The ordinarily quite glamorous Fool looks decidedly unglamorous by the time X arrives and bumps into him. His glossy golden hair has been tugged into the most perfunctory of pony tails, loose strands held at bay with a red bandana. Bits of gourd viscera (from where the Fool has, accidentally or otherwise, dropped the errant pumpkin person here and there) stain the front of an apron that used to be pink, but now has several unsightly yellow smears in the fabric. He looks terrible, there's no getting around it.

And whatever tart reply he's on the cusp of snapping at X is forgotten when the little monster latches onto his friend's ankle.

"These little beasts!" He exhales in exasperation and quickly snatches up his broom to, yet again, swat at the pumpkin pest trying to make a meal out of X's ankle. "Shoo! Get off!"