. You see, our next act, although he is a magician, he’s not the sort of magician you’d want at your kid’s birthday party...”
    The circle of light on the ringmaster fled back to the curtain, where it jerkily followed an elderly man in a royal blue robe patterned with pictures of planets. He carried an orange toolbox painted in the same pattern, on a slow walk toward the stage. Clonking music suggesting decrepitude played.
    He grumbled querulously to himself as he climbed arthritically up the steps and set down his box. He turned his back to the audience and bent over the box, and immediately he let off a great slack-buttocked thunderclap of a fart that caused his gown to billow out behind him. Laughter and cries of disgust spread outward from the audience who were seated directly to his rear.
    Great. Flatulence humor. Sylvia rolled her eyes. This at least she could handle.
    “It happens, when you get older!” He turned to the audience, throwing out his arms as though to absolve himself. “Speaking of being old, I’m going to do a magic trick for you all in a minute, but I need a piss first.” He pulled up his robe and dangled his manhood over the audience, who screamed and flinched, raising arms defensively over heads.
    “Now this isn’t right,” he mumbled to himself. The main screens showed that he appeared to be slowly pulling what looked like a piece of white string out of his urethra. As he teased out more and more of what appeared to be an endless length, he wound it around the fingers of one hand and laughter rippled over the crowd.
    “Don’t laugh!” He stopped pulling out the string to aim a glare and an accusing finger at the spectators. “It’ll happen to all of you some day!”
    The end of the string finally came free. It had