You've Got To Be Joking

Bloody Hell

You awaken with a dry mouth and a dull headache.
As your senses focus, your nose detects saw dust,  peanuts,  hay,  and... gunpowder?  Your surroundings are dimly lit.  A long but shallow wooden stage stands left of center to you.  A few string lights are  unceremoniously draped over the ripped and faded red and white bunting that serves as the trim.  The ground is thickly littered with straw.

Though the lights are gentle and incandescent,  the air feels cold.  That's when you notice your limbs are pulled taut and fastened,  askew,  to a giant bullseye,  as though you are the assistant in a magician's knife throwing act.  You test the straps and find that you're held firmly not only by your wrists and ankles, but also around your waist.

You don't remember how you got here or whether or not you were clothed beforehand but now the only barrier between your bare skin and the cold is a pair of... what are these?  Leggings? Tights? Jogging pants? Bright and striped, they rest at your hips and cling closely all the way down to your knees. 

You try to shake your limbs for blood flow.  The metal fastenings jingle.  As you try to take in your surroundings some more,  flood lights suddenly ignite above the stage, blinding you.  Your eyes burn behind tightly drawn eyelids.  You jump with a start as a deep rumbling chuckle breaks through the white noise that's buzzing in your ears.   The heat of the lights and the dancing spots in your eyes fade from awareness as the disembodied laugh gains might and mania.

The gruff guffaws continue and, hazarding a peek as your eyes adjust,  you see a gramophone wheel itself onto the stage.  You blink.  Yes, the cart on which it sits looks as though it's moving on its own.  With wheels squeaking,  it stops center stage.  All at once, the flood lights shut off,  the laughing halts,  and a spotlight clicks on to illuminate the machine on stage.  There is a moment of aching anticipation as you wait for something to happen.
Nothing.  Bravely looking about,  up,  and down,  you can see nothing.  Nothing beyond the stage and about ten feet to your left and right.  It's all empty threatening pitch which surrounds you and presses in on you. 

With a whine and a screech the gramophone suddenly starts to play a tune.  It wavers and warbles,  but you recognize the circus music from your youth. 
As the song winds on,  your shiver and your breath picks up pace.  Why is nothing else happening?  Will something else happen?  Are you going to die? 
"WHY ISN'T ANYTHING HAPPENING?" You don't realize that you've screamed until the song scratches to a stop.
Laughter erupts with full force. It is mirthful.  Joyous.  Maniacal.   Sinister.

You shout at the stage, demanding the creatures in the shadows reveal themselves.  On the verge of tears,  shouting expletives,  you pull at your bonds with all the strength you have.  The cackling subsides and you hear footsteps.  A figure,  difficult to see because of the bright lighting,  shuffles on stage and stops next to the cart,  leaning on it leisurely.  They raise their hand in exasperation and snap their fingers.  The spotlight shakes and wanders, struggling to find its mark.  Awkwardly the light finally rests upon your captor and your breath catches in your throat.

He is tall.  Not lankey,  necessarily,  but definitely slim.  It appears he would look dapper with his coiffed hair,  three-piece suit,  spats,  and shined shoes if it weren't for his gaudy color scheme.  Purple,  orange,  and green assault your already watering eyes.
But all of these observations are in the peripheral of your mind because all you can focus on is his face which is contorted into a terrible and somehow disapproving smile.  His lips are painted bright red to exaggerate his menacing expression.  Piercing green eyes appraise you from shadowed sockets.

His chest heaves as he takes a deep breath.
"Well,  I really had much more planned for you.  I thought you'd last longer,  you see,"  His voice rings clear.  It's a little gruff with a lilt and rhythm that's almost whimsical. 
He stands upright and gestures to the room in general,  "there was going to be confetti and balloons- a whole welcome wagon.  I even got a canon!  ...Though we may still use that yet."  He shrugs as he hops off stage and ambles towards you.  He arrives and leans forward on your bullseye, supported by one hand which he places next to your head.  The smell of gunpowder is strong on his clothes.