The circus had been there last week; the place still smelled like exotic shit. Lion and elephant shit smells different from horse shit. Not that he could tell: thirty years of unfiltered Camels will do that to a sense of smell. Parish told him so and he believed it.
Was he going to one of the small, darkened rooms he preferred? Or the stage that paid for the rooms? For what went on in there. To or from, don’t matter: he would end up where he wanted to be. No one could ever argue with him, everyone dutifully chorussed after it was over.