On with the sideshow ... Coney Island.
In a darkened theatre, a spotlight shines centre stage. A man dressed in black emerges. He's carrying an old wooden chair.
Laying his gloved palm flat against the seat, he raises a thick wooden mallet high above his head. There's a collective gasp. With a sickening thump, he brings the mallet down full-force, straight onto his hand.
Beside me, a burly guy in a baseball cap recoils in horror. On stage the man roars with pain. We've barely had time to recover when it happens again. Shrieks of terror fill the room. Just as it looks like the trucker beside me is going to pass out, the man in black jumps to his feet. Removing his glove, he reveals a hand with no middle fingers.
"I am the Black Scorpion," he announces in a comically high-pitched voice. "Welcome to the Coney Island Sideshow."
I'm one of about 30 people packed into a rickety old theatre by the sea. I hadn't planned on watching a circus sideshow but somehow, in New York's most alternative neighbourhood, the unexpected finds you.
Outside I'd been enjoying the annual Tattoo and Motorcycle Festival. In the afternoon sun, men on Harley's purred up and down the street, while others stood laughing over a few beers. Behind them, Coney Island's famous amusement arcade provided the backdrop. Somehow I ended up inside.
Next on stage is Serpentina. Dressed in heavy biker boots and a frock, she dances seductively to a David Lynch-style soundtrack; a four-metre albino python wrapped around her neck.
The host of the show is Donny Vomit. Sporting a three-piece suit, black bowler hat and handlebar moustache, he regales the audience with jokes between performances. He's a charismatic showman with a few tricks of his own.
His first is the "human blockhead". Using a hammer and cordless power drill, he taps five-inch nails into his nose then removes them. Later he juggles an apple, chainsaw and flaming torch simultaneously - even managing a mid-air bite of the apple.
Other acts include the sword-swallowing Heather Holiday, a beautiful, petite girl in a leopard-skin dress, and the Queen of Kerosene, the Goddess of Gasoline: Insectivora. The latter juggles, breathes and eats fire and is handy with a whip.
As the show crescendos, Donny Vomit addresses the audience.
"Our final act is so daring, so disturbing, that we'll require a dollar donation from anyone who wishes to see it," he booms.
The act is to take place in a separate space at the back of the theatre. Almost without exception, we shuffle awkwardly towards the rear of the room.
In single-file we pledge a dollar and take our positions. It's pitch dark. There's a sheepish acknowledgement of our own ghoulish curiosity but the air of suspense is palpable. Behind me, I hear the door close shut ...
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