A Carnival Of Hounds
Noone really knows how old the Carnival is, and how long long it has been pounding dust on its circuits. Rumours are Samson was there at the beginning, but he aint much for jawin’ about that in particular. Certainly, judging by the constant squeaking and creaking of some of the wagons, the Carnival must pre-date the turn of the century, at least.
Ten years ago, in its the heyday during the roaring twenties, the Carnival was a glorious thing, considered by some to be the next Campbell Brothers. Perhaps even the next Barnum and Bailey. Lights that rivaled a small city, attractions mental, cultural and carnal, sweet and delicious food, mountains of popcorn and seas of coke. A yearly touring circuit from Savannah to Seattle, from Boston to Bakersfield.
Now, it is a pale shadow of its former self. Most of its staff scattered, and those that remained are struggling to come by. The tents are ragged and patched, the food bad, the attractions crude, and base. The dance show became the cooch, the contortionist were relegated to the freak show, and more often then not, the carnival is chased out by dissapointed and scammed townsfolk.
Ragged and destitute, the Carnival hopes for one big show to dazzle the entertainment-starved people of New Canaan. After all, finding their salvation in this place would fit the name.