He was easy to miss, that Basil scuttling about underfoot. He was nothing but a blur in the eyes of circus-goers—low to the ground, quick as a flash, Basil ran around the fairgrounds doing odd jobs. He was always off in a rush. Reflective of his stature, he fell low in the circus pecking order, merely just the ringmaster’s son. (A glorified intern if there ever was such a thing for a circus-troupe.) He was easily dismissed, standing small in his father’s large, large shadow. “Good,” he thought, “let them undermine me, that way my rise to the top will be all the more triumphant.”
You see, Basil was determined to climb his way up no matter what challenge lay before him. While he picked up trash he envisioned himself on a grand striped podium, barking at potential customers. While he ran the popcorn stand he visualized himself with a tall tophat and ornate cane, hosting and directing the whole shebang like how a conductor would command an orchestra. Sure, Basil was a runt, no two ways about it, but he didn’t let that get him down. He knew his place in the world, and that was at the top. He’d show them all—it was just a dream away.