The doors of the mess hall emitted a gentle<em>tink</em>as a hook snagged the pull handle and with the buzz of a turning reel began to pull it open. Once the door was wide enough, wheeling quickly through the doorway before it closed was the black and white clown, Bojangles. In his right hand was a fishing pole and upon his head was a floppy, fisherman’s hat strewn with fishing hooks and worms that rolled off the lip of his hat to plop into his lap and along the floor. A brown vest was secured over top of his white tank, completing his unusual outfit. “Hello boys and girls,” he greeted dully. Such a line might have been said with more enthusiasm and then followed by a<em>hyuk, hyuk, hyuk</em>of a chuckle but that was Bozo’s shit; and he was no Bozo. Bozo was his bitch!<br/><br/>The unicycle was singing its old Pop Goes the Weasel song as he wheeled down the aisle between the tables. Just as the song was reaching its climatic rise, before it could reach the line<em>Pop!</em>The clown abruptly rose off the unicycle and with his free hand grasped its trunk and picked it up before passing it over into the hand with his fishing pole. He removed his hat and then unzipped his fishing vest and tossed everything overhead and through a glass window. With a long smile unseen beneath his chain-chomp paint job, he patted his hands together as though ridding them of dust and filth before outside, the sudden screech of a vehicle slamming on the brakes resounded. The clown froze with eyes wide with alarm, his arms thrown out to either side as though he were ready to hit the deck.<em>Crash!</em>The vehicle slammed into something hard and its hub cap went rolling along before clattering upon its side like a fallen coin.<br/><br/>The clown was silent for five seconds, musing over the sounds of a supposed accident. “Eh, guy needs to learn how to drive,” he said simply before passing the table where the bunny girl and the ring leader sat. His jack-o-lantern eyes leered her way as he walked past. A smirk sliced across his lips as he said to her, “Silly Rabbit, when will you ever come by my tent? I got something better than swords for you to swallow.” He grasped his crotch and gave it two squeezes as it sounded like a bicycle horn:<em>Honk; Honk!</em>His lips stretched into one of his wide grins as he reached the counter and peered beyond the glass at all the people and animal parts. He never ate at the Mess Hall. No, he preferred his meals hot and fresh. The clown was still sporting the blood on his clothes from moments ago. It didn’t take long for him to find the beverage he was looking for.<br/><br/>Behind the counter, he managed to procure an enormous mug of beer that he lifted to his lips with ease. The thick foam rippled before his lips like a mini tub as his throat began pumping away at the spiced liquid. Slowly, he began easing his head back as his belly billowed outwards from the intake. It swelled like a balloon from beneath his tank until his ears emitted a<em>pop</em>like a wine bottle being opened as the liquid started spouting like a fountain from his ears. His stomach shrank back to normal size as the floor around him became soaked with beer until he emptied the mug entirely.<br/><br/>Bojangles gasped heavily and set the mug down. He arched his left leg up in the Captain Morgan’s stance for the few seconds it took him to adjust—he was feeling so much accomplishment. Dropping his leg, he swayed out from behind the bar and informed his two acquaintances at the table as he passed: “Arhm gah’n mer tahgn nu.”<br/><br/>White subtitles appeared out of nowhere to translate:<em>I’m going to my tent now.</em><br/><br/>He raised his hand in a short wave as he went staggering for the exit/entrance. “Ahra!”<br/><br/><em>Holla’!</em>