A robust scream split the heat-addled air. The trio of rookie police officers sitting at their leisure leapt up as their companion in the middle of the street, whose job it was to direct the road-enraged erstwhile Fair-goers toward a lane that would not result in the untimely demise of the hordes of pedestrians that crossed the equally busy street, halted all traffic, causing a cacophony of angry 4-letter metaphors amid ill-intended horn-bleats.
A young woman in short-shorts with a prodigious muffin-top beneath an almost indecent bikini ran into the street and fell into the befuddled officers arms.
“Alive!” she screeched in a perfect imitation of a horror-movie victim but with twice the cellulite. “They’re alive!”
The heavyset Fair-worker in the Indiana Jones-style hat and prescription sunglasses rolled his eyes, lifted his hat from his balding pate and rubbed his stubbly sweat-soaked hair. Heat plus alcohol plus fried food on a stick apparently meant crazy. Or so he thought until, at that very moment, a morbidly rotund woman on a scooter came rambling down the Fair avenue across the way, screaming in jelly-filled terror as an eight-foot-tall anthropomorphic beaver topiary in jaunty haberdasher bore down on her in a woefully small golf-cart.
The creature roared its leafy-green rage as it caught up to her and with razor-sharp buck-teeth of the finest oak bit off her head. Gouts of cholesterol infused blood sprayed the creatures maw, giving it the briefest look of a Merry Bloody Christmas.