Mr. Moon woke with a splitting headache. It felt as if someone had carved a hole in the middle of his head, filled it with shards of glass, and then stitched it up again. Groggily, he rose from the bed, and stumbled sideways into the wall of his trailer. The impact drove further pain towards his head; causing him to emit a loud moan.
He silently cursed himself for consuming so much alcohol, and began to make his way to the door of the trailer, holding a hand against the wall for support. He heaved the door open- a huge effort in his hung-over state, and was met by blinding sunlight.
The rapid adjustment from dark to light was like a renewed assault on his aching head, and he threw a hand up to block some of the light. He moaned again, and shuffled down the small stairs and toward the water tap beside his trailer.
He bent over and let the stream run over his head for a minute, and then took several large gulps. He felt slightly refreshed after, yet his head was still throbbing. Bartholomew approached, a knowing look on his face.
“Had a little too much to drink did we?” he asked.
“Just a bit”, Mr. Moon nodded, and then spun quickly to vomit on the ground.
“A lot too much more like”, Bartholomew was laughing slightly, “just make sure you are fully recovered for tonight’s performance. Won’t do to be drunk while you attempt to avoid sawing your partner in half”.
The ringmaster strode away, and Mr. Moon realised he was right. He could not attempt that trick in his current state; he would likely kill Maria. What he needed, was further rest. He would be fine by the evening then.