A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
Perched precariously atop a cliff side is The Bloody Carousel, an amusement park whose very name fails to inspire the appropriate jovial mindset. Once inside you are happy to find that you do not even notice the gravity-defying tilt. The size of the park is staggering, you have never seen so many rides in one location. The park is nothing like the sleek, modern parks to which you are accustomed, it looks more like the setting of a horror flick circa the 1800s. Nevertheless, it possesses a certain macabre artistry that compels you, despite your trepidation, to explore and partake of the experiences awaiting within. You notice right away that there are no staff. No one mans the games, no one operates the rides, and no one makes the confections and yet there are visitors playing, riding, and eating to their heart’s content. The rides seem to operate themselves and you can find nothing in their dated technology that could warrant their autonomy. Unlike the carnivals of old the animals are not confined to cages but free to walk about without the encumbrance of chains. You recognize some of the animals. despite their jarring disproportions. Others are unknown to you and you think alien. Despite the laughter and delighted shrieks, despite the aromas of cotton candy and fried confections, despite the haunting upbeat music that surrounds you, you feel a sense of foreboding, a sense that you are not welcome.