It seemed like a good idea at the time but one can never be too certain, pulling back the velveteen blue curtain at the freak show and watching him saw off his limb. He looks up and explains to me, “These days, they want more, another inch off my leg and another hand sown on backwards.” I stare at him, his eyes pleading. “They just want more, they just want more,” he laments. But I do understand. It is human nature to become inured to the grotesque after repeated confrontations. Even sitting there across from him, disgusted, I cannot take my eyes off the bleeding stump, the jagged sutures patching his immense yet strangely hollow torso, the sicken shock of white bone. “What is your name?” I ask, getting up to leave, suddenly upset with myself. “My name? Why, I thought everyone knew me,” he replies.