What met Fay was that grin- rows of little yellowed teeth, stained with the paint around his mouth like a slit in somebody's throat. But it wasn't just the clown's malicious gaze that was pointed at him; it was the barrel of the shotgun.

Well, the gun was more pointed toward him than at him, in the most casually threatening manner that could be done. He looked the eyepatched boy up and down before licking his lips.

"She's a real looker. Weird fashion sense, but I can't really blame her."

Keeping the end of the gun pointed at him, he started to circle Fey, dissecting him with his eyes like a sick boy with his sister's new dolly.