Well, Undroppable Joe had eyes especially attuned to the finer details of objects in motion, and I guess he really didn't stand a chance.  He never so much as opened his mouth - which luckily spared the nearby rube - but every line of his face proclaimed it:  Joe was in love, head over heels and stuff over nonsens.

 

It started before he even got into the ring, as the roustabout was holding the flap of canvas aside for him to make his entrance. Joe was supposed to come out on a six foot unicycle, juggling five clubs in a shower. As he was climbing the ladder to mount the unicycle, the lady struck her first blow, misguiding one of his feet and toppling him, ladder and all, into the sawdust. The roustabout looked on in amazement, disbelieving, unfortunately leaving the flap of canvas open so a good third of the crowd saw the tumble. At first they thought it was a clown act and laughed heartily. Joe got up and actually got onto the seat of the unicycle, trying to do the half-cycle pedaling. 

 

Forward was fine, but when he pushed back his front foot slipped off and he  went toppling through the opening out into the ring in a flurry of sequins and sawdust. The audience laughed even harder, a few parents telling their kids to "look at the funny clown."

 

Undroppable Joe's head came up slowly,  and the look in his eyes would have curdled yogurt. Clowns are fine, but they are clowns, and calling a juggler a clown could get you into as much trouble as calling a Kennedy republican. Joe rushed back, grabbed his clubs, and stood waving his clubs so everyone could see the shiny mylar, shooting gold and red flashes into everyone's wide eyes. A hush came down like a blanket of snow in Wisconsin.

 

Then Undroppable Joe took a deep breath, and one-two-three-four-five sent the clubs spinning high over his head in shining arcs of shimmering color.

 

THONK- THONK- THONK- THONK­KATHONK. Undroppable Joe missed every one.

 

The crowd was laughing again, but it was no longer the happy laugh the clowns enjoyed. The crowd was was pitiless, and in their scorn were the same blades that were wielded by Lydia. Disgraced, Joe trudged out of the ring, leaving the clubs, dull with dust, sprawled on the floor.

 

No one saw what happened that night, but many strange smells came from Joe's tent, and the murmur of the sleeping camp was punctuated by gurgles and one thunderous burp reminiscent of mating wildebeests.

 

When the morning came, Lydia the Tattooed Lady rose early and sauntered over to Joe's tent for a little sadistic snacking before breakfast. "Oh,Joe! Dear Undroppable (snicker) Joe! Wanna play catch, Joe? Whatsamatter, Joe, are you having problems keeping things up?" She cackled like a whore in a nunnery, waiting for him to come out so she could move in for the kill.

 

The tent flap opened, but before she could speak she was knocked off her feet by a wave of putrescent odor accompanying the sound of Joe's warm tenor. Only it wasn't warm, it was the cold steel tones normally associated with British secret agents and Vice Principals.

 

"You've taken a lot of men, Lydia." Joe said. His breath was as bad as a compost pile in August. "But you ain't never seen a man with balls like mine." He lifted his hands, to show the rolling crystal spheres rotating and permutating under the manipulations of his fingers. The balls were crystal, without the slightest flaw, and they shone like diamonds in the morning sun.

 

Lydia picked herself up and shrugged out of her dressing gown, wearing enough sequins to cover a silver dollar, and struck a pose known to hypnotize priests. In a throaty, disdaining voice, she said "Give it your best shot, stud."