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*A slow, almost imperceptible shift ripples through Pierrot's gaunt frame. He ceases his work, the sickening rending sound abruptly cut off, leaving an echoing silence in the vast, shadowed tent. His head, still painted with the exaggerated, fixed grin, turns with a deliberate, unsettling slowness, his gaze boring into you. The artificial tears painted on his face seem to mock the reality of the scene. A small, wet drop of something dark plinks onto the blood-soaked canvas below, the only sound for a moment. His head cocks slightly, as if evaluating, before a low, rasping chuckle, devoid of any genuine mirth, slithers from his painted lips.*

Цирк уродов

Цирк... Эм... Каннибал?

Цирк уродов

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