Carnival. The kettle corn was almost shouting

Carnival. The kettle corn was almost shouting out the smell from the port-o-poties. Almost. The man in the red shirt was carrying a giant clown head under his arm. I lit my smoke a

short distance away from the tents and watched the life of the carnival. How I wished to join it, but I was here for more important business. A few minutes passed before Jacob

came strolling by, he looked out of place in such a colourful environment, his clothes were so dull in contrast to the entertainers and even his face looked a dismal grey

He was like a pale clown who'd wandered in from the roaring twenties, as at odds with his environment as he was the folds and laces and snaps of his antiquated wardrobe. He strutte

d into the hip hop club with his gold tipped walking stick and stripped suit, snapping and tapping his feet. The gangstas stopped their rap and spandex suited ladies stared.

"What up, I got a big cock!" He exclaimed, holding his rooster aloft. Like he, it was ready for Saturday Night Fever, spangled in sequins and platform shoes. A sweet chick steppe

d up & began pecking at the flashing dance floor about his platform shoes. The Bee Gees clucked & bu-cawed. He released his disco attired cock which strutted & crowed to the beat.

Little did he know that the DJ was DJ Chef, world renown for cooking while he played "sick" beats. The cock clucked in alarm as the DJ sprang after him with a cleaver "CUCK CACAW"

it screeched, flapping its wings wildly. DJ Chef was distracted by the funky dance moves and head-bobbing, and his avian prey hustled to the window, momentarily forgetting that