My Funfair Ride

Warning, OUTRAGEOUS is a series of filth, swearing, insanity and gross images. The easily offended (and not so easily) and anyone under about 35 should stop reading right now!

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If I owned a ride at the funfair, I would want it to be the biggest, highest, fastest, most dangerous and unsafe ride ever devised. After being sick at least twice and shrieking their throats raw, most of my customers would die violently, their pitiful corpses trapped among horribly twisted, smoking wreckage.

Onlookers would also throw up their toffee apples and hot dogs, sickened by the horrific carnage and the emergency services would wash their hands of me after being called out eleven times in a single day, wasting their valuable time working out the macabre puzzle of winkling the cadavers out of the pretzel-like maze of red-hot girders.

Anyone who managed to survive more or less physically intact and still sane, would have their names entered in a draw for an all expenses paid holiday to Siberia. The remaining broken thrill seekers would win a booby prize of a secondhand green NHS wheelchair circa 1952, several of which I found on the local council rubbish tip (along with a box of used syringes that I’m selling cheap if any druggies out there are looking for a bargain). Given that the adrenalin junky’s limbs will be somewhat mangled after their hair-raising, bone-snapping ride, I reckon they would be pretty grateful for the free transport, even if most of the wheels are bent out of shape.

I think I’d call my screaming machine “Martin’s Mangler”. My name isn’t really Martin, but Timmy doesn’t rhyme with mangler. Timmy’s Tosser sounds a bit wrong as well.

Of course, to make my death ride a viable economic concern, I would probably have to charge about a grand a go. At the end of the day, I wouldn’t be getting any repeat business and the constant repairs would cost me a bloody fortune. Don’t suppose any insurance companies would touch me with a barge pole and the money has to come from somewhere. It’s not like I would be going into the fatal funfair accident business for the sake of my health.

I’ve already tried to get a loan from the bank to build my machine, but they didn’t seem very impressed with my business plan and turned me down. I’m not going to let the faceless men in suits crush my entrepreneurial spirit, however, so if there are any escaped mental patients out their with access to their grandparent’s pension books, I’m currently looking for investors and if your name happens to be Martin, then so much the better.

Also, if you come to work for me on my terrifying ride, you can stop washing, have a spider’s web tattooed on your face, make disgusting comments to underage girls, get your genitals pierced and steal the customer’s change. Well worth your while, I think you’d agree.

Failing all of the above, I might open a doughnut stall instead, or maybe just wander aimlessly around the fair hoping to find dropped change in the mud and eating discarded food out of bins.

Time for my meds, apparently.