O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Making a Fool of Himself

by Purplebootsgywr

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Jake stood stock still, making certain not to make any sudden moves. The elevator up to the board room made only the faintest hum as it traveled on its path upward, but in the deathly silence it seemed magnified to an aggressive whine. Of course, Jake's traveling companions did little to ease the tension, nor his feelings of fear and impending doom.

Straddling Jake on either side were two hulking security men from Mr. DeBaesar's personal goon squad. Both men were built like professional wrestlers, their muscled forms barely contained within their dark suits. They also wore dark glasses, something hardly required for building security men who worked mostly indoors. Jake supposed that the addition of the secret service eyewear was a melodramatic touch initiated by DeBaesar to instill fear. It was effective. Other than the tiny Billy Bobcat lapel pins each man sported on his jacket, they looked more than ready to whip out sizeable revolvers and pump Jake full of lead. As it stood, Jake wondered if perhaps that fate might not be preferable to whatever awaited him at their stop where he would have to face his boss. Or former boss, more accurately.

Jake was no longer in his jester suit. He was once again back in the impressive designer suit version of his magical morphing outfit. That wasn't the case, however, when Jake left the relative chaos of the banquet the night before.

The ballroom was alive with a cacophony of laughter and applause, many patrons rising to their feet in response to Debaesar's apparently planned dousing. Serving staff and other employees on hand rushed to the aid of the drenched and dazed corporate head. Jake, whose bodily control was now entirely lost to the control of the jester suit, used the disruption and excitement to render his escape.

Jake was on the street before he knew it. He had only a dim memory of launching himself out of the banquet hall and into the open lobby, bounding Daffy Duck-like across the main entry way and out the front doors. His mind was too flooded with horrifying images replaying what he had just done, and the realization that he had just seen all he had strived to accomplish in the business world. all his newfound dreams and goals, flashing before his eyes in a doomed decimation of wilted flowers, viscous fizzing fluids, and bits of shattered glass. Jake was halfway down the main street and several blocks away from the derailed social event before the suit returned some measure of control to him.

Jake stopped, gasping for breath, panting both from the physical exertion of his high-energy performance and frantic departure as well as from the emotional distress of envisioning the ramifications of same that were certain to come. Doubling over, Jake grasped his leotard-enclosed knees with his hands, bells atop his cap jangling, and felt the tears stream down his face. Unable to contain himself any longer, Jake sobbed. Loud, ragged, rasping sobs poured out of his mouth and his body shook with the force of their release. This was not some forced dance to an old Judy Garland tune performed within the confines of his own home. No pie in the face in his kitchen, no entertaining interlude for college students on the mall. This was his life as he knew it, and he knew it was over.

Jake saw his reflection in the window of a darkened storefront on the deserted portion of the street where he stood, or leaned hunched over. In the glass of the closed shop appeared a darkly-colored jester, his garish reds, blues, and golds, illuminated in harsh streaks by the intermittent glow of the street lamps around him. His own face, contorted into an agonized tragedy mask, was difficult to read in this setting, and in the shadowy reflection, looked for all the world like a face split with an oversized grin. Jake was taken aback by the sight of his own mirror image apparently smiling at his misfortune.

"This isn't FUNNY!!", Jake screamed, hauling off and striking the glass with his fist. His intention was to shatter the hateful image of himself, the leering fool who would happily destroy someone's life and then laugh about it, but the glass was too thick and Jake was too weak. He succeeded only in bruising his knuckles against the glass and making his own reflection vibrate, its laughter seeming to make it quiver with glee.

Jake rested his forehead against the cold glass, his tears streaming down his cheeks, dropping upon the sill of the large window. A commotion from many blocks away caught his attention and Jake looked to see a cluster of people crowding their way out of the main doors that lead to the banquet hall. The way their heads were darting this way and that indicated to him that they were in search of the jester who had stolen the show and become the life of the party. Jake knew he had to get out of there fast before he was spotted. He darted down an alleyway past the shop with the unbreakable glass window and ran toward and adjoining back street, cursing his many bells for their jingling chorus that followed his every movement. Jake knew he needed more than to just get away before the banquet crowd tracked him down. He needed to be rid of this suit, once and for all. And there was only one man who could help him do that.

The run to the Frizzell Auditorium was a blur. Back alleys and side streets, dirt pathways buttressed by the bricked backsides of offices and storage buildings. Jake jangled his way along at top speed, his lithe slippered feet dodging bits of broken glass, leaping over puddles or worse. Occasionally he caught his colorful reflection in dusty windows or in the chrome of parked cars. The leering, distorted image of the man he was supposed to be, the belled buffoon that he had become, drove him onward ever faster. He would not risk taking a cab or a bus, as there was no chance that his jester suit would have a coin purse with the fare he needed, and the free transportation such as the trolley stopped running after dark. Besides, he would not give the suit the chance of taking control of him again by providing it with any potential audience.

Finally, panting and high on adrenaline, Jake reached the infamous side door of the Frizzell. The door that was always open, but mysteriously unlocked the last time he attempted to return here. He would break it down tonight if he had to. Jake's hand reached for the door handle, but before he could connect with it, the door swung open as if on its own. Jake froze.

Was someone leaving just as he had arrived? Was it the someone he was after? Jake stepped inside. "Geez? That you?" Jake looked behind the door and found no one there. There was no breeze to speak of, least of all one that would have the strength to push open the heavy metal door. The backstage was well lit. Someone had to still be inside the theatre. Jake made his way down the back hallway, barely making it a few paces when he jumped, spotting someone striding along beside him. It took a moment for Jake to realize he had spotted himself, his own reflection in the ornate mirror set up in the backstage hall. Seeing himself reflected in the darkened windows or surfaces of parked cars was one thing, but catching his colorful reflection in full light had taken him off guard.

Jake stared at himself, the jester, the fool, still panting hard from his long run, from fear. Here, in the theater, his gaudy ensemble was acceptable, almost at home. No, entirely at home. He felt himself begin to relax a bit, feeling somehow a bit safer here. Then he jumped again, as the outside door slammed shut. Again, no breeze, no pushing wind. Jake looked at himself again in the mirror. No, he was not safe. Not as long as this demon-possessed jester costume still possessed him. He moved further down the hallway.

"Geezer! I know you're in here!", Jake shouted. "You never leave here with the lights still on!" Jake also knew that sometimes Struthers would work well into the night and then sack out on a cot he kept in one of his cavernous office closets. Jake hoped by raising a ruckus he could rouse the old man.

Jake stepped out onto the stage beyond the hallway. Though the work areas of the backstage, the hallway, and a few of the connecting rooms were indeed well lit, the stage and the auditorium itself were quite dark. Jake squinted into the darkness of the house and tried to see if anyone was lurking around. "Geez! Are you in the house! I need to talk to you NOW! Take a good look at me, Geez! Look at this jester suit you stuck me in!"

Jake eyed the light booth above and behind the main house, and saw that lights were on by the control board. A shadow moved within the confines of the small booth work area. Struthers? Jake called out to it. "Geez?" The shadow seemed to dart to the side, toward the booth's back door. "GEEZ!"

Jake leapt off the stage and scampered through the darkness between the rows of seats. He almost ran full speed into a back wall, but patted his hands along the surface until he found a door. The door wouldn't push open under his efforts. Locked. Dammitt! Bells jingling, Jake scrambled down one of the back rows of seats and found another door. This one was unlocked. Bursting into the lobby and stumbling only partway into an old concession counter, Jake made his way through the darkness mostly on instinct and memory to find an employee entrance near the curving flight of stairs that would take theater patrons up to the balcony. Once through the employee door, dim ghost lights lit Jake's way up a spiral staircase to the lighting booth. There was no one on the stairs, nor did he pick up on any movement across the lobby.

Jake flung open the light booth door and looked around. There was an open carpenter's box on the floor and a few tools strewn around. A panel beside one of the control boards was unfastened and a tangle of wires pulled out, clearly in the process of being repaired or upgraded. Struthers was not one to leave any task unfinished nor break for the night without cleaning up his messes. Only one overhead light was on, but a swivel chair near the control board was still slowly spinning. Someone had vacated it in a hurry. Jake rested his palm on the chair's seat. It was still warm. Jake had taken too long in finding the unlocked door in the back of the house, allowing Geezer—if it was Geezer—to get away.

Jake eyed the many controls that filled this first area of the booth he lit upon one set of switches near a microphone. He recalled his tech theater training and flipped on a red switch, reaching for the mike. A low squeal filled the auditorium and Jake spoke loudly into the microphone which broadcast his voice throughout the entire theater, into all the backstage locations, work areas, and dressing rooms. He'd activated the director's controls.

"Geezer! I know you're in here somewhere! I'm up here trapped in a fucking jester suit! I—" Jake started to cry again, "—I just ruined my career with this damn thing. Do you hear me?? I went nuts and acted like an idiot—this THING, this, this COStume MADE me act like an idiot! My life is over, Geez!" Jake turned his head to the side, more tears streaming, sniffling back the need to sob again, then he clutched the microphone and shouted, "How could you DO THIS TO ME??!!"

The feedback from the microphone was intense, and a high-pitched electronic whine split the air, reverberating off the walls of the house and echoing down every corridor, into every empty room. The echoes faded after a minute or two, seeming to last longer, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jake peered out into the darkness, catching only distant glimmers of light from some of the illuminated work rooms nearest the stage. No sign of a wizened old stage hand who would come out to call his old apprentice down and help him out of the cursed costume he'd been stuck in.

Jake sniffled, leaning now against the microphone, his face pressing against the device. "I just need you to take it off me", he whispered, his tired desperation sounding through the building. "I just need to take it off...that's all...just help me take it off...please, man...that's all..."

Jake pushed aside the mike and switched off the sound system. He flopped down in the swivel chair and stared out at the darkened stage. He reached up and tugged at his belled cap, pulling hard, again feeling as if he were about to tear the skin off of his skull. "Arrhhh!" He pounded on the control board with angry fists, then folded his arms and rested his head upon them, his tears soaking the tights stretched over his arms.

Jake looked up after a moment, contemplating a journey up to Struthers's office, the most obvious choice for where he could be hiding, and thus the least likely place to find him. Then Jake was certain he saw a figure moving offstage. Going into one of the smaller costume shops. Jake was out of his seat and dashing back down the spiral staircase in a heartbeat. He ran to the costume area. "Geez! I know you're in here! You're going to get this thing off me! I mean it!"

Jake tore into the room filled with costumes from the most recent productions staged there to find no one else in the room. Jake knew the theater very well, but it was nothing compared to Struthers's knowledge of the layout. The old man knew the theater's every secret, all of its nooks and crannies. He could easily evade an army search team indefinitely in this place, much less a lone junior executive stuck in a magical jester costume. Jake leaned back against one of the clothing racks, wondering how he could ever find the old man, how he could ever get this cursed outfit off of him. Then he looked around at his surroundings. Costumes, costumes, and more costumes. Jake took a step back. If he couldn't get the outfit he had on to come off...

Jake reached down at his tunic and tried to pull it up over his head. It fought him, flopping back down to where it usually hung, its little bells jangling. Jake tried to untie his belt, which promptly refastened itself around his waist. "Fine", Jake said aloud. The jester suit would not come off and the one who gave it to him was missing. But nothing said that Jake couldn't cover the damn thing up.

Jake rummaged through the costumes, thanking whoever it was on the local civic theater committees for choosing butt-boring plays like Look Homeward Angel and Our Town. The outfits were dated period pieces, but there were no clown suits, no fool's clothes. Just old outfits that could conceivably pass for normal street clothing. If he could pull them on over his jester suit, find a way to silence the bells, he'd be able to walk the streets without looking like the fool he'd become. That he'd been forced to become. Jake pushed through gowns, crinoline skirts, women's coats. "Ladies stuff on the lower racks, men's outfits on the top", he quoted, remembering all the time he'd spent helping sort the storage rooms.

Jake looked up and saw rows and rows of old dress shirts, plaid work shirts, overalls, coveralls, suits, military uniforms. "Perfect", he decided. He grabbed a wheeled stepladder and brought it over to him, climbing up to reach the men's costumes. Jake found a suit about his size, maybe half a size larger, within reach. This'll do. It had a western cut to it, and nearby were a pair of black cowboy boots. Big ones. There'd be no trouble pulling those on over his belled slippers, even with their long curled toes. Jake started pulling the suit's white shirt on over the top of his tunic, the bells of which seemed to jangle louder, as if angered that Jake would have the audacity to cover them up. he then grabbed the suit coat and slipped his arms through. It actually felt like a good fit with the tunic on underneath. "If I'm stuck in a fucking jester suit, no one needs to know", he sneered. The bells on his cap jingled and chimed, suddenly more animated than his limited movement should have made them. Jake saw a large hat box near the cowboy boots and yanked it open. A ten-gallon black Stetson. Jake pulled the hat out and dusted it off.

"And now to shut you guys the hell up", he said, pulling the hat firmly down upon his head, fully covering his fool's cap. The bells inside fought against their confinement, the tiny metal balls stabbing and poking at the interior of the hat. Jake grabbed the slacks and the cowboy boots, a feeling of victory coming over him. "I'm gonna beat you, you little bastard." Then, to his former mentor, Jake shouted out, "You hear that, Geez? I'm gonna beat this thing! Nothing you can do about it! You won't help me—I'll just help myself!"

That's when his feet started dancing again. Or more specifically, his slipper boots started dancing. A tiny happy dance with tight steps, there on the wheeled stepladder, but with Jake's hands full and no warning that he was about to break into the unexpected choreography, he quickly lost his balance. "No! Stop it! You're gonna break our neck!" Missing the fact that he'd just addressed his body parts as something that belonged to both he and the jester suit mutually, Jake stumbled backwards, his feet still doing their jig, his legs striking against the raised bar of the stepladder. Jake tumbled backwards over the bar, the cowboy hat flying from his head, the unbuttoned shirt flapping even as the trousers and boots flew from his hands. Arms pin wheeling, trying to find purchase in the empty air, Jake fell.

There was a soft cushion that halted his plummet, and he bounced once, then twice, against it before settling to a halt. Had landed upon his own bed, within his own condo. Jake was back in his full, uncovered jester costume, the western ensemble long gone. Jake had no idea how he had made it home nor what happened between his backward tumble from the stepladder to his collapse upon his own bed. But he was utterly exhausted. He felt the sudden, gripping fear of the binge drinker, finding himself home but having no idea what the substance he'd exposed himself to had forced him to do, what terrible acts he may have done on the way to his final destination.

Jake could barely keep his eyes open. However he had gotten here, he had drained himself by doing it. And the effects of the emotional strain he'd been under since before the banquet had taken their toll. Jake's face crumpled and he began to sob again, but his head lolled to one side and he was deeply asleep before the first tear could fall.

******

The pounding on his door woke him. Jake felt the fog quickly recede from his mind as he propped himself up in his bed, wakefulness returning. Someone—or something—was pounding on his front door and hollering for him to come out. Jake too a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, as he did on most mornings following a difficult day and a heavy sleep. Jake ran his fingers through his hair, his usual response to stress, and immediately pulled his hand away as if he'd put it through a puddle of slime. But he hadn't felt slime. He'd felt hair.

Jake was instantly awake. No bells, no jangles. No fool's cap. Jake looked down at himself. He was once again in his business suit. Neatly pressed, looking quite sharp, showing no signs that he'd just slept in it. Curiously, Jake sniffed his sleeve. "Christ, it smells like it just came form the cleaner's", he observed.

The pounding was getting louder.

Jake jumped out of bed (he'd slept on top of the covers) and made his way toward the front door. He spied himself in his bedroom mirror and saw that he was already shaved, and but for his running his hands through his hair a moment ago, he looked very neatly primped. If not for the whole cursed to act like a complete asshole thing, this magic suit would be quite a time saver, he thought. More pounding.

As Jake approached the door, he could make out the words being spoken by the raised voices. "Mr. Quinely, we strongly suggest that you open the door immediately. We are not averse to breaking it down. Do you hear me, Mr. Quinely?"

Jake saw that the door was actually vibrating at the pounding it was taking on the other side. He had no doubt in his mind that whomever it was beyond the door would indeed make good on their threats if he did not comply. "I'm here!", Jake called to them, hoping his announcement would stop their pummeling fists and not earn him a cluster of knuckles to his forehead should he open the door without warning. Jake unlocked the door and swung it open. There stood the two giants who could have passed for secret service men were it not for their overt presence and tiny Billy Bobcat pins, which did very little to make them appear any less imposing.

The two men looked Jake over, their minds seeming to process by Jake's attire that his delay in coming to the door was that he was in the process of getting dressed. The man on the right said, "Mr. DeBaesar has sent us to collect you. You're to come with us immediately."

Jake knew it was pointless to make excuses or try to evade them. And it would be far preferable to have DeBaesar kill him figuratively in front of coworkers and lawyers than to have these two gorillas do so literally by chucking him off of a balcony.

"I guess we'd better go then", Jake said.

The two men took Jake by the arms and led him down the hallway and off to meet his fate at the hands of the big boss.

The big boss in question was at that moment pacing back and forth in his cavernous office, the day's new light doing nothing to burn away the rage he'd felt since his grand humiliation the night before. A one toady, one of his closer assistants, was the only other person in the room with him. He was the only one with the courage to be near him at that point.

"I want that miserable bastard strung up!", DeBaesar declared. "I want every possible charge that we can think of brought against him. Think up new ones if we have to!"

Behind Debaesar's desk was a series of televisions recessed into the wall. All of which were tuned to different news stations, all of which were broadcasting taped replays of the shattering floral sphere and DeBaesar's unceremonious dunking from the night before. Hosts for all the morning shows peppered their inane banter with laughter over the splattering fiasco, commentators spoke of it as the unforgettable moment of the season, news anchors hailed it as the return of over-the-top public spectacles executed in grand slapstick fashion.

DeBaesar took in the barrage of ridicule and barked, "The little fucker made a fool out of me! I'm ruined—ruined!"

The toady reached for the remotes that would turn off the bank of TVs, but DeBaesar held up a commanding hand. "No! Leave them on. It'll only fuel the fire I'm going to unleash on that little shit when he's dragged in here." DeBaesar stared at the multiple screens, the sound turned down low, but he was no longer watching the reports. He was imagining all the things he was going to do to Jacob Quinely. "I want him destroyed. First destroyed emotionally right here by my own hands, then utterly decimated legally. Attempted murder sounds about right. I could've drowned in that deluge. You can drown in a teaspoon of water. That's what they say, isn't it? And see if we can't build up a case that I was allergic to the flowers inside the sphere. That's why we had them separated from all the bouquets around the room. Yeah, I'm deathly allergic. Skin contact alone could put me in a coma. Anaphylactic shock. I want my first wave of lawyers on this yesterday. I want him charged with two counts of attempted homicide--!"

"But sir!", the toady sniveled, "You can't!"

DeBaesar whirled on the little man and resisted the urge to strike him. "Why the hell not?!"

"Sir, you acted as if you were in on it from the beginning. You didn't call to have him removed from the room, you even laughed at the jokes he made at your expense. It gave everyone the impression that it had been rehearsed. If you go back on that now, you'll have to reveal you were never in control, that you--"

"Then say he went too far! Claim he acted beyond any prepared skit! Say he wasn't supposed to break the sphere—that's hardly an untruth. We have him arrested on destruction of private property, assault and battery, reckless endangerment, anything! I still say we can make that attempted double homicide stick."

"Double homicide implies he tried to kill two people, sir."

"And he tried to kill me twice! Once by drowning, once by the killer flower petals! I just said. Jesus! Pay attention!"

"But sir, you may not want to—"

"WHAT??!!"

The toady moved over to a laptop he'd set up near the big man's desk. He swiveled it around so the screen was visible. It showed a graph chart with a red jagged arrow spiking upward, from lower left to upper right. Dollar signs decorated the top border of the graph, numbers—large numbers—laced the bottom border. An animated scroll crawled along the bottom beneath the graph, with names of companies and dollar amounts beside them. No two names appeared to be repeated as the crawler continued.

"Donations for this project have been coming in like never before. Corporate sponsorships are through the roof." The toady pointed to the numbers on the laptop screen and DeBaesar leaned forward to scrutinize them, his eyes bugging a bit as the figures climbed ever higher. The names running along the bottom of the screen revealed that companies and representatives who were not even in attendance at the banquet were contributing to the new botanical gardens.

"Sir, we have never, not ever, in all our years, had a fundraiser as successful as this one." The toady picked up the television remote and brought the sound up on the various screens.

"—absolutely brilliant display of self-parody—"

"—in a spectacular instance of self-ingratiating humor—"

"—showed that the Bilber cartoon characters are not the only ones who can take the brunt of the joke and still stand as the heroes—"

"—soaking bloody wet and still came up smelling like a rose, DeBaesar delighted us all with this stunt—"

"—by God, if this corporate giant can take a bath in front of everyone, there's no reason these other companies can't take a smaller bath in giving to this project until it hurts—"

The toady turned the sound down again. "Sir, if you go back on this now, on any of it, it'll look very bad. We could lose support. Maybe some of it, maybe all of it. Besides, your own projected earnings for this project—"

That caught DeBaesar's attention. "Yes? What about them?!" If Quinely had cost him one cent as well as his personal dignity...

The smaller man punched a key on his laptop, replacing the donations graph with another accounting table. "Your projected earnings for this have doubled."

DeBaesar took the laptop in his hands. "Doubled?!"

"Practically overnight. Literally overnight, when you think about it."

DeBaesar tossed the laptop down on the table, and the little toady scrambled to make sure that it didn't skid off the edge and clatter to the floor. The bog boss was fuming. He saw how everything had profited from the previous night's debacle—his self respect notwithstanding—and knew he was over a barrel. He wanted to see Jake behind bars but to do so would undermine the greatest fundraising effort in the company's history.

"Where is the fool now?", he asked.

"He's already in the building. Your men are bringing him up in the elevator. I just checked."

"Have them stick him in the anteroom outside the main conference room for now. At least I'll have the satisfaction of firing that traitorous little jizzball in front of everyone." The toady was on the phone in a heartbeat, seeing that it was done.

The elevator came to a stop as the man on Jake's right spoke into a tiny earpiece with an attached microphone. "Got it. He'll be there." He took Jake by one arm, as did his partner. "Come on, you."

The large security men brought Jake to a small waiting area, a cramped room having nothing more than a small couch and a coffee table, which faced a door to the main conference room. Jake noted that one of the security men locked the door by which they'd entered after they were all inside. The other gave Jake's shoulder a guiding shove and sat Jake down on the small couch.

"You wait here until we come back for you."

Jake nodded, but the two giants did not wait to see his response. they simply entered the conference room and closed the door behind them.

Jake lowered his head, feeling the knots in his stomach. "Dear Lord, now what?", he whispered to himself. He was going to be fired, that much was certain. But being brought here in this fashion also indicated that it was going to be a public spectacle. How long would DeBaesar bawl him out? An hour, maybe two? Would he have the big bruisers that brought him here beat him up? The reality of what Jake had done the night before began to dawn on him. He could have hurt DeBaesar by that final strike at the sphere. Maybe worse... Would Jake be arrested after being terminated? Were there police already waiting in there to cart him off? What he did could easily be classified as some type of attack. Jake's heart began to race. That's all he needed, to be locked up in some cell with a seven-foot guy named Bubba Axe-Thrash and suddenly find himself wearing magical tights, a colorful skirt, and girlish slippers. And to have the little dangles on his head—

Jingle.

Oh no...

Jake looked at his sleeves and saw them constrict and tighten, going from suit to cute very rapidly. He could feel his hair being pressed to his skull as the fool's cap and bells took their place once again atop his noggin. He looked down at his highly polished dress shoes and watched in horror as the toes extended, pointed, and curled backwards.

This was not good.

The conference room was already full when DeBaesar made his entrance. Legal department reps, junior executives, senior executives, promotion men, a handful of security men, two secretaries, and a paralegal. DeBaesar wanted to make damn sure that when Jake was fired, it was done before an audience, that those who observed the proceedings were there to intimidate Jake and would also quickly spread the word throughout the company of what had happened to the one who had dared to cross him.

One of the junior executives, a sniveling little weasel who always tried to hard and never accomplished enough. Unlike others who had the brains to keep their distance, he slid up to the big man and offered him a platter of pastries.

"M-may I offer you a donut, sir? They-they're bavarian cremes!"

DeBaesar looked at the little powder-covered treats with their gushing openings oozing fresh chocolate cream and wrinkled his nose as if they were festering bat droppings. He then looked at the well-meaning weasel and snarled, "Get this shit the hell out of my face, you idiot. You're lucky I'm reserving my ire for that jackass Quinely this morning, or you'd be out on your ass."

The poor little guy made a kind of whimpering noise and slithered away, setting his tray of early morning delicacies on a nearby side table.

DeBaesar looked to the head of the assembled security team. "Is everyone ready in here?"

"Near as we can see, sir. Yes, sir."

"And he's out there?", DeBaesar asked, thumbing toward the connected anteroom.

"Yes, sir. He's not going anywhere."

"He's going somewhere alright", Debaesar seethed under his breath, "but when he goes there, it'll be with my boot print implanted on his ass." Aloud, he said, "Bring him in here."

Two of the mountainous security men strode toward the door and opened it up, marching out to collect their victim. Their victim was no longer waiting inhis chair, however. Jake Quinely, the most unfortunate man in the whole Bilber Empire and all of Watkins Worldwide Entertainment, was standing at the locked door that led outside. Both his hands were on the door knob, fighting to get it to budge, as one foot was planted against the wall beside the door jam, bracing him as he tugged and strained. Of course, by now he was once again in full jester costume, so he jingled and chimed as he fought against the locked door.

"Come ON! I have to get out of here! What kind of lock is this?? Do they usually hold professional linebackers in here? Who are they trying to keep IN here—" by then, jake noticed the two security men and he managed a weak smile. "Oh. Hi, fellas. I guess I'm on, huh?"

The two dark-clad men dragged the quivering Jake into the conference room, bells a-jangling, each carrying him by one arm, his toes dragging along the carpeted floor between them. DeBaesar's face fell when he saw how Jake was attired.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me", DeBaesar mumbled.

"Oh, I can assure you nobody's more surprised than me, sir", Jake said in false levity.

DeBaesar's face began to turn crimson. "You have the audacity...the balls...to show up here wearing that getup? After the humiliation you caused me last night?"

"Well, it couldn't possibly have been worse than your speech." Jake's eyes bulged and he clamped his lips shut tight, horrified that the words had just left his mouth. Again, he heard the strumming of a lyre somewhere in the distance.

"WHAT did you just say?!"

Jake could feel the change coming upon him again. More than just his costume. Any second now he was going to lose his reserved yes-man personality and start mouthing off again. "Nothing", Jake whimpered.

"Bring him over here", DeBaesar said to the security men, who dragged the jangling junior exec over to the head of the table.

Jake tried to gain his footing and walk with them, but they were so much larger than he with much more powerful strides, so the jester ended up stumbling and half-skipping along, making him appear all the more ridiculous.

"Stand there", DeBaesar said to Jake, who had no choice but to take his place standing at the head of the huge elongated table, before the many in attendance. He was unable to seek any other options not only because of his being cornered by all the people, but by the meaty hands of the security men held firmly atop either of his shoulders.

"I trust that you know why you're here", DeBaesar said. Jake managed a small nod. He jingled lsightly. DeBaesar's eyes squinted partway. "Your outburst, your...shenanigans on the night of my banquet were inexcusable, wreckless, and criminal." Jake's eyes darted around th eroom to see if there were any policemen waiting to cart him away. None yet. "You made a spectacle of yourself, a junior executive of this company, and you made a laughing stock of me, it's chief executive officer."

Actually, you do that pretty much all by yourself just by being you, Jake thought. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep the words from coming out as they formulated within his mind.

DeBaesar ranted on, "On what was to be a glorious event and a gala opening of a park that would conserve nature as well as educate young people—" To say nothing of lining your pockets, Jake thought, He bit down harder, almost drawing blood. Don't speak, don't speak. "You made yourself the center of attention and detracted from our message while putting the lives of those in attendance in danger!"

Jake thought of the cascade of water and wet petals and thought that those in attendance would have to be made out of spun sugar to be in any real danger from getting wet. People were in greater danger from the Wild River Splash ride at one of the Bilber water parks. The mandolin music began again for Jake, not just at the back of his mind, either. It was almost hovering above him, soon joined by lyres and other instruments he could not identify but which sounded dated and archaic. The haunting notes were accompanied by a rhythmic pounding. Well, that was new.

"Furthermore", DeBaesar went on, "you showed a blatant disregard for your place, your position, for my position, for our company's image in the business world, and for CHRIST sakes, what the HELL is all that noise?!" Jake and the others in the room started as DeBaesar found himself forced off-topic. He waved his arms at the ceiling. "Sounds like the goddman reenactment of every high school production of Camelot ever done up there! What the hell are they doing?!"

A nearby junior exec spoke up. "Uh, it's the rehearsals for the madrigal festival, sir. We gave them the floor upstairs, remember? They're getting close to their event—"

"Well, tell them to keep it down! We're conducting serious business here!!"

Jake breathed easier. They all could here it too. The suit wasn't taking over again. Maybe he'd make it through this thing with just a royal ass-chewing while he stood there looking like a complete ass but not acting like one. Jake watched as the junior exec fled the room to hush the zealous performers above them.

DeBaesar composed himself and began again. Slower, more softly, but all the venom he could raise, he continued. "You have no idea how much you've cost me with this stunt", he hissed, beginning to pace back and forth at the head of the table. Jake cast his eyes downward in shame but as he did so he caught the sight of a nearby laptop. the woman seated in front of it was closing the lid, but Jake had been in business long enough to recognize a profit and loss statement when he saw one. Was that right? Had DeBaesar actually brought in twice what he'd planned to pay himself? The laptop was closed silently before Jake could double check. That lying bastard...

The big boss was still in full rant when Jake brought his attention back to him. "And we're not just talking about me personally", DeBaesar raged. "Your affront has affected everybody." Jake took a moment to look at everybody, at least everybody in the room. It was like a flashback to his first day in the conference room. Everyone sat with eyes fixed either upon DeBaesar or the one upon whom he'd focused his ire. Faces were fixed and frightened, shoulders tight and tense. They were all just as scared as Jake, but doing their level best to appear as stern as their boss. If his "affront" had affected everybody, it hadn't done so nearly enough.

"Your flying off into your...your performance art tantrum...", DeBaesar snarled, "set you apart from us and we here at this company are a team!" Jake cringed, but not at the harshness of the man's tone. A team? A team that is made horrified of its own coach? "Your antics presented you—a representative of this team—as a fool! Thereby making us appear foolish. You've humiliated ALL of us! there's no excuse for that!" Much they way there's no excuse for the way you humiliate your staff every day they fail to wow you with some brilliant new idea or money-making scheme? Slowly, the bells upon Jake's cap beagin to twitch and jingle. Jake had not moved a muscle...

"We here at Watkins Worldwide Entertainment, and especially those of us working to further the legacy of the late Mr. Bilber are a family--!" That did it. Images flashed through Jake's mind of his sister and her many children, begging the young would-be actor to perform for them, to do tricks. Of theater friends, yes even Struthers, who supported and applauded his efforts. And of Casey...Casey the dreamer who loved him unconditionally. Even when Jake had abandoned their mutual dream of performing in some great theater in a program for kids. The bells upon Jake'scostume, now his uniform, his robe of office, became alive, all jingling softly, but growing louder.

"Hey, stop shaking the kid", one security man whispered to his companion. "You're gonna fuck up the big guy's speech."

"I'm not moving him", the other whispered back angrily.

DeBaesar had not picked up on the music of Jake's jester bells yet. He was far too caught up in his own tirade. "I ask you, Quinely, how can you betray your own FAMILY?"

Aaaannnnd it's showtime, Jake realized.

Jake reached up behind the two mountainous secuirty men and slapped his hands upon their shoulders. "Well, Asner, ol' buddy, I gotta tellya", Jake said, feeling the suit take control (and for the first time not really giving a damn). With the speed and grace of a circus acrobat, Jake used his braced hands on the security men to slip backwards, down between their legs, then flip himself over the top of them, to land lithely seated upon their shoulders. The two security men were startled not only to find their hands taken so easily off their captive's shoulders, but to find the colorful clown now perched atop their own. Jake began his foolishness, smiling broadly. "It's time to talk about family betrayal, buddy-boy!"

DeBaesar's eyes bugged with surprise. What was happening? Jake's departmental nemesis, Snooty, seated nearby, muttered, "Oh, God. Not this again..."

"Yes, it's time for this again!", Jake crowed. He had already hopped from the shoulders of the security guards and was sliding atop the polished caonference table before they could react. "More empty rhetoric and posturing from the man who is meant to lead, but prefers to conquer!" DeBaesar, the conqueror in question, jumped back a bit, looking as if he were afraid that Jake would pounce upon him next.

"Don't just stand there—get him!", DeBaesar yelled. The two guards lurched forward but grasped only empty air as Jake leapt lithely from the table to the nearby counter, dancing along lightly.

"You act like this big genius who inspires those around you with awe, but in fact all you are is a big bully living off everyone else's terror, you big goose." Jake bounced from the counter to the floor, then back up to the counter, further along it's edge. Most of the employees present looked uneasy, severla rising slightly from their chairs. But a few, especialy the younger execs, had a gleam of hope flash across their eyes, appearing emboldened by Jake saying aloud what none of them had the courage to say themslelves.

Jake swung on one of the cabinet doors above the counter, making his way in a graceful swoop over to the window sill. There he saw it. DeBaesar's dreaded ThinkPad. With a swift kick of his foot, Jake sent the slender computer into the air where he caught it, even as he spun a midair pirouette and landed again atop the conference table. No stranger to computers, Jake quickly had the ThinkPad open and had accessed DeBaesar's humiliating sound effect program.

"And now let's see what the survey says about our esteemed leader's ability to promote comraderie among the workers." Huh-WONNK! An old car horn blared in the negative. "And how'sabout his talent for recognizing those juniors who bust their asses trying to please him?" FweeeeeKERCHOW! Down went a World War II bombshell. A few of the junior execs surrounding the room began to snicker. DeBaesar shot them a look of malevolence with intent to kill. It didn't help his case.

The secuirty men tried to take Jake from either end of the conference table, but his belled slippers seemed to allow him an almost unreal ability to skate along the polished table's surface as if it were a frozen ice rink. "Say, here's a good one!", Jake continued gleefully, "How do you stand in the simple Greedy Bastard department?" The voice of an animated little kid from a '30s cartoon squealed out, "Uh-OHH!"

Jake did a quick and graceful turn midway on the table and leapt above the two guards as they came at him from opposite sides, Their arms came together in a tangle as Jake skipped over them as easily as if their chase had been choreographed beforehand. "And don't let's forget ol' Asner's ability to tell the simple truth about just how much of the money he's grubbing into his own pocket!", Jake stabbed a final button with great emphasis, releasing he tremendous recoil of a whoopie cushion. POOOOOHTT!

"Shut him the fuck up!", DeBaesar cried. "I will NOT have him humiliate me again!"

Given added incentive by the boss's screaming, one of the security guards outraced Jake to the far end of the table and stood braced to grab him. Jake slammed shut the ThinkPad and tossed it into the waiting arms of the guard, who snatched it reflexively before he realized what he was doing. Leapfrogging over the guard's head, Jake grabbed the pastry tray and spun back around, skipping off the shoulder of the second guard and back onto the slippery table.

"Hey! Come back here, you!"

But the next thing the second guard knew, he was busy catching the empty pastry tray, its delicate little doilies flying every which way. Jake was again skating his way along the conference table, this time while juggling an armload of donuts, their powdery coating leaving sugary specks and flakes on the table and those in closest proximity, but oddly enough, not on Jake.

"You're not going to have me locked up", Jake heard himself saying. Then he realized it was true. "If you were, I'd be behind bars already, wouldn't I?" Donuts still soaring in a circular pattern around his head, Jake said to the room, "How many people here know how much you REALLY made last night? Not for the botanical gardens, but for yourself?" Many of those present, most of them in fact, suddenly sat up straighter and eyed their employer expectantly. It would seem the majority of the underlings had no idea how much their leader had netter while extolling the virtues of their "sacrificing".

"Quinely, you're FIRED!", DeBaesar yelled, his face crimson.

"And if you had just sent me a telegram to that effect, this whole debacle could have been avoided", Jake grinned.

"You will never work in this town—in the entertainment industry—AGAIN!", DeBaesar threatened. "I will have you removed! From this building—from this fucking city! I want to be rid of you! I want you gone. You got me?"

Jake's heart skipped a beat. He had heard those exact words before, coming from his own lips, blurted out in rage against the magic costume which presently covered his body. Jake looked at DeBaesar, his face contorted into a mask of hatred, and shuddered at the thought that, had he continue don his preplanned path uninterrupted, he could very well have one day been like him. "To think that I once admired you", Jake whispered. Then, catching the flying donuts so that they landed in one tall stack in his hand, Jake said loudly, playing to the room, "Would you care for a donut, sir? They're Bavarian crème!"

SQUASH! Jake brought his hands together, pancaking the tower of cream-filleds so that they squirted out a fountain of chocolate cream which coated the front of the most powerful man in the theme park industry. Everyone was frozen in silence, even the younger department heads were too afraid to laugh. Then DeBaesar, shaking with rage, began to splutter.

"K-kill...him...!"

Time to go, Jake realized. The two security men lunged at Jake, who barely escaped their grasp this time by falling down flat upon the table and sliding its full length to land on the floor. From there Jake bounded forward, through and out the main doors, whooping like Daffy Duck.

 

Jake made his way down the hallway and as far as the receptionist's desk with the speed of a Victorian-era tumbler. But having gotten that far, the tingle left his legs and his body and he was left as poor old Jake again. Costumed as a fool, but with no apparent magical means to make good his escape.

"Oh, man! Don't fail me now!", Jake said to his jester suit, looking down as if he were addressing something living inside his pants. "I didn't mean what I said before! If you can get me the hell out of here, I don't want you gone!"

The receptionist continued her button-stabbing and line transferring, but gave Jake an odd look with one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, like you've never had a bad day!", Jake snapped at her.

Then Jake heard the stampeding feet of the security men storming down the hallway towards him. The crackle and hiss of their radios came in between their calls for backup.

"Oh shit, oh shit", Jake murmured to himself. He leapt to the elevator and poked at the button. "Come on, come on!" The lights above the elevator doors told Jake that the box was still too far away to make it to him before the guards reached him. Jake instead ran to the stairs. "Going down!", he hollered as the doors closed behind him.

The security men reached the receptionist's desk in short order. "Guy in a jester suit! Where did he go?"

"Watkins Worldwide, please hold." STAB. Mister Benson, Altruistic Adventures, line 2." STAB. "Down the stairwell to your left. Watkins Worldwide, please hold." STAB

The guards looked at the woman askance. "What?"

"Thank-you for holding, how may I direct your call?", then, looking the guards in the eye for the first time, "Down the stairwell to your LEFT." And back to the phone, "That's extension 120, I'll connect you."

The guards realized what had happened and made their way into the stairwell. Tromping down the stairs, they saw the door to the second floor down from them slowly closing. Into the radio, the first man called, "He's on the 27 th floor. Send your men there. I repeat, floor 27!"

Jake hid behind the door, listening to the men rush by and onto the wrong floor. He'd employed a trick he had learned from when he'd done a French farce. Dart ahead two doors down (or in this case, two floors down) and pull the door open as wide as it will go. Then race back quickly to duck behind the first available door. As those in chase enter the wrong door—seeing it still open and assuming its the one you took—you double back for your comical entrance. Or in this case, escape.

Jake stepped out from behind the door to the 28 th floor and knew from the sound of security footsteps rushing upwards that he couldn't continue to go down. Going back the way he came was out of the question as well. He could already hear DeBaesar and his ensemble gathering in furor at the elevator above. Jake's only recourse was to go up.

Jake climbed the stairs quickly, hoping the jangle of his bells would not echo too much in the empty stairwell, and finding the first door locked, made his way through the door to the 31 st floor. Once there, Jake leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily. It was quieter here. Jake prayed that now, free for a moment from the turmoil below him, the jester suit would revert to its business suit appearance and then he could mingle with the executives who no doubt occupied this floor and perhaps slip out unnoticed with some of them. Or at least that's what he hoped until one of the occupants wandered out into the hallway smoking a cigarette.

The man taking the smoke break was wearing a frock. A brown frock with a large-cowled white tunic underneath and sandals. On his head was a bald wig trimmed with hanging hair that made him look like a friar. If not for the Winston Light 100 dangling from his lips. He spotted Jake and stood there a moment, frozen. Jake was in similar straits not knowing what to make of the medieval holy man several feet before him. Then the friar spoke.

"Crap, is it that time already? Sorry, dude. How long have you been waiting out here?"

Jake just moved his mouth, unable to articulate much of anything. "Wuh, er, I, that is—"

"You should have said something", the friar remarked. "Hang on a sec." Then, sticking his head back into the room from whence he came, he hollered, "Fool's here! Let's line up and get it right this time! Everybody armed and ready—double-time, people!"

Jake watched as the hallway filled with men and women all attired in period costume. Men in tights and tunics. Women in long flowing gowns and conical hats trailing sashes. Swords belted on hips, feathered caps, some boys in rags bound around them with leather ropes and straps, barefoot girls in tattered dresses. Finally a mustached man in colorful tights strumming a mandolin. Jake realized where he was.

"The madrigal festival rehearsal", he said to himself. Maybe he would blend in here after all.

The friar was clapping his hands as the throng of medieval cast members crowded the long hallway, men on one side, women on the other. "Okay, folks! This is a run-through for the Fool's Gauntlet. We've got our fill-in for the day, the last stand-in as I recall until Frederick gets back from Florida." To Jake, he said, "You're here from the Jubilee Group, right?" Jake just stood there, uncertain of what was happening. "Well, you're timing's pretty good because we really need work on this one. Nice costume, by the way. Hope it's insured."

Jake was about to speak, to ask what was going on, when the friar shushed him with a frantic hand. "Okay, at this point we've already had the sword fighting demonstration, the maiden's dance, and we want to get the crowd riled up for the big jousting tournament. So we've got them over to the gauntlet, there'll be velvet ropes up and around, we're at places. The Violet Duke speaks."

A man in a bright purple tunic and soft violet tights made his way down the hallway, addressing an imagined crowd of fair-goers, his long dangling feather in his purple cap bobbing this way and that as he spoke.

"Now, in days of olde, my good people, we had to make do with rotten fruits, smelly eggs, and curdled milk, you see."

Jake began to raise his hand, trying to gain the attention of the friar, who apparently also doubled as director or producer. "Sir? Mr. Friar? I think there's been some mistak—" Jake's mouth slammed shut, his lips sealed in a stupid grin. Oh, no. Not again. The tingle returned to his legs and his feet did a quick two-step in place. The suit was once again at the helm and he was just its passenger. One of the little boys, possibly a knight's apprentice or castle paige, unrolled a lengthy tube of clear plastic tarp along the floor, right up to Jake's feet.

"But today!", the Violet Duke declared, "Today we can enliven the mood by availing ourselves of something far more delicious than spoiled vegetables! To arms, my friends and townsfolk!" And on cue, all those in line produced cream pies. Jake sighed, a whimper smothered by his tight-lipped grin. Aw, come on. Weren't the eggs in the face enough??

"And the music starts", the friar said, and the man with the mandolin was joined by two adorable little girls in conical hats playing flutes. Another cast member beside them was setting up some kind of ladder or stand with a rope and bucket atop it, for what purpose Jake could only guess. "And the fool begins his march. Proceed!"

Unable to stop himself, Jake the Jester began a light skipping prance down the hallway. As he had guessed by now, he was about to be battered by pies. And he was right. The small children in the cast were the first to unleash their volley. Moist pies battered Jake in the sides of his head, some of the attempts flopping off his shoulders and sides due to lack of thrusting power behind the small arms doing the throwing.

"That sets up the situation, now we need to see some impact on target", The friar prompted. "Men!"

The men responded. Pies smashed into Jake's face with incredible accuracy and force. Jake could barely see for all the whipped cream and gooey filling covering his face. Unbidden by his own efforts, his suit kept Jake prancing right along, his own disorientation adding to the comedic effect.

"Ladies join in—remember, this is fun for you. Let's hear some titters and laughter!"

And the ladies did join in. They skipped out toward the fool, skirts hiked up to make for easier travel, and bashed the fool with pies to the face, to the sides of his head, atop his cap, and into his chest. Jake staggered and spun, the shrill laughter of the ladies becoming more genuine as they watched his predicament.

"Now let's everyone join in, in turn as he makes his way along", the friar urged. "If he gets off-course, use the pies to push him back in the right direction. Looking good, fool!"

One by one, the large cast of players stepped out or leaned forward and let Jake have it. Bash! to the face. Wham! in the back of his head. Splat! against his chest. Pow! against one side of his head. Smack! to the other. Then Thwack! back against the other side. Jake's eyes and ears were caked with whipped cream, his shoulders poured over with the gloppy coating, his tunic turned white with foam. he could not see at where he was going now, nor what he was doing, but the suit kept him right on going. His flailing arms and stumbling legwork helped to get the rest of the madrigal cast in character. The took Jake to be not a hapless slapstick target but a master of physical comedy. His bells jangled along, adding to the fun, those that weren't so coated with pie stuff that they could still chime.

"Great!", the friar called happily. "That's just great! Now let's really lay it on him!"

The players needed no more prompting. Like a barrage of cannon fire, the cream pies flew at Jake and smacked him from stem to stern. Soon his legs and arms were covered and dripping with whipped cream, and he took on the appearance of a melting ghost or walking marshmallow man. the younger players laughed riotously and add-libbed to their own delight as they raced up behind the fool and planted pies on his bum, across his back, and sandwiched into his head from either side at once.

One particularly mischievous lad of thirteen planted two pies on the floor right before Jake's feet, causing his slippers to step right into them, and sending the fool spinning nearly out of control, arms pin wheeling and legs tripping along like a drunken flamingo. The players roared with laughter and Jake knew that were he not so thoroughly covered in pies he would surely be crying.

"Okay, great job", the friar said, "now let him have everything you've got left for the finale!"

As Jake neared the end of what he was beginning to think was an endless hallway, every player in range let loose with every pie that was on hand. Some only threw one or two pies, but several of the larger male cast members let fly with half a dozen in rapid succession. Jake was devastated under the assault, no longer able to tell which way was up nor even which way the suit wished him to go. He simply found himself battered this way and that, staggering side to side and back and forth as the pies hit him with increasing ferocity. I really am a fool, Jake thought, and this is what fools get.

Dimly, through the haze of goo and smothering of cream, Jake could make out congratulatory remarks from the friar/director and more laughter from the cast. then he felt a firm hand clutch his shoulder and the next thing Jake knew he was spinning.

With no means to stop or catch himself, Jake spun around about three times and then stumbled backwards, landing firmly on his ass, which at this point was so saturated in cream that he barely felt the impact. There was moment of relative peace as no more attacks were unleashed upon him. Slowly, gingerly, Jake began to scrape away the cream from his ears with two fingers, then dug out some of the pie covering his eyes. He could begin to make out what was being said.

"And now that we're at the end of the gauntlet", the voice said—Jake thought it was the friar's—"the littlest boy comes up here, that's it, Jolman, and you pull the rope for the bucket. That's the way!" Rope? Bucket?

Before Jake could process, an entire bucket of pie filling was upended upon his head. Now he knew what the purpose was for the rope and bucket. With a rather moist and disgusting torrent, the bucketful of pie filling covered and buried Jake. Everyone was in fits of helpless laughter. Soon they were high-fiving one another and leaning on one another for support, tears streaming, backs being slapped.

"Now don't break character", the friar warned, "let's try to stay focused! Titters and guffaws, but no one high-fived anyone in this century!" That remark only made the laughter worse. Then the director added, "But seriously, that was far and away the best attempt yet. A great effort on everyone's part. This scene is going to totally kick ass on fair day." And to the defeated Jake he said, "Great job by the fool, too." Everyone applauded Jake appreciatively. "If Frederick can't make it for final dress, we sure know who to call!"

At that moment, two security men burst in through the stairway door. One of the younger players was quick to wave them away from the plastic runner with its slippery coating of spattered whipped cream. The large black man in the security uniform asked, "Any of you see a guy dressed up in a jester costume come through here?"

"Just our own guy", said the friar, gesturing to the cream-coated Jake. Jake gave a weak wave to the two guards, thankful that there was no way they'd ever be able to make out his face under the mile high of pie goop under which he was buried.

"Naw, this guy would've just come from the boardroom. He'd be in a hurry and probably look scared."

"Nobody's been through here", the friar said. "There's no way. Our rehearsal for this scene fills the entire corridor. Nobody could've gotten past without us seeing him."

"Okay, then, back the other way", said the security man, and he and his companion disappeared back down the stairs.

"What say most of us take ten. Those of you who double on props and stage managing, let's tidy up this hallway. Ladies, you may want to gear up for the ballad. And I", and the friar leaned down to help Jake to his feet, "will help our fool get himself cleaned up."

"Fanks", Jake said, his mouth as full of pie cream as the rest of him. He allowed himself to be led to the nearest washroom.

Twenty minutes later, the man in the friar costume was still helping Jake extricate himself from all the whipped cream. Wet towels from the makeup bins littered the floor and both sinks in the men's room were filled to overflowing with washed-away pie filling, and draining slowly. "Man, we really let you have it, didn't we?" Jake only nodded, too weary to speak much.

"Gotta tell you, though, you were by far the best fool we've had. You have a real knack for physical comedy. You perform in street theater, by any chance? They usually have to go kind of overboard to get the attention of the average man on the street."

"Yeah", Jake admitted, "I used to do that. With my boyfriend."

"Well, it shows. You've got the gift." The friar ran a wet towel over the top of Jake's cap. It, like the rest of his suit was now mostly clear of the whipped cream, but was pretty wet from both the ordeal in the gauntlet and the cleanup. Jake's face was still pretty well coated, in the ears, around his eyes, in his eyebrows, even up his nose and under his chin. The friar offered another towel he'd just rung out to try to clean off Jake's face.

"Look", Jake said, growing annoyed, "I think I've pretty much got it from here. You better see to your cast. They probably expected you back almost half an hour ago."

"You sure? You're all set?" Jake waved him away. Please just go already. "Okay, back to the grind. And you did do an awesome job, man." Jake only nodded.

After the director was gone, Jake leaned against the sink and started to cry. This was it. He'd done his tell-off to his business hero, gotten himself fired, and was now on the run. His life was officially over. He mopped away at his face with the wet towel and pried away the last of the whipped cream. The majority of the goop was gone, all he needed to do now was wipe away the powdery residue that the pie filling had left behind.

Jake wiped and washed his face and found that the residual white powder all over his skin did not seem to be going anywhere. He added soap from the nearby dispenser and scrubbed with more vigor, but the white coloring on his face only seemed to grow more solid, more complete. "What the hell?", Jake wondered aloud. "What kind of pies did they use on me?" After several more minutes of active washing, Jake noticed that the skin of his hands was unaffected by the strange whitewash effect that appeared on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He ran a finger down one cheek and his skin felt perfectly dry. No powder left behind on his fingers, no feeling that the whiteness was going to come off. Jake wiped his nose on the back of his hands, sniffed back more tears.

"Now what the hell are you doing to me, suit?"

Before his eyes, Jake watched as whatever the jester suit had taken from the pies made his face a mask of white, like a mime's, though not quite as overstated. His cheeks slowly grew pinker, circles of delicate rouge forming upon his face.

"Perfect", Jake muttered. "Now I can't go out in public even if I do get you the fuck off me." Feeling despondent, Jake walked over to the bathroom's hand dryer and used the air blower to dry off most of the rest of his suit. Soon all the cream and foam was gone from his bells and he was jingling again as he had before. Joy.

Jake wandered out of the bathroom and stood in the hallway a moment, watching the happy madrigal players rehearse. Among their coats and street clothes tossed haphazardly in a pile in a nearby office, Jake helped himself to a black overcoat. If he slipped this on over his jester suit, he might be able to make it home. But no sooner was the top coat upon his shoulders than it flapped about like a thing alive and flew right off of him, returning to its place upon the pile. The suit did not want to be covered up any more than it wanted to be removed.

"Great", Jake sighed. "It's the scene shop cowboy hat all over again."

Jake leaned against the door and absently reached over and picked up what appeared to have been a prop crutch or walking stick for the madrigal players. It had been broken in half and taped back together with masking tape. When Jake's fingers touched it, the broken stick began to spin in his palm and in a glitter of light it transformed into the jester's staff, Jake's own caricatured head upon its hilt.

Slowly, wearily, Jake got to his feet and looked at the staff. "So lead the way", he mumbled, and the staff jerked in his hand, taking the rejected and beaten fool through a side door, down the back stairs and, passing no one along the way, out into the street. Jake had walked, jangling along, the better part of two blocks before he realized that he was out of the building without being apprehended by anyone form security.

Jake stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, dressed as a classic fool, feeling like a contemporary fool. His face was perfectly whited now, like a clown, his cheeks glowed of soft pink rouge. Passersby either gave him sideways glances and snickers or else took extra steps to one side or the other to avoid him entirely. He was indeed an unwelcome buffoon, an object of ridicule, an absolute ass. And he'd done it to himself, he realized. It wouldn't be long before news of a jester street performer wandering the streets would bring DeBaesar's security men chasing after him.

Jake looked own at his curly-toed, belled feet. "Okay. I give in, man. Take me where you want me to—" He stopped, reconsidered his words. "Take me where I need to go."

A tingle ran through Jake's legs and feet, and with a hop and a skip, the jester made his way toward the nearest bus stop. People at the stop moved away from him, a few businessmen making disapproving expressions. One pulled out a newspaper and flipped it open just to hide behind it, creating a barrier between him and the frivolous idiot. Jake danced back and forth in his slippers as the bus pulled up, and he found himself tapping his jester's cane against his hip. He felt it click against what was certainly a handful of bus tokens tucked inside. Jake's eye caught the blinking lights of the nearby bank sign, as it flashed the time, date, and temperature. The date flashed at him in bright red. This was a day that once meant a great deal to him, and here he had nearly forgotten its significance.

Making grand gestures of letting the "normal folk" board first, "Watch thine step, milady. Oh, after you, Milord", Jake the Jester then climbed onto the bus, noting its destination on the front windshield marquee. It would appear this day would again mean something after all.

******

Rochelle Brown had her hands full. It was the day of the big birthday event for her son. It should be an annual event, one would imagine. But seeing as how Rochelle had four sons and two daughters, the extravaganza of overexcited children, include her own as well as hyperactive guests from school and around the neighborhood, engaging in loud and raucous fun while stuffing themselves with sugary treats happened far too often for her tastes.

Rochelle usually had the assistance of her younger brother during these events. And due to his excess of enthusiasm and his usual lack of gainful employment, he was ideally suited to pitch in with gusto and save her much of the headache. But her brother had taken a different in his life lately which made him inaccessible. Rochelle's husband was unable to get away from work and none of the parents of the children in attendance thought to offer a hand. So the full load of shrieking, squealing, and assorted chaotic lunacy was left in her capable—if overloaded—hands.

Though a bit overwhelmed, Rochelle had the presence of mind to put the kids in the back breezeway for the bulk of the festivities. It saved her living room furniture from being decimated by the little ones and also provided easy access to the backyard should the kids get too rowdy to be contained indoors. Even now, as she fussed with the latest amusement in the kitchen, hoping it would divert the ebullient urchins for more than a few moments once she returned with it. All things considered, the party seemed to be going relatively well. It was exhausting for her, but thus far she had been able to keep all the wheels on the ground, so to speak. Or so Rochelle thought until she heard the sudden and extreme cacophony arise from the breezeway.

There in the kitchen, the haggard hostess froze at the sound of the terrible new uproar. Rochelle hurried her way through the kitchen to see what was the cause of all the commotion. She had left her eldest daughter in charge, but that could sometimes be a recipe for disaster when there were more kids than her siblings around, especially if she felt that gave her leave to boss them around. So the overwrought mom had to race back inside to stuff the piñata and hope that in her absence none of the kids killed themselves or each other.

But the outcry was suddenly so overblown that she snatched the piñata from the counter only half-full and raced back to the breezeway to investigate. The thing that had caught her attention was that the noise was so loud. The children really didn't sound as if they were upset or in turmoil, but rather that they were ecstatic. But over what?

Bursting onto the scene, Rochelle discovered that the children were not only not unsupervised, but that they were under the watchful and entertaining eye of an adult. A brightly-clad, clownish adult, but an adult nonetheless. Her first instinct was to rush out and accost him. She had scheduled no professional child's entertainer and her mother's instinct was to protect her little ones from strangers.

But there was something else about him. His back was to her, but she could see the children gathered around him in a cluster of glee. He stood tall, a man of confidence and purpose despite, or perhaps because of, his gaudy costume. Whoever he was, he clearly had some experience with children, as they had all been seated around him so that they all had a good view, but were just far enough way from him that they could not be injured or frightened by his antics. He did not exude the presence of someone who intended harm to the children.

The jester, for it was clear that's what he was, held before him a cane or stick of some kind, with a little jester head on one end of it. Dangling from either end of the stick was a slender but strong rope, connected to a small board which served as a swing. Seated proudly upon the little swing was none other than the birthday boy. Whoever this jester was, he certainly had good arm muscles. Rochelle couldn't make out all that he was saying, this jester, but he appeared to be speaking loftily, one hand waving over the birthday boy, dubbing him the boy of the hour.

Then the daughter left in charge saw her mommy. "Mom! Come see!!"

Rochelle moved closer to the open breezeway, and the jester turned at the waist, his arm holding up her son never wavering, and flashed the most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

"Well, hello, milady. We were all indeed wondering when thou mightest join us."

Rochelle's face lit up. "Jake!"

From the swing, her little boy cried out happily, "Mom! He night-id me! I'm the uffishul Sir Michael of Birth Day!"

Jake swung his nephew up on the swing and caught him easily in his arms. "Behold all, Sir Michael of Birthday!" All the kids applauded and whooped and the little lad in his arms was in his glory.

"Piñata!", shrieked Rochelle's other daughter.

"Not just yet, honey. Mommy's not done filling it. But real soon, okay?" The little girl sat back down trying to be patient, but the strained anticipation was clear on her face.

"But a moment, little ones! Jester Jake must help this fair maiden with her noble piñata stuffing!" Grabbing up his cane and twirling it quickly as would a drum major, Jake used it to point to his eldest niece. "Ho! Thou art in charge until we do return! Dost thou agree to keep well this most sacred station until we return to the festivities in naught but a couple minutes or thereabouts?"

His niece saluted him. "I dost!"

"Yea, carry on."

Jake accompanied his sister back into the kitchen where he gave her his traditional greeting. "Hiya, sis."

Letting the papier mache donkey flop down on the counter amid the clutter of loose candy, Rochelle threw her arms around her brother. "Oh, Jake! I didn't think you were going to make it! I haven't heard from you in ages--I mean, why didn't you tell me if you were coming?"

Jake blinked, unsure of what to say. "Um, I sent a card..."

"We never got it! It must have gotten lost in the mail or something."

"Orrr...", Jake said, reaching for an explanation, "someone brought in the mail and after using the card as a reading lesson left it somewhere never to be seen again."

Rochelle pulled away from her brother but left her arms draped around his neck. "Bobby."

"Bobby", Jake agreed. Then, as if as an afterthought, Jake added, "He probably doesn't even remember doing it, so I wouldn't be too hard on him..."

"Oh, I don't care about that! I'm just so happy to see you!" She hugged him again, then stepped away before she might become teary-eyed. "So, how's the whole big business thing coming along?" She tried to sound supportive, but was uncomfortable with how Jake's new pursuit of the almighty dollar had changed him.

"That didn't work out."

Rochelle looked happier. "Really? I mean, I'm sorry--I know how important it was to you." Jake shrugged. "To tell the truth, I always preferred you this way."

Jake turned to the piñata on the counter, picking up candies to drop in. "Yeah. As the clown."

Rochelle rested a hand on his shoulder. "No. As the hero."

Jake looked back at her. He'd been called a lot of things in the last few days, but that... "Yeah?"

"Definitely." Rochelle looked him over. "And where did you get this new costume? It's incredible! It's better than anything I've ever seen you in." She ran a gentle finger lightly across his parched white face. "Although this is different."

Jake smiled genuinely, his rouged cheeks warming at the compliments. "Yeah, that part just sort of happened, kind of. But I thought I'd stick with it for now."

Rochelle gave his face a loving squeeze. "It's just good to see your face, clown whitened or otherwise."

Now Jake felt in danger of becoming teary-eyed. He held up the now-heavy donkey. "What say we go beat the hell out of a piñata?"

The rest of the birthday party was an unqualified success. Jake was able to amuse the children with ease and zest, his tired old jokes seeming fresh and new to the little ones. He warned the kids in an eerie voice of the man-eating tiger that was soon to walk among them, then marched about pretending to chew on Bobby's stuffed Tigger. He created balloon animals for everyone, with creatures ranging from giraffes to French poodles to lions to dachshunds. Some of the boys in attendance were eager to hunt down their balloon animals with rubber bands in a makeshift safari. As inflated lions and tigers popped, the girls giggled while shielding their own blow-up creatures with their arms. Jester Jake juggled everything that wasn't nailed down and shared fast-paced lowbrow humor that was to all present the height of comedic sophistication.

"Hey, Michael! Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Interrupting cow."

"Int'ruptin cow wh—"

"MOO! MMOOO!"

The next couple hours went by far too fast for everyone, and before long, parents were stopping by to collect the young guests, all of whom barraged their folks with gushing recounts and rave reviews of the festivities. Before long it was just Jake, Rochelle, and the six nieces and nephews. Rochelle left her eldest in charge again so she could spend a little time with her baby brother the King of Fools.

"I am so happy you were able to make it, Jake."

"Yeah, you looked like you had your hands full for a while there."

"Oh, it's not that. I could have handled the legion of little ones. Mind you, I wouldn't have been particularly thrilled about it, but..." She looked into Jake's eyes, saying, "You put on quite the performance. And made quite the impression." She nodded toward the living room, where Michael and Bobby were doing their level best to recreate Jake's balloon animals with what was left over from the bag of balloons. His niece was waltzing about trying to speak in fancy Elizabethan phrases. One of his other nephews was pretending to eat the stuffed tiger, much to his brother's delight.

Jake paused then, looking at his sister who, though frazzled by all the activity, looked more peaceful than he'd seen her in a long time. "Sis, you remember my first foray into theater?"

Rochelle smiled. "Have I forgotten your nickname?"

Back when Jake was only 9, his elementary school music teacher recommended him for a civic theater production, the director of which telephoned their house and asked Jake to join them in their summer musical. Jake was too young, too inexperienced, to know what all that meant. He said he'd call them back, after he'd spoken with his sister. His sister Rochelle, who was his biggest fan after his mother. She'd know what he should do. His mom got Rochelle on the phone at her ballet class and Jake told her of the strange offer from unknown grownups. His sister's answer was quick and to the point. It was also three words he'd never forget.

"Do it, fool."

And so he did. Jake joined the summer repertory and made his big stage debut as one of the little lost boys in the musical production of Peter Pan. Jake was Toodles. From that production onward, Rochelle had always referred to her brother, privately, as Toodles.

"So does all this mean that you've gone back to working in the theater with Casey?", she asked him, bringing Jake's mind back to the present. Her voice had the hopeful twinge that indicated she was wishing that Jake was doing more than just working with Casey again.

Jake almost spoke the whole truth, but his mind quickly edited the words before they left his lips. "As a matter of fact, I just talked to him about our personal goals only the other day."

"Oh Jake, I'm so happy for you!" She hugged him again.

Jake smiled, the warmth of their connection, both familial and emotional, making his cheeks grow redder beneath their rouge. "Now, Sis, don't go rushing into any ideas just yet. Things are still rocky between us, and I...I've made some bad decisions and said...", he swallowed, started again, "...I've said some things I can never take back."

Rochelle looked into his eyes. "I have no doubt that if you ask him, he'll take you back."

Jake had no response. He just hoped she was right. He looked down at his feet, shuffling his feet slightly, his bells eliciting soft jingles. From behind them, the birthday chaos was starting again, the eldest niece's authority apparently having reached and passed it's zenith.

"Mooomm!"

"The window of opportunity is closing", Jake grinned. "They need you back."

"And they're glad to have you back, hero", she smiled, and gave him a peck on the cheek, sharing her own traditional farewell comment reserved exclusively for him.

"Toodles, Toodles."

Jake stood on the front porch for a little while after the door had closed, absorbing the moment. Then he turned to depart. He was of course still clad in full jester costume, white face, rouged cheeks. He had no car, no means to get home unseen. He'd have to hoof it. He wasn't certain that he really cared. He knew that if he were seen, in this neighborhood at least, that all those who knew him and his family would simply assume he had come from a party of some sort. He recalled the time he waltzed down the sidewalk dressed in a polka dot yellow clown jumper with giant inflatable shoes only to have old Mrs. Tressel, hardly looking up from her gardening, ask, "Whose birthday was it this time, dear?"

Jake started down the driveway, and something felt strange to him. It wasn't the suit—which at this point was quite literally a part of him—but something seemed to be rubbing against his upper leg beneath his tunic. It felt like cardboard, which was being pressed to him by his tunic belt. Jake reached up under his costume, trying not to look as if he were up to anything unsavory, and pulled out a small white card with some writing on it. It was a postcard. But not just any postcard. It was addressed to his sister, care of this residence. Jake read:

Sis,

Will not attend Michael's

birthday party. Business.

Signed, Jake

The message was as terse as it was harsh. He regretted ever having sent it and silently thanked whatever wizardry had pulled it from the postal delivery and brought it to his new magical costume. He turned the plain card over and saw that it had been through the delivery system, it's stamp already postmarked with a date from over a week before.

Jake tore the card into bits and tossed it into a neighbor's garbage can as he passed.

******

It was no surprise to Jake that, after two bus rides and a long walk, that the suit would take him here. He was downtown, on the outdoor mall, surrounded for three blocks on either side by shops and business fronts. The walkways within the mall were old-fashioned brick, and the area was peppered with wooden benches, small platforms (usually used for holiday displays when the proper seasons came), and in the center, a large fountain. Due to the popular eateries and shops, to say nothing of some of the more prominent small businesses and the radio station located in one of the taller buildings overlooking the mall, this area of downtown was always packed with shoppers, business people, and a variety of passersby, regardless the time of day. Although at lunch hour it was more packed than usual. Today was no different. And because of its high-volume traffic, this was where Jake's ex-boyfriend Casey invariably brought his students to educate them in the time-honored art of street performing. And sure enough, there he was.

Casey stood at the foot of the large fountain, doing his level best to amuse those walking around him, most of whom were ignoring him completely. Casey was attired in a colorful, if faded, fool's costume with a loose-fitting tunic of gold and royal blue, split down the middle with one color on each side. The tunic sported oversized draping sleeves with those same colors reversed. A pattern of diamonds ran down one side of the tunic, from his chest to his hips. Red tights covered his legs and red curled slippers were on his feet. A red rope belt (formerly a curtain tie) kept the tunic from flitting out of control with the change of the wind. Atop Casey's head was a makeshift jester's cap. It appeared more like a ski cap, with its multiple dangles protruding from all angles, its miniature display of bells so small the noise they made was inaudible in the din of the many mall walkers.

Seated at Casey's feet were five students, fours boys and one girl, all watching attentively to learn from Casey's crowd pleasing performance technique which at present was neither pleasing anyone nor drawing a crowd. Casey was good, there was no doubt of that, as he juggled and danced about, tossing the odd greeting to those who walked by, but no one would take the time to pause in their daily routine to appreciate him.

From his vantage point at the head of the mall, Jake could see Casey's desperate performance and he knew what the suit wanted him to do. Deliberately, the suit began to walk—to march—Jake down toward the young teacher in order to join his on-the-street routine. Jake was still far enough away that he might not be seen by his former lover, but with his costume's brilliant colors and jingling bells, that would be only a momentary thing. Jake felt a tremendous pang of guilt for how he'd treated his boyfriend before, how he'd disrespected and insulted him in front of his students, and as much as he wanted to let the suit make him join Casey, Jake felt he couldn't allow it. That he hadn't earned the right to be at his side again. With a supreme effort of will, Jake did something he thought impossible, after all that had happened to him thus far. He wrested control away from the suit and ducked around a corner off the main walkway of the mall.

"I can't, I can't do it. Please don't make me do it", he whispered to the suit, or to himself, the distinction at this point being nearly the same. Humiliating himself before strangers, before the businessmen, was one thing, but to do so in front of someone he truly cared about, whom he had wronged so intentionally, was too much.

I'm not worthy to perform beside Casey again, Jake thought.

Without willing it to, Jake's right arm shot out and starting rooting around in a nearby open trash can. In short order, he pulled out a cardboard cup from a nearby burger joint, the remnants of a vanilla shake sloshing about inside. With his thumb, he popped off the plastic lid, then his fingers gripped the cup itself, the muscles in his arm bracing. "Aw, no", Jake said, exasperated. "Weren't the pies enough? Do we have to do thi—"

SPLORSH! Before Jake could say another word, he had splatted himself full in the face with the gunky shake, finding there was a lot more left I the cup than he'd thought. Jake tossed the cup back into the trash, sputtering. "Pfaugh! What the fuck was that for? Am I not humiliated enough? Have I not been made to feel like a complete and total fool already? Do I have to walk up to Casey like this now? When does this shit—" Jake stopped as he felt something odd, almost indescribably, happening upon his face. "—end?"

The shake, or the spattering of it that coated Jake's face, began to coalesce and harden. The chunky, wet confection grew smooth and polished, covering Jake's face perfectly, transforming from the aftereffects of a moment of slapstick to a clean white porcelain mask. Jake's fingers flew to his face. He touched the mask that covered his face. It didn't hurt, it was no longer sticky or wet. "What the hell--?" Jake traced the edges of the mask and could find no ribbon or band that held it upon his head, but there it stayed, almost as if it had been glued there.

Before Jake could fully process what had just happened, he could feel the tights on the back of his legs pushing him forward, like an eager child pushing along its parent to move forward toward some anticipated treat. Jake moved forward, coming out from his hiding place around the corner and stopped before a shop window. He saw his reflection there in the glass. The mask he now wore was like a classic theatrical mask, its white surface smooth like ivory, with only a light pink rogue on the cheeks, red upon the lips, a hint of blue around the eyes. Again, Jake touched the mask, taken aback at how completely he now looked like some old-world jester. And he no longer resembled Jake Quinely in any way, unless he spoke. And he did speak, in a hushed tone, to his jester suit.

"You did this for me? So Casey wouldn't know it was me?"

The staff in Jake's hand pulled forward again, tugging its holder in the direction of the mall's fountain. Jake squared his shoulders.

"Okay, let's do this thing."

Casey was doing very poorly at holding anyone's attention. His students looked uncomfortable as their teacher did his level best to amuse and divert the various people about, but no one could be bothered to stop long enough for Casey to do anything of any real interest. That was about to change. A new street performer came cart wheeling along behind Casey. This one was clad in a dazzling jester's costume with a concealing porcelain face mask. He hopped up alongside the blond actor and struck a pose of puzzlement, with hands on hips and head titled to the side. Casey wasn't sure what to make of him at first. The students sitting nearby sat up straighter, feeling a strong interest in what was unfolding.

"Uh, hey", Casey said, a bit flustered. "What's going on, man? You working the mall too?"

The masked jester waved his hand at the people walking by. Casey looked around too, uncertain what was being asked of him. Then the masked man pointed at the passing crowd with his staff (cool staff, Casey thought). "Yeah, that'd be my audience", Casey said. "In theory." The masked man then pantomimed an exaggerated walk in front of Casey, acting as though he couldn't see the costumed street actor. He then spun on his heel and held out his palm like a traffic cop, indicating someone should stop. Halt!

"Yeah!", Casey agreed with his mute companion. "Nobody's stopping to watch. Guess I'm just not interesting enough." Then, moving in close to the miming jester, he added, "You know, I used to be part of a duo."

The masked jester clapped his hands together and lobbed his staff over to one of the students who barely caught it. The masked man then held his hands before Casey, palms facing him, fingers curled inward.

"Let's do it", Casey said.

SWAP! Their hands clapped together, palms pressed tight, fingers clutching each other's hands. "Hup!", Casey said, and on cue, he bent down and stepped backwards, raising the masked jester up into the air over his head. Suddenly they formed a twelve-foot human tower, with Casey's powerful arms extended above his head, and the masked jester, his body stiff and straight, balancing in a handstand within Casey's palms. The people who had been passing by without giving the performer a second glance suddenly slowed. A few began to murmur in appreciation, their pace slowing.

Casey's face showed the strain of their stunt on his muscles, but he forced a smile and said to his mystery guest, "Go ahead. Splits."

That was all he needed. The masked man spread his legs out to his sides in a half spread-eagle. People stopped walking, started looking. Casey's arms began to waver, to tremble a bit, but he held fast and the masked jester kept his position flawlessly.

"On three", Casey said, and the masked jester nodded. "One...two...three!" And with a push from Casey, the masked jester flipped out of his grasp, somersaulted once, and landed lithely on the brick walkway behind the actor. A small cluster of people applauded. Then they began to walk away again.

"Dudes! Don't lose 'em!", called one of the students. "Double Dragon!"

It was a cue to an old movie, but one which the two jesters evidently remembered. Casey lunged forward with one hand in a fist, the other an open palm. the masked man responded in kind, with his fist and palm hands reversed. Casey's fist found the masked man's open palm and vice versa. Then the two grabbed each other's wrists and in a series of remarkable spins, one would grab his partner and send him flying with feet spread out wide, only to land firmly and then lift his partner the same way the moment his feet hit the ground. One up, one down, rapid-fire, the duo flipped-lifted a wide circle before the fountain. Those who had intended to depart had second thoughts. Others stopped in their own foot travels to investigate what was happening.

After the two broke their hold on each other, the masked jester extended his hand to one of the students, who picked upon the cue and tossed him back his staff. Like a drum major touched by lightning, the masked jester spun his staff and tossed it, caught it, held it in his hands and leapt over it and back again. He tossed it toward the pavement, caught it with his foot, sent it skyward and caught it again after twirling himself in a series of fast pirouettes, his bells jingling like a titling pinball machine.

Casey made good use of the distraction and did a cartwheel and drop-roll over to his prop chest, which he kicked open and gracefully extracted two sets of juggling pins. The sidewalks surrounding their performance area was getting clogged with passersby who had stopped passing by. The masked man tossed the staff back to the students and bounded over to the edge of the fountain. Casey took his place several feet opposite. In short order the two had the juggling pins flying and spinning back and forth between them. People were edging together, members of the newly-gathered audience all anxious to get a good view.

The two jugglers added flair and dash to their feats, as each one started going out of his way to toss a stray pin wide, or fake a throw altogether then toss a pin wide. The watching crowds laughed. The teasing under way, the two jesters then started their attempts to show each other up. Casey kept one set of pins going with one hand while he tossed others back with the other. The masked jester did a one-handed handstand and still kept his pins in the air, going back and forth. Onlookers cheered and whistled, calling out challenges as the jesters seemed to be tapped out in the department of showy tricks.

They were just getting started.

******

The car pulled up to the Frizzell Auditorium and Henry Farnsworth gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek. "I now all that talk with young Jacob gave you quite a feeling of nostalgia, dear, but is it necessary to pop in to the theater just now? Surely when Asner's bid is confirmed, there'll be more than enough times to visit."

"I promise I won't be long, Maggie darling", the portly man smiled. "Just someone here I'd like to peek in on. Before all the fuss and bother when Asner takes over. A quick hello. See you tonight." To the driver, he said, "Off you go then, lad. Take my dear lady back and no doubt I'll just send for a cab when I'm done here." He was out of the car and approaching the theater before either could protest.

The theater was very much as Henry Farnsworth remembered it, with a few differences. They were either new additions or elements Henry had forgotten with time, he wasn't sure which. He made his way down the backstage hallway, barely noticing the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He knew where he wanted to go, and had no need to linger upon his own reflection. He'd already seen it, of sorts, the night before. Henry found his way out onto the stage and stood looking out upon the empty house, noting the dim lights back and above in the control booth.

"Struthers!", Henry called. "I know you're there, old friend. You're aren't puttering around down here, and that's the place you most often go when you're trying to avoid someone. I would suggest you come down here and greet me. We've much to discuss, you and I."

Nothing.

"It involves the suit, Struthers. And the fine young man whom you've stuck in it."

Silence.

"If you do not come down and face me, perhaps I will seek out young Jake and compare stories with him. The crux of mine being how to get out of that cursed garb. I'm sure he'd find it most fascinating."

There was another heartbeat of dead air, then Struthers' voice echoed over the house speakers from the lighting booth.

"Meet me in my office."

Henry paced slowly about Struthers' cluttered office, taking in its disarray with some disapproval. "My God, man, do you ever clean down here?"

"You didn't seem to mind the state of it when you were performing here."

"There was a lot I didn't mind back then", Henry conceded. "one of the prerogatives of youth I daresay." A pause, then, "So is the ability to make one's own decisions." Henry turned away from his examination of the office and looked at Struthers. "I knew there was something different about Jake when I first met him. I thought it was simply our shared passion for theater, for performing. Until I saw him transformed at the banquet. I didn't realize you still had the suit, Struthers. Much less were subjecting young men to it by making them wear it."

Struthers held up a defensive hand. "He took the suit of his own accord."

"No doubt. What did it look like when he took it? The latest fashion, a tuxedo?" Henry's eyes sparkled, the light dawning. "Ah. The business suit. He was in it while we spoke that first time. Had I realized it then I would have insisted he wear something else to the banquet. As it was, he made quite a fool of himself."

"I'd say he was doing a pretty fine job of that already."

"And you made him into your performing puppet to make sure he saw that, of course."

"Now, Henry. The suit still works on the same principal it always did. It simply responds to what's deep in the wearer's heart, whether or not he'll recognize it right off."

"Or whether or not he's ready for it", Henry scowled. "When you did it to me, all those years ago, we were much closer to the same age. That was different. It was like, oh I don't know, a friend—"

"A buddy."

"A buddy, then, if you prefer that term. A buddy helping out his friend. Or fellow buddy. But this, with Jacob Quinely so young, so unprepared, it seems so much more like abuse somehow."

"Would you want him to end up like DeBaesar? 'Cause that's where he was headed."

"Perish forbid. No one should end up like Asner DeBaesar."

"Well, there you go. I understand you're still profiting from your tour as the court fool, Henry. How long have you and Maggie been together now?"

"Nigh on forty years." Henry smiled. "I can still see here there, so young, so shy, shaking like a paint mixer with laughter as she looked down at me, my ass flat on the floor, covered head to toe in banana cream pies. I felt so humiliated."

"And she fell in love", Struthers added.

"Not at that precise moment, I would hope", Henry said, his thoughts fading into memories, looking about the office again, but not at its filth but at the photos, the posters, the pinup recollections. "So many memories..." Running his fingers across the surface of the countless photos, perhaps in attempt to pick up on some of the old magic they held, Henry commented, "I can still hear the bells from it, you know. The jester suit." Struthers looked at him, a bit alarmed. "Oh, not all the time, mind you. Only just now. When I met Jacob. Being in close proximity to him. I suppose that my own past connection to it made me somewhat attuned to its current host. That was what finally tipped me off. Even before the banquet debacle."

"Yeah. Heard about that on the news. Brought in some big bucks by it. Maybe the kid'll get a promotion."

Henry scoffed. "Huh! Not knowing Asner, he won't." Then, pondering the potential danger Jake could be in following that episode, Henry turned back to Struthers. "Where do you suppose he is now? Where might the suit be taking him?"

"If I know Jake, it's taking him back to his one true love, too. Someone also of the theater."

On a hunch, Henry guessed, "This theater?"

"That's where it all began for those two, yeah." Struthers looked around his precious office, sighing. "But the Frizzell is about to undergo a change, that's for sure. We may not see a lot of true backstage love stories after that. DeBaesar's company already has it's bid in."

Henry raised one eyebrow. "And who else has a bid in?"

******

By now the performance on the outdoor mall had degenerated to antics, much to the crowd's delight. And there was a crowd no, happy onlookers who seemed to have either forgotten their hurried schedules or perhaps no longer found them quite as urgent. Casey had called for his students to start tossing extra juggling pins into the mix as he and the masked jester already tossed the two sets back and forth. Before long, the air was alive with more than a dozen pins, the two performers laughing as much or more than their audience.

The massive juggling gave way to plate spinning, poles and plates taken from Casey's prop bag. Once all the plates were whirling in the air, then began a battle of taunts and teases as each jester tried in turn to knock his fellow actor's plates to the ground while keeping his own on the spin.

The number one crowd pleaser had nothing to do with acrobatics, tumbling, or juggling. It involved a red tie-on cape, no more than waist length, that Casey first donned and began to march around in, appearing the majestic regent (or at least trying to be). The masked jester then sneaked up behind Casey and yanked away the cape, to don it himself. As he made his own march, waving his staff like a royal scepter, Casey stole back the cape for his own use. Thus went the chase, as each jester had the cape for a moment, only for the other to steal it back and claim it as his own. Rather than leaving this horseplay as a dull game of keep-away, each jester would dance and bound about with increasing grace and skill each time he regained the cape. Before long, the duo was engaged in a remarkable duet of dancing feet and gymnastic moves executed with military precision, all propelled by the fight over who would get the cape. At the end of the routine, the cape wound up atop a street lamp, the duo slumped back-to-back, arms crossed in frustration, as they plopped down to sit upon the pavement, defeated.

The crowd went wild. They were so delighted and amused, they started pulling money from their wallets, looking for the receptacle into which they should place their fee for watching the grand performance. A few approached the students, recognizing that they were connected to the exhibit. "Hey, kid, where do we put this?", a man said, waving a twenty dollar bill. Another was jabbing a couple fives at another student. "Great job you guys are doing."

"Um, this is pretty much just a lesson for class", said one of the boys, uncertain what to do with the money being stuffed into his fists.

One of the girls from Casey's class pulled a top hat from the prop bag and began passing it around. It was very quickly filled with bills from happy customers. Being quick studies, the students soon took on the role of hospitality liaisons and thanked the good people for their generous support. The masked jester, breathing hard but feeling invigorated, took that opportunity to make his escape. But as he started to push through the crowd in the hopes of moving up the mall, he was stopped by one word.

"Jake!"

Jake turned, seeing Casey hot on his heels. He stood before his boyfriend, also breathing hard, but more than invigorated, he looked hopeful. A few people grabbed Casey by the arms and shoulders, congratulating him on his and his masked friend's performance. Casey thanked them courteously, encouraging them to share their appreciation with the students who were collecting money, as it was "their learning experience." Soon, the two jesters were relatively alone, despite the push of people nearby.

The masked jester remained silent, looking at the love of his life, uncertain what to say or do.

Casey spoke instead. "Don't try to pretend it's not you, Jake. Nobody else could perform like that. Not with me. Not so much in synch. Like we shared the same brain." He let out a deep breath. "The same heart."

Jake felt the porcelain theater mask slip on his face, whatever magic that held it in place having worn off or faded away with the perspiration of his efforts. Before it could fall to the ground, Jake reached up and removed it easily.

"I'm sorry, Casey."

"For what? It's not like you screwed up back there. Good show, man." He grinned.

"You know what I mean. I was so shitty to you. I didn't mean to be. I mean, I know now I shouldn't have been, I mean..." Jake looked at the ground, actually thankful that his whitened face hid the fact that he was blushing beet red with embarrassment, with regret. Then, looking his lover in the eye, he asked, "You really knew it was me? Did you always know?"

"Well", Casey admitted, "your suit is the same one you had on when you saw me shopping with the kids. There can't be too many like it." Jake nodded, feeling foolish for having not considered it. "That, and—", Casey reached over and held up the jester's staff still in Jake's hand. He indicated the head. "Good likeness. You didn't have this the other day. Nice touch."

"I thought I knew what I wanted", Jake said. "Maybe what I really wanted—" He stopped short of saying 'what I wanted was you', because he knew that would be a lie. He had wanted success, he had wanted money, and to deny that mistake to his boyfriend's—his ex-boyfriend's face—would be no better than having left him in the first place to pursue a fortune in business. Jake turned and started to leave. "I am just so sorry, man."

Casey called after him. "Jake, wait! If you really do want to make amends, stay with me." Jake stopped walking. "Stay here, right now. Perform with me for the rest of the day."

Jake felt a tingle wash over him, from head to toe. His bells jingled from his cap to his toes, then the musical chimes fell dull and flat, as normal costume bells often do. In the distance, Jake could hear the haunting mandolin music fade away and disappear. He was himself again, he knew. He was still dressed in a jester suit, granted, but his body was once again his to control entirely. He turned around and looked at Casey.

******

Struthers hung up the phone. "Didn't know your own company put in a bid."

Henry smiled. "No doubt it's nowhere near what Asner is offering."

"Still, I'd rather have you at the helm than him", Struthers said. "And I still have a bit of pull with the right people who can understand the benefit of long-range planning as opposed to immediate bank account bulging."

"And what would that long-range plan be, pray tell?", Henry laughed. "I certainly couldn't bring in huge theatrical productions like the stage versions of million-grossing animated feature films. What would be the return on this investment, if such a word can be used to define the accepting of a smaller bid."

Struthers got up and began to pace himself. "I was thinking of using the Frizzell as a teaching theater. Bringing in new blood to the world of the stage, nurturing the next generations and all that. Of course, you'd need a good man in charge, someone who can act, someone who can teach, someone who's good with kids, someone with passion for performing..."

"Someone like Jake", Henry grinned. Then, "He clearly knows nothing of the business aspect. He'd bury the Frizzell inside its first year."

"Not if the one who bought the theater had already conquered all that business stuff and could take the reins for that end of things." Struthers gave Henry's arm a pat. "Unless you're too concerned about that and would prefer to leave this place in the hands of DeBaesar's corporate nabobs."

Henry Farnsworth shuddered, looking away. His eyes fell upon the photo of Struthers and his dear Clarissa of long ago. "Even better if Jake had someone he loved to share all this worth, to help keep him on the right track."

"He has someone", Struthers announced.

Henry's face lit up. "A nice girl?"

Struthers plucked the old photo from his wall and handed it to Henry. "A nice boy."

Henry looked at the photo of the two gleeful teenagers in their clown suits, laughing for the camera. "Egad. He's a...homosexual?" Henry tossed the photo down upon the craggy desk. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that."

"Oh, come on!", Struthers said. "This is the theater. You've worked with your share of these fine people. What difference does it make?"

"But when I think back—my Margaret and me, how we loved each other, the adventures we had, are still having..."

"These two fellas love each other just as much, maybe more than you and Maggie."

Henry sighed. The times were indeed a'changing. "Mind you, if we go through with this, the Frizzell will need the best possible man in place here."

Struthers held up the clown photo again. "Or the best men."

******

By the time Jake and Casey completed their act late that afternoon, the mall was so packed with people watching that it was impossible to pass on either side. Those wanting to cross from one end of the strip to the other had to go around the block. Few who had made their way straight through could make it, simply because once they reached the performing jesters, they stopped to watch them, too. Their finale was a thing to see, with twirls and flips, balloons filling the area, laughter infecting everyone present.

As they took their bows, Casey and Jake basked in the glory of a well-received show. Their students who were not up collecting money to be donated to the children's theater program were filling their notebooks with observations and recollections. Hands clasped together, Casey and Jake bowed again and again, waiting for the applause to subside. It never did. Casey turned and looked at his lover. Jake looked back at him, smiling. Unable to wait until a more discreet moment, Casey took Jake by the head and kissed him. While a handful of people watching groaned and walked away, the majority of the onlookers kept right on cheering and applauding. When they broke off their kiss, Jake was crying.

"Couldn't help myself", Casey admitted. "Hey, you got yourself all clown-faced here, nobody can tell who you are, it's cool", he teased. Jake kept smiling, but the tears kept coming as well. To think of what he almost threw away...

Casey reached into the prop bag and pulled out some trick scarves, the closets thing he had to a handkerchief, and began to wipe away his lover's tears. As he did so, the white face paint came away with them.

"Sorry. Didn't realize your makeup could come off so easily."

"Neither did I. It's cool, though. Something tells me I won't be needing it anymore."

After crowds had dispersed and students carried off the props, Casey had a moment alone with his former boyfriend. Casey was pulling a sweatshirt on over his character tunic. He'd already yanked a pair of snap-up workout pants over his red tights, his slippers replaced with worn cross trainers.

"You must be freezing in that lightweight frock-thingie", Casey said. "Here, you can get this back to me whenever." Casey draped his zip-front hoodie around Jake's shoulders. Remembering what happened to the overcoat outside the madrigal rehearsal room, Jake braced himself for the hoodie to be repelled by the magic jester suit.

"No, really, that's okay. You don't have to—" But the hoodie rested comfortably upon his shoulders and he started to feel a bit warmer for having it on. Nothing else happened. "Um, okay. Yeah, alright. I'll get it back to you later."

"No rush."

"Well, um. Goodbye, Case." Jake gave his fellow jester a peck on the cheek and started to walk back toward the bus stop a few blocks away. He was already silently hoping that whatever token-producing charm had granted him passage before when Casey called to him.

"Jacob! Was this team-up just now the start of a reunion tour, or was it your farewell performance?"

Jake turned back around slowly to face the man he loved. Casey looked back expectantly, seeing Jake Quinely staring back, his expression somewhere between happiness and sorrow, but with longing in his eyes.

******

Jake remembered very little of how he'd gotten home. His head was still filled with the rosy memories of his time spent on the outdoor mall with the man he loved. Both of them dressed as fools, behaving like idiots, feeling like kings.

Jake stood before the full-length mirror in his bedroom and slowly, deliberately, reached up and took hold of his fool's cap. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, as if he were yanking off a band-aid, Jake pulled at the cap. It came off easily, as if it were nothing more than a theatrical costume, which he supposed was now all that it was. Jake smiled, feeling suddenly giddy, about to laugh. He leaned forward, seeing his moist, matted hair held tight to his skull from the compression of being under the cap, set there with perspiration.

"Jeez, my hair looks terrible", Jake observed. With that, he lost it. He fell backwards, laughing hysterically, his bells jangling dully. It felt good to laugh.

******

Jake walked down the backstage hallway of the Frizzell, back to see his old pal Geezer. yes, he could once again think of the old man as his pal, his friend. Jake was dressed in baggy jeans and tennis shoes. Casey's hoodie was draped over a T-shirt. It was a show shirt from when he had worked on the program Butterflies Are Free. Jake thought the selection apt. Jake found Struthers busying himself backstage, out in the open, arranging a variety of objects and items, for what purpose Jake could not decipher.

"Half expected you to be hiding up in the lighting booth, Geez."

"Nope. Too much to do."

"And what are you doing, exactly?", Jake asked.

"Gifts and suck-upisms", Geezer smirked. "Got roses to send off to one person, congratulatory commemorative props to send to another. Some of this stuff is just to stroke certain influential folks the right way in the hopes that they'll pitch in however somewhere down the line. Show's are expensive to produce and all that." He looked up at Jake. "Theater's bein' sold, you know."

"Ah." Jake just stood watching Struthers fuss about, waiting for him to notice how Jake was dressed, or more importantly how he wasn't. The jester suit was slung over Jake's right arm. Struthers had noticed. He just hadn't said anything about it yet.

"Help me with this little angel statue, would ya, kid?"

Jake stepped forward, but he didn't offer a hand with the small statue that looked like it belonged on a headstone. Instead he extended his arm with the jester suit upon it to his old mentor.

"It just turned back into a regular theatrical costume once I got home. Maybe before that, even. I was able to just take it right off." He set the suit down, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. "I guess you want it back." He looked at the old man and let out a slow breath. "Do you know why it suddenly came off?"

"I'd imagine because it did what it needed to do. It's work was done." Struthers gave the angel statue a small push, decided to leave it for now. "And I imagine you already know that." Struthers gathered up a showy arrangement of red roses, placed them nearby another set of yellows. "I suppose you'd like to haul off an' slug me a good one now, wouldn't ya?"

Jake shrugged. "Not really. Not anymore. Had you asked me that a couple days ago..."

"I caught your previous visit", Geezer smirked. "Your voice carries."

Jake offered a weak smile, wiggling his eyebrows a bit. He looked around the old performance house, and remarked, "It's a shame the theater will go to hell when DeBaesar gets his claws into it."

"And here you were once the frontrunner of that particular takeover, not long ago."

Jake looked at his shoes. "Don't remind me."

"I wouldn't worry about it", Geezer said, his voice calm and soothing despite its naturally gravelly edge. "There were lots of bids for this place, after all."

"Lots?"

"A few, then. Word is another bid was accepted, anyhow."

Jake's face lit up. "What, really?"

"Not as big a bid as our friend Asner DeBaesar put forth, but in many ways more promising, I'd say."

"How's that?", Jake asked, curious.

"I got something for you", Geezer said, changing the subject.

"Will it usurp my will and make me a helpless jester puppet to see the error of my ways?"

"Nobody usurped your damn will, Jacob." Jake held up a finger, about to argue. "You're the one who just said you saw the error of your ways." Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and chewed his lips,. He knew he wasn't going to win this argument. Geezer Struthers beckoned with one finger for Jake Quinely to follow him. He led the young man into the costume shop.

There laid out upon a pair of wooden set cubes were two suits. One was a very snazzy business suit, of contemporary design, brand-spanking new, with the price tag still on it. The other was another jester costume, also newly-made. It was not a precise duplication of the magical jester suit. It was of a different design, gold and green, mostly, with some dashing splashes of purple. It also had a staff that matched in color, the head of which was not a likeness of Jake, but a standard smiling fool's head. Not magic, but still very nice.

"You can have one of 'em", Struthers told Jake.

"What is this, the big test to see if I've truly been changed, or is this like the lady and tiger going on here?"

"Don't be a smartass. After the life-altering experience you just had, I figured I owed you something. What you feel you need, or just prefer to have right now, is up to you."

Jake fingered the jester tights and accessories with one hand.

"This isn't gonna go all Outer Limits on me and make me go skipping down the

street and turn cartwheels at the stock exchange or anything, will it?"

"Nope. Regular show costume. All you do is wear it. The control part is up to you. So you tell me. Which way do you want your life to go?"

Jake reached down and picked up the business suit. It was a nice suit. It must have cost a pretty penny. He could impress just about anyone showing up for an interview wearing this. Provided he could get a job anywhere in the Western hemisphere following all that had happened.

"I doubt I'd ever be able to make use of this, anyway now. After all that's happened, after all I did."

"Don't be so sure. I hear there are some businesses out there that are anxious to sign you up at a sizeable pay increase just because of what you did." Then Geezer leaned up close to Jake's ear, whispering conspiratorially, "Just between you an' me, I don't think DeBaesar had quite as many friends as he thought he did."

Jake grinned. Then, still holding the new business suit, he took the jester costume in his free hand, as if weighing the two suits, and the options they represented. He nodded. "Thanks for giving me the choice."

"You always had the choice. I just helped you to see it."

Jake slung the suit of his choice over one shoulder and bowed once to the old

man. Then he turned and left, knowing for certain where he was going and why.

Struthers paused for a moment, pondering the young man's choice. Regardless what outside help is offered, each man must find his own way. The old man then took the magic jester costume and carefully returned it to its hanger, and replaced it on the rack of costumes to be sent back to the costume shop. No sooner had Struthers turned back to his work than the jester suit began to shimmer and changed back into a vintage double-breasted business suit. And there it hung, until such a time as it would be needed again.

Struthers looked at all the gifts and considered all that he had yet to arrange before the delivery men came to collect everything. The congratulation gifts, the well-intentioned bribes. A thought struck the old man. It seems only fair to him that those who were left out of this grand and glorious purchase, the new day dawning for the Frizzell Auditorium should get something, as well. A consolation prize, or sorts. Slowly, Struthers turned back around and looked toward the costume shop he'd just left. He then went back to pushing that god-awful angel statue, only now he was giggling like one of the many theater students who formerly romped about these halls. And soon would again.

Downtown on the mall, a street performer in Victorian clown attire played his part alone, as he did most days of the week when he was not teaching. Within the hour he would be joined by a jovial jester who would perform with him on this day, as he had the day before, and would on many others to follow. Sometimes they did routines calling for face paint which obscured their looks. Sometimes their faces were visible for all to see. They later would be known for ending each day's performance with a stunning pantomime piece calling for antique-styled porcelain masks. And whenever they thought no one was looking, the two street performers would steal a kiss together and feel the rush not just of live, spontaneous theater, but of finding one another again.

They liked that part most of all.

Epilogue

Henry Farnsworth came into the lush living room of his home and took his seat beside his beloved Maggie.

"Well, I think the idea of Jacob having someone special is wonderful", Maggie said. "I don't rightly care that it's another boy. Struthers did say he was a nice boy?"

"That's what he said", Henry said, still uncomfortable with the idea, but suspecting it would grow on him eventually.

"Hand me that popcorn, darling", Maggie said. "Now, you're sure you have this all worked out?"

Henry handed the large white bowl of buttered corn over to his dearest. "Oh, yes. Make no mistake. Just as Asner makes his grand announcement that he intends to purchase the Frizzell Auditorium, he'll be given word that he's been beaten by another bid."

"A much lower bid", Maggie snickered. "Mind you, I'd almost feel bad for him about it if he weren't such an old boor."

"Do let's turn up the sound here", Henry said, pointing the remote at their 30-inch plasma. The image of Asner DeBaesar appeared onscreen, approaching a podium festooned with micro phones, arms extended in an expansive fashion, both welcoming those in attendance and discouraging questions before he was ready for them.

"I can never resist the chance to watch this man make a fool of himself", Henry smiled.

On the television, DeBaesar was assuring those joking reported that no, he would not be doused with a hundred gallons of water and flower petals today. He smiled as he said it, but the annoyance was clear on his face. Lines of strain not previously there seemed etched into his brow.

"He does make a good appearance, though", Maggie admitted. "For the most part."

"That he does", Henry agreed. "I say. Is that a new suit he's got on?"

END

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