Though the caravan was lined with lights in all manner of color and size, they did little to clarify the evening. Glorn could not see far, and he could not hold his hand over his eyes to find the balance between glare and dim. His hands were secured over his head. He could break the rope at any time, and he took comfort in the thought, but it was just a thought. A number of baseballs struck him in the chest from where he could not see.
“This brute comes from a race that doesn’t feel pain, so throw as hard as you can!” Edgar announced. The balls seemed to come in a quicker rhythm. Their impact was not precise enough to be a massage, but Glorn was not uncomfortable.
“Eight hundred years ago, these monsters were employed by the great Genghis Khan in his takeover of The Far East, until they threatened to take over themselves. Your abuse, ladies and gentlemen, is all that is keeping this one docile. Three balls for just one dollar! Five swings of the the whip for ten!”
A child stood on the platform behind him, with his father. Glorn heard the three of them talking — Edgar and the customers — about the proper technique and protocol for whip swinging.
“The follow-through is important. Think about where the tip is headed.”
Edgar demonstrated with a strike of his own, well-practiced. No one would hit hard enough if he didn’t show them that they could.
The boy’s attempts were sloppy and soft. Edgar told him to try a few more times.
“I think that’s enough.”
“No, Dad, he likes it!”
The whip snapped just once more, and the baseballs stopped coming. Glorn snarled at the empty fairground.
“Pervert!” someone shouted.
It kept him docile.
Post Modern Existential Horror 