fictoid: the fire eater and the yogi

“I left you because you never made your bed of nails,” the boardwalk fire eater said. “Every damn night I’d come home and stick one or two in my foot.  No thanks.”

“Those weren’t my nails,” the yogi said. “Well, at least not the nails from my bed.”

“Then where did they come from?”

The yogi looked ashamed, cast down his eyes. “My feet.  I’m bad about cleaning up after I clip my toenails.”

There was a long silence then the fire eater said, “You are disgusting.”  He looked for the ice cream man so he could wash the taste of revulsion and kerosene from his mouth.

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text © Buzz Dixon