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Warhol was a circus freak. Not just any old circus freak. But a special one. Warhol did not travel with Barnum & Bailey's. Warhol didn't do shows at DisneyWorld or Canada's Wonderland or even the Exhibition. Warhol did show's for Skritchet's Travelling Show for the Sexually Odd. Warhol was billed as "Warhol, Who Will Fornicate With Anything."

Skritchet's Travelling Show was, as it described, for the sexual freaks of the Earth. The show consisted of a bunch of trailers, inside of which were the freaks and their equipment. People paid a general admission to get in to Skritchet's, and then went from trailer to trailer to see the freaks. There were several people who could have sex with themselves. There were all sorts with unnaturally large genatalia. There were sodomites, transvestites, sadists, masochists and beastialists. The highlight of the show was a man who would castrate himself. None of Skritchet's show was faked. Everyone did what they had promised to do, without any tricks or gadgetry of any sort. Warhol's was the least popular act.

Skritchet, the man behind Skritchet's Travelling Show for the Sexually Odd, look suspiciously like Jesus Christ. Skritchet could walk on water, but nobody knew it. He only did it when he was alone. It was a strange talent which he acquired at birth.

The act proceeded as follows: Warhol would take the stage. It wasn't a nice looking stage. It wasn't decorated or curtained. It didn't have a backdrop with a nice painting on it. It was basically a large box. A spotlight, as white as cereal and as bright as the reflection of a flashlight off of yellow wallpaper would search out Warhol. The spotlight made Warhol stand out against the wooden stage. "My name is Warhol", Warhol would say. "I will fornicate with anything for your pleasure." The audience would invariably be filled with male business executives.

"Please, give me anything. Anything at all. And I will fuck it dry." The audience would throw up the usual assortment of trinket's. There were ceramic dragons, lightbulbs, James Joyce novels, and a wide variety of tools of all sorts. Warhol would then proceed to strip with all the pomp and flair of a bored topless-waitress on a Sunday night. Then Warhol would, one by one, fuck everything that had collected on the stage, as promised, dry.

The crowd never uttered a sound, except when Warhol orgasmed. Then, they sounded like spiders, crawling on the attic floor of the cottage on a rainy August evening.