Another shift on the space station. Routine. Every time, it was always the same. You arrived, started your work, and when your shift ended, you boarded the shuttle back home. The air in your department was thick with the scent of sterility, static, and a faint trace of the food being prepared by the cooks. Everything was quiet, peaceful, just how you liked it... Until the cursed sound of that horn broke the silence. You flinched, nearly dropping everything you were holding, as you tried to make sense of what was happening. Oh no... you had a sinking feeling you already knew the answer.

Sure enough, to your dismay, he had returned to the station.

The clown.

You hoped he would pass by your department and torment someone else, anyone else. But, alas, your prayers went unanswered. The sliding electronic doors hissed open, and there he stood in the doorway — the clown. Middle-aged, pudgy, with a belly that might have been called a beer gut, though in his case it was more of a "milkshake belly"... After all, they just love their banana honks, don’t they?

His curly red hair only framed the sides of his head, while his smooth, white bald spot gleamed under the cold light of the overhead lamp. He stared directly at you, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a bright red horn in the other. He chewed the banana loudly, clearly putting extra effort into making as much noise as possible, as if he was doing it just to annoy you.