The thought of having to trek across the city in his current state--without so much as the opportunity for a proper bath--is unconscionable to the Fool, who rarely leaves his apartment without taking time to care for his appearance first. (He is vain; he won’t deny it.)

“Oh,” he scoffs exhaustedly, “let’s just get them out, and quickly.”

He hops right to it, too, alternating between herding the little monsters (daemids, Klaus called them) out with his reedy arms and legs, or with the aid of his broom. Realistically it doesn’t take that long to get them out of the cafe; the bibirus that Klaus had turned loose upon them earlier in the day did a good job of clearing out the worst of them.

Once the last of them have been sent packing, the Fool leans against his broom and drops his head atop his hands. Ugh.