Only halfway there!
Okay, lets Back up.
The ringmaster was the size of an ant from the trapezeman’s vantage; another ten feet higher and he could touch the canvas ceiling of the Big Top. Even with the ringmaster’s voice belting from the PA speakers encompassing the circus arena, the trapezeman could barely hear what was being said. The crowd, the elephants, the clowns, the ringmaster, all stayed on the bleachers or the sawdust floor below (lucky bastards). All the circus performers were paid the same meager wage, no hazard pay for the death defying trapezeman—or trapezeperson, or trapezepeople… Now’s not the time. Focus—Speaking of, the only dangers the sad faced clowns might ever encounter are being stamped on by an elephant, or wrecking their comically tiny punch-buggy.
It’s not fair.
Way down below, a pack of circus roadies were busy pulling away the Godsend. “The Godsend” was what the trapeze team nicknamed their safety