Moral Hate Circus

I: Moral Hate Circus

M.S.A. Edition, version -- 0223

Cast List

The Speaker - Speaker ♂ - Sharp suit, tall. Short almost-black hair. Brown eyes.

The Heckler - Heckler ♂ - Ordinary. Brown hair. Grey eyes. Hoodie. Not slim.

The Doubler - Doubler ♂ - Black hair. Blue eyes. Strong arms. Smoker.

The Screamer - Screamer ♂ - Blond, layered hair. Green eyes. Petit figure. Sharp eyes.

Ema Schopenhauer- Ema ♀ - Middle parted, blond-brown hair. Green eyes. Glasses.

Ira Schopenhauer- Ira ♂ - Layered, deep brown hair. Violet eyes. Glasses. Smoker.

Celile A'Lonz - Celile ♀ - Sky blue leotard. Blond ponytail. Smooth features. Brown eyes.

Lionel A'Lonz - Lionel ♂ - Mid-blue leotard. Short brown hair. Sharp cheekbones. Blue eyes.

Caelan A'Lonz - Caelan ♂ - Dark-blue leotard. Short brown hair. Thin lips. Blue eyes.

Moral Hate Circus

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

We hate with reason, hate with compassion, hate with conviction. Do you hate? Stupid question. Everyone hates. Who do you hate? What do you hate? What do you loathe beyond the point you ever thought you could loathe something? Hate enough to kill, set, destroy? Lock on, target. Point. Pull.

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

Welcome to my Moral Hate Circus.

What colour should we have the curtains this season?

The curtains are that colour of fresh, untrodden snow because it's summer here. We dislike the current season. We always wish it was the opposite one. Summer is too hot so we surround ourselves with cold colours. Autumn is too windy so we surround ourselves with heavy curtains. Winter is too cold so we surround ourselves with hot colours. Spring is... well, spring is just unpredictable. So we pin horoscopes everywhere.

Not that we ever read them. No point. Who are we? Not some poxy fortune teller's parlour. This is the Moral Hate Circus and we are the acts. We are only human. Or, at least, human enough. That is why we hate the season we live in at the moment. Human petty shit. At least it's moral. The cold could kill us. The hot could kill us. The wind could kill us. The uncertainty of unpredictability could kill us.

Oh! We tried living underground for years but it didn't suit us. We are only human enough to want, to need the sun on our faces!

Ah, the sun's too hot. Retreat underground! Retreat! One of my less fortunate acts got sunburned because he went from one tent to the other. My God. Damn U.V. rays. I'll ban them. When I'm Prime Minister. Ray-bans. That's what I'll call my policy.

Ha!

No.

Old-school sunglasses. I have some aviators. Or I did. My act stood on them as he came in, his skin peeling everywhere. He'd been in the sun for literally three seconds. He was in pain and he stumbled. Caught my sunglasses off a table with his elbow and crunched them into the sod with the heel of his shoe. He still owes me.