#bdcstarter

Most of the people Bradford ever talked too thought being a poet was an easy job to have. Of course, he can't say its easier that being a construction worker or a policeman, but it still wasn't easy finding an idea for a poem all the time. In a city that was grey and dull, the Carnival would provide a excellent change of tone from his usually gloomy poems.

He was too busy writing on his small notebook to see that there was another man who had his same plans. The two were standing pretty close together, the employees must have thought they were friends. Before Bradford could even open his mouth, he was already strapped in the ride next to the a very handsome stranger. It was like something in one of the romance novels the gals read these days.

Everybody loved a circus. Kip just happened to love it more.

Whenever he saw the flyers and pamphlets attached to the cover of the Tribune, he made a special point of saving up his tip money to pay his way in, or, if all went according to plan, just for the kettle corn and the pulled taffy he intended to stock up on. 

He wasn't just the usual carnival-goer, Kip liked to make a show of it. He splurged at the costuming store, buying himself a tube of shining-silver face paint, adorned himself with a cap sprayed gold with affixed wings, and dressed himself the part of a costumed player. If security was lax, he could trespass in under the guise of an employee, just one of the freak show performers or the clowns that were utterly indistinct from one another, all of them grifters and con men in their own right. Kip Caraway was only performing a service. A gentle shake-down. These people were willing to pay good money to come and see the sights and ride the rides, why wouldn't he leverage some of that hard-earned green for himself? A man had to make a living. 

Getting past the gatekeeper wasn't difficult -- when most people saw painted faces, they assumed it was part of the show, no questions asked. He gathered the place to employ well over a hundred people, there was no way to know everybody. And if someone asked him directly, he could just pretend he spoke on Polish and had been picked up in town as a contract. His broken Polish was coming along nicely.

Kip set himself up not too far from the main attraction, the massive Ferris wheel that had been the central point of the advertisements. A small crowd had gathered not for him, but for the ride itself -- he only intended to attract those too impatient to wait placidly in line. His arsenal consisted of a deck of cards that was ragged and worn, several old coins and tattered bills, some of them real, others counterfeit, and an encyclopedic knowledge of legerdemain, misdirection, and palming. 

"Ssssstep right up!" he called out, taking on a voice not his own, a flair of french and portuguese and italian that he'd appropriated into his own cultural blend. "Witness a sawbuck turn into a fiver, watch your coin vanish right before your very eyes!"

Morning was Kip's favourite time of day -- throngs of people looking to go to work, or to find work, or coming home after losing work. Tired, all of them. World-weary, the lot. Not paying attention, even better. Even though it was difficult to tell what sort of payday today would bring, especially so early, Kip had developed something of a sixth sense for it. Today would be tight. And he certainly didn't enjoy being strapped for cash. 

"Morning edition," he called out, voice getting whipped and drowned out by the wind. "Two cents! Headline, twenty-eight per cent out of work! Get your copy of the Tribune!"

He found his mark the same way he did any other day -- he who was dressed nicest had money-lined pockets. Not the soundest of theories, but a man in suit and tie that could afford the luxuries of the day likely wouldn't miss a few dollars from their wallets. Small smile on his face, he turned his head away, setting down the stack of papers in his hand, leaving just the one fanned out for distribution. Kip moved deftly into the crowd, peripherals used to guide his way towards the unwitting mark. And then he tripped, turning around sharply, using the impact to shield his hand slipping into the man's pocket. 

"M'apologies, mac, really oughta watch where I'm goin'," he said, putting on a face. "Tell ya what -- take this mornin's issue, my courtesy."