In a gaudy red bar on St Claude Avenue, The Circus Sideshow is peforming. In front, next to the owner's motorcycle sits a tin trashcan by a moldy couch on which a handful of kids sit and drink, no money left over to enter. Inside, transvestites cross their legs on high stools, burly men buy drinks for young women, a group of butch lesbians sit front row on the floor. It seems everyone has knuckle tattoos but they're hard to read through the blue smoke, thick as fog. Each wall is black, the floor is black, the ceiling is black and only the stage is illuminated. Silence blankets the crowd as soon as the curtain is drawn.

    The ringleader is a clown, his face painted zombie-like; he theatrically describes the wondrous things we're about to witness. A woman takes the stage to thunderous applause; her eyes surrounded by black stars, her face a docile white, her lips painted crimson in their center alone. She has a beautiful body, perky breasts, flat abs, sculpted arms and legs, delicate hips. Her bra and underwear conceal next to nothing, striped socks decorate her calves. She swallows a six-inch knife suggestively, removes it and follows with a nine-inch spear before finally swallowing a full-length sword. Each is inserted and removed expertly. It's hard for the audience not to wince.

    During this time the DJ plays mashups hip-hop woven together with old blues and gypsy jazz. Small people in filthy leotards hang from long silk ribbons from the ceiling, rapping themselves around the strands and posing mid air. The audience dances beneath and they smile upside down at us through painted lips.

       Finally, the show continues, the ringleader takes the stage with a dramatic speech describing the next act. Apparently she is a woman at one with fire, "she is the spirit of the flame incarnate, having tamed the element so that her flesh will no longer burn with its contact. Right before your very eyes she will swallow it, breathe it, swim in it! Please welcome to the stage our lady of the flame!" She emerges, half of her face covered in black, swirls that drip to her neck and chest. A thick black line is tattooed from her widow’s peak to her cleavage down the center of her torso. She has long black dreadlocks. In each hand she holds a three pronged flaming torch. The music is low and eclectic, she moves with it, dragging the tips of the flame along her unharmed arms. She inserts a torch into her mouth closes her lips on it until it has been put out. She then looks to the ceiling and exhales a long flame. She puts the tips of her fingers around a neighboring flame, holds a bit of fire in her hand and relights the bitten prong. She continues this way for some time before bowing to the enthralled audience. The clapping is louder than one would expect for an audience of this size. The Maestro takes the stage, leads each performer to its edge and they bow theatrically in unison.