Lombardus: The Trident Clown

Chapter 3 ☬

Ms Kathy is cruel

Bigelow is double cruel
They'd make great cruel-ple

IT IS RATHER ASTONISHING and quite ironic how those metallic monsters worked, for a minute now they might be constructing and another minute they're destroying.

"Destructive Constructors," another lovely annotation I had pegged the metal monsters before being thrown out by Ms Kathy.

Of course, that's what they did, the Destructive Constructors. They destroyed and constructed: They crushed the dried wheats, loosened the hard soil lumps, graded the soil, packed the loam, and began erecting marquees, tents, stands, frames, stalls, Alpine slides, Ferris wheels, cliffhangers, merry-go-rounds and all sorts of typical fairground miscellanies.

Four years later, the almost-complete fairground proudly beheld the name of the mayor: Harlin's Fairground.

It was not until a few years after when the demand of stall space shot up that the mayor ordered the extirpation of the deciduous hickory trees with sweet, sweet nuts.

Ah good Lord, those days when the children of the Farm Man gallivanted around the hickory trees, plucking nuts and pelting the inedible parts at farm workers.

Days when the Spivey farm was glowing — that from miles away you could see the faint green halo produced by the shiny leaves as the sun rays splashed upon them.

Ah, that idyllic petrichor! When you could perceive the distinct earthly scent that accompanies the first rain on the farm during the earliest wave of spring.

Those days when tulips, daffodils, chrysanthemums, rutabagas, forget-me-nots, carnations were blooming and the hummingbirds and nightingales were humming with exuberance.

A time when the gardens were dotted with topiaries of horses, cows and even down to something as trivial as a porcupine bush.

Those days when the pig stys were cleaner than many local five-star pubs in Valsbury, and the farm workers were living the life of Riley that they were getting fatter and lazier for their assigned tasks.

It's a pity that those days are gone. Like the reconciliation saying goes; let bygones be bygones. Same with those days, they were now bygones. It all seemed another lifetime ago.

In the Harlin's contemporarily, the town folks muster their goods and trade. That's no fun at all. What's fun is when little children cling to the skirts of their mothers for the sake of having a good ride, play a game, watch the hoop-dancers, mimes or the strongman.

As much as I refuse to admit it, I wish to visit the fairground someday. So badly.

Suddenly, the bus started billowing gray smoke and Bigelow parked leaving the engine idling. He stepped out, grabbed a crimson toolbox behind, bent over the hood, whistling without uttering a word, I and Rupert both exchanged conspiratorial glances; a, are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking glance.

Without prior notice, we both jumped off the bus and bounced gleefully into the Harlin's Fairground.

In the distance, we heard someone yelling the "spawns of devil."