Beluga Stars In: 
BUFFOON OF THE BALL 

	For most people, shuffling through tight hallways of cold painted concrete with a metal bucket wedged over your head and mousetraps in your oversized pants would be a nightmare induced by cold medicine. For Beluga, it meant he’d just finished his third act of the evening and was on his way to his dressing room for a well-deserved break. 
	Which closet he’d set up shop in was easy enough to guess, from the way the door frame bowed at the sides like a cowboy’s legs at high noon. He squeezed through it with a grunt, filling the room more suitably designed for his weasel and rodent coworkers. The bucket came free after some cajoling and was added to a stack already two-dozen strong in the corner, and after some uncomfortable snaps, the oversized pants were tossed into a bin in the hallway for someone else to fix. 
	For now, it was time to fall back onto the mattress that lay among the ruins of a bedframe. Beluga did so with gusto, a few hairline cracks forming in the floor as the surrounding rooms shook. The door to the modest bathroom was open, where he really should be headed to get washed up, but from his sitting position he had a perfect vantage to stare into the mirror. Still panting from the rush of the performance, he took into account the finer points of his reflection- the smudged greasepaint, the scuffed giant red nose, the torn and frayed polka-dotted shirt, and most prominently, his own wide smile. 
	Being a clown in the circus hadn’t been a dream he expected to chase. But a long string of lucky breaks (which would be considered unlucky, by any other person) had resulted in him crashing through the front window of a pottery store as The Powderkeg Circus’s resident ringmaster was walking by. Smacky hired the dragon on the spot, refusing to take no for an answer. So it was a good thing this was Beluga’s suddenly-much-less-secret passion, because he was being put to work. Hard work. 
Still though, the shows for today were done. All that was left was to rela-
The door to Beluga’s dorm flew open, smacking the dragon in the face. “BELUGA! My office! Pronto!” The door slammed shut, letting Beluga appreciate the same reflection but with a much flatter snout. The familiar whistling drawl and lingering scent of cigar smoke meant the order could only have been barked by one person. 
	Smacky’s office was bigger than the clown dorms, but not by much. Beluga delicately perched himself in a folding chair opposite the skunk’s desk, the furniture only able to support him because his belly was touching both walls and they were pitching in with the load-bearing.  
	“Excellent show tonight, sport.” Smacky lit a fresh stogie, shaking the match and tossing it into a trash can overflowing with burnt wooden sticks. “Ya had ‘em rolling in the aisles! At least, anytime ya weren’t rolling down ‘em yerself.” 
	“Thank you, sir!” Beluga beamed. “I really didn’t know what the weasels had planned when they brought out that air tank, but I’m glad we went with it!” 
	The skunk took a deep drag, smoke pouring from his nostrils as he flashed a bright smile. “You ‘n me both. Ya got all your faculties together? No bumps, scrapes, complaints?”
	“Not a one, sir!” 
	“Fantastic. So yer in fightin’ shape fer a bit’a overtime.” 
	Beluga’s optimism fell. “O-overtime?” The last time he’d need to work an extra shift, it had been at the test-your-strength machine in the midway. As the machine. It took two weeks for his feet to lose the mallet impact marks. 
	“Now, now, don’t look so forlorn!” Smacky pulled out a pink piece of paper, framed with lace, waving it toward the dragon. “It ain’t something ta bellyache over. This here’s an invitation to the Upper Crust Society’s bimonthly banquet over in the Meringue. I’ve been to a few, nothing but a couple stuffy speeches and elbow-rubbing with people who’ve got more money than sense. Still, they fund our shows, and I’m obliged to make an appearance. Issue is, I have a conflict tonight- Bonzalo called out sick, so someone’s gotta get fired out of a cannon at our closer. And given ya can’t fit inside one- despite our best efforts- it falls to me.”
	“Does that mean I get to go to the banquet?” Beluga gasped in excitement. He could already picture the fairytale atmosphere, the exotic foods, the ornate crystal decorations, the gorgeous suits and dresses, the massive buffet, the food, the food… was- oh no, he was drooling. Smacky snapped his fingers in front of the dragon’s eyes. 
	“It does. But ya gotta promise me- yer representin’ this circus, and a lot rides on ya makin’ a good impression. Think ya can handle that?”
	Beluga saluted. “Without a doubt, sir!” 
	“Gravy.” Smacky pressed a button on his desk. A distant buzz preluded the smacking of a dozen feet against the floor in the distance, all running toward the office. Beluga turned toward the door, then to the skunk. “What, uh. What’s that?”
	“Wardrobe.” Smacky pulled out a crash helmet from under his desk, blowing some dust off of it. “They’re gonna get ya dressed in a suitably formal fashion.” 
	A riptide of fur and grabbing hands burst through the door as six weasels collided into Beluga, brandishing makeup, fabric, and cleaning supplies to use as brushes (they had a lot of surface area to cover, after all). Before he could even let out a shout, the dragon vanished into a dust cloud of foundation and blush. He felt his midsection compress in the grip of a corset, and his chest grow heavy as a pair of loud honks sounded from within a polka-dotted bra. His head became weighed down by a heavy beehive wig, and the rustling of ten petticoats drowned out his coughing and spitting as thick makeup covered his face. 
	The weasels all clambored off at once, revealing the dragon’s outfit. It was a purple gown with a pronounced bustle, which was topped by a bright pink ribbon sitting on the garment like a shelf. Despite the corset, the dragon was amply curvy, emphasized by an overstuffed bosom. One of the weasels reached up to grab it and made it honk as a demonstration. The blonde wig, white buckle shoes, and an even bigger red nose completed the ensemble. 
	“I- I look ridiculous!” Beluga gasped, one hand clasped on his cheek as the other tightly gripped a tiny umbrella. He had to shuffle side-to-side to get a look at every angle in the small mirror one of the weasels presented. Polka-dotted undergarments flashed into view anytime the dress didn’t fit exactly right, which, given how tightly the dragon was stuffed into it, was often. 
	“Exactly. Told ya, yer representin’ this circus.” The ember of Smacky’s cigar reflected in his eyes. “Besides, if you think you look silly, wait until ya see yer date.” 

____________________________________

If having too much money was a disease, The Meringue was the quarantine zone. Every housing plot was big enough to come with its own selectman and the scope of the houses would make Lady Winchester look frugal. Money flowed there like water; in one case last summer, quite literally, when Edward Eagle’s gold vault collapsed under the weight of his most recent investment and emptied into the reservoir below. 
So, naturally, when it came time for the neighborhood’s richest and most influential to gather for a meeting of the Upper Crust Society, no expense was spared. The utensils were made of solid gold and the plates were carved from gemstones. Hundred dollar bills sat in neat stacks to act as napkins. Every table was adorned with a cloth made from unicorn hair (unicorns were notoriously stingy) and attended by a violin-playing dragon (there were only a handful of dragons in the city, so some clearly hadn’t played the instrument much before tonight.) 
This meant that as Smacky’s jalopy rattled up the road to the Crème de la Clubhouse, leaving a thick cloud of smoke and a rear bumper in its wake, to deposit a bell-shaped belle and her date, more than a few noses were upturned. 
“Good luck, kid!” Smacky slammed the door shut with a smile, having just fished kicking Begula’s rear end repeatedly to shake him loose from the vehicle.
“S-smacky, wait!” Beluga knocked on the hood of the skunk’s car. One of the hubcaps came loose as he did, which was fixed by kicking it back into place. “Are you really sure I need an escort?”
“‘A course!” Smacky wagged his finger at the clown. “Fancy function like this, ya can’t turn up alone.” 
Beluga turned to look at her “date.” The empty, famished stare of a weasel looked back. Which might not have been so bad, if it wasn’t nine famished stares. The entire circus’ staff of weasels had clambered into a singular trench coat, and the garment wiggled with a clown troupe’s worth of sneakers stepping on faces and trying to untie tails from one another. Somehow, the sentient coat extended an arm, inviting Beluga to take it. 
He shot another glance to Smacky, who was all smiles. “Ain’t that cute. What a gentleman- er, gentlemen. You ten have fun now!” He rolled up his window, and after a massive cloud of exhaust enveloped the dragon and his date, was on his way. 
Waving the fumes from his face, Beluga sighed and took the weasel amalgam’s arm. Upon gripping it, he realized he was grabbing around one of the weasel’s midsections. The head and arm of said weasel popped out of the arm sleeve, giving the dragon’s bloomers a firm pinch. “Lookin’ good, hotpants!” 
With an offended gasp, Beluga slapped the weasel protruding from the neck hole. The entire tower nearly toppled as he struggled to keep his balance, huffing. “Hey! I ain’t done nothing!” This was met with a chorus of mischievous giggles from the rest of his “body.” 
Most of the other guests had entered by now, leaving the heavyset dragon in three-inch heels and the stack of mostly blind weasels to hobble up the stairs. The doorman’s expression didn’t move an inch as he watched their arduous approach, holding up his clipboard only as they were in front of him. 
“Name?”
Beluga opened his mouth, only to be cut off by the weasel. “Lady Wideload, of the Lard Dragons. And her escort, uh, Arthur Weaselbritches.” There was a smacking sound from the escort’s right shoulder. “Sir Arthur Weaselbritches, sorry.” 
“That’s not-” 
“Ah, of course, here you both are. Representing the Powderkeg Circus on behalf of Mr. Skunk.” The doorman checked off the names on the clipboard and stepped to the side. “Please, right this way.” 
“Did he really make our reservations under that name?” Beluga whispered to his date. 
“That ain’t your name?” The head weasel looked confused. “It’s the only thing Smacks ever calls ya when you ain’t around.” 
The pair entered the cloverleaf-shaped banquet hall, which sparkled with light the color of champaign and had enough marble columns to make the Pantheon blush. White silks and expensive paintings adorned every wall, and the varying quality of violin music mingled with bubbling fountains and inane chatter about stocks to create an atmosphere where even breathing felt expensive. A gigantic golden statue of a gloved hand waving a thick wad of bills was prominently featured in the center of the hall, about as subtle as it was tasteful. 
At least we can try to blend in a little, thought the dragon wearing a bright pink clown costume to a black tie affair. 
The doorman, who had followed them in, had other ideas. “PREEEEESENTING LADY WIDELOAD, OF THE LARD DRAGONS. AND HER ESCORT, SIR ARTHUR WEASELBRITCHES.” His voice boomed off every wall of the cloverleaf, causing an abrupt cessation of music, chatter, and clattering utensils. All eyes turned to Beluga as a spotlight lit up on him. 
“Ah. Ch-charmed.” The dragon gave a shy wave before attempting a curtsy. A ripping noise boomed even louder than his introduction mid-pose, leaving him frozen in shock. After a few moments of agonizing silence, the spotlight turned off and the chatter resumed. 
Red as his nose, Beluga turned to his “date.” “At least we’re in this together.” 
The lead weasel gave Beluga a reassuring nod. Then one of the stomach-area weasels popped out the front of the coat, pointing to the far side of the room. “Look, boys! All-you-can-gnab buffet!” 
The weasels piled out of the coat like bugs skittering from an overturned rock, sweeping across the hall in a wave. They leapt over tables, under the legs of waitstaff, and in somehow multiple occasions, through displays of wine glasses set up to be alcohol fountains. Beluga grimaced at every shattering of glass and heavily-accented cry for help, but decided ultimately it might be nice if some of the attention wasn’t on him. Fixing his wig and making sure the rip in his bloomers wasn’t too obvious, he waddled over to one of the nearby tables. 
It took some time to find a table that had three open seats that he could arrange into a makeshift bench, but he scooted down into it as a lobster, a possum, and a horse were all talking profits. 
“Quarter three was a new record for us,” the lobster was boasting. “The new paper I designed is seventeen percent thinner, saving us four-hundredths of a cent on every package!” 
The horse was moving his hoof between his chest and the possums, snorting excitedly. “Well we just finished a memorandum that is going to revolutionize the toll booth industry. Instead of a flat fee to get on the Amscray Expressway, there’s now a sliding scale of costs depending on destination, weather condition, moon phase, and toll booth operator mood. We even printed these handy reference cards to explain the new system!” The possum held up a chart the size of a movie poster, beaming proudly. 
The three then turned to Beluga, who had busied himself with buttering the entire basket of rolls that had been sitting in the middle of the table. He froze, looking from one businessperson to the next. 
“Uh.” He blinked a few times. “I… managed to get the same sound effect out of four whoopie cushions when the circus had been using eleven?” 
The busybodies stared in silence for a few moments before looking back to each other, boxing Beluga completely out of the conversation. 
He momentarily flashed in annoyance, but after hearing one of them use the word “dividend,” decided maybe it was for the best that he didn't get in on this. In fact, maybe it was for the best he skirted under the radar entirely while sporting this skirt. The Powderkeg Circus needed good representation, and the less of a fool he made of himself, the better. 
A man in a security uniform walked by, carrying two of the weasels by the scruff of their neck. A third weasel ran up, pulled the security guard’s pants down, and pushed him forward so he stumbled into a nearby decorative fishtank. The three weasels laughed hysterically before scampering off, two more security guards giving chase. 
…right. Himself. That was the operative word, here. The weasels were always getting into trouble. All he had to sweat was his own good behavior. All that he had to do was get through the evening, avoiding complete catastrophe. 
“Can I freshen your drink, ma’am?” A waiter tapped the dragon on the shoulder. 
“Oh, please!” Beluga turned with a wide grin, holding out his glass. 
A bubbly, extra fizzy jet of ginger ale blasted the dragon in the face like a firehose. His wig was nearly knocked loose and his makeup visibly streaked, the force almost knocking him backwards out of his chair. As the stream slowed, he blinked his eyes open and stared in disbelief at the waiter. A familiar rude smirk from a white-tipped beak stared back. 
“My pardons, madame!” Duino fussed with the seltzer bottle he was holding. “This thing has a hair trigger!” 
Beluga gulped. Catastrophe was intent on not being avoided. 
“D-Duino!” He forced a grin, dabbing ginger ale from his face with a polka-dotted hanky. “Funny running into you here! What- why? Why? Oh heavens above, why?” 
“I freelance this gig sometimes!” Duino jerked a thumb toward the weasels getting into a bar brawl on the far side of the club hall. “Though I gotta thank your date, they’re saving me a lot of elbow grease. I was almost getting bored! Until I saw a familiar face, anyway.”
“It’s so good to see you, too!” Beluga forced a smile, then a pregnant pause. “So. I’m… not thirsty anymore. You can go to the next table.” He turned around, shutting his eyes tight and doing his best to will the bird into non-existence. 
“Ah, but madame!” Duino elbowed the dragon’s side. “You simply must see what we have on the menu tonight!” 
“Oh, no thank you! I’m not hungry!” It wasn’t a great lie in the first place, but Beluga’s tummy choosing that moment to rumble hard enough to register on the Richter Scale shattered the illusion completely. 
Duino folded his hands, looking from the dragon’s tummy to the dragon’s face. “Let’s just call this a cheat day for your diet. C’mon, you’re gonna love it!” He looked to the other side of the table, where the busybodies had collected their briefcases and made a hasty exit. “And hey, lucky you! We portion these out by table, so it looks like you’re eating for four.” He started setting out utensils, fanning out a napkin and tying it around the dragon’s neck. “C’mon, all the grub is on the house!”
	Better instincts went out the window as Beluga licked his lips. “Can’t pass up a good meal… it would be wasteful! Alright, sure! Gimme what you got!” He adjusted the napkin around his neck, preemptively making sure it was looser to account for his usual portion size, only to realize it was monogrammed. And clearly labeled him as “The House.” 
 	By the time the loose wires connected and a lightbulb flashed over the dragon’s head, Duino had already made a joke about tomato soup (it wasn’t good enough to repeat) and was in midair. Beluga turned to face the waiter just in time to have a massive stewpot of tomato soup wedged over his head, snout and horns disappearing with a thunk. Thick red soup poured out down the dragon’s chest and back, spraying everywhere as the table was overturned from Beluga’s leaping up and thrashing around.
	Thick claws wrapped around the lid of the pot, attempting to pry it free. The dragon’s neck stretched as he put his whole range of motion into it, stumbling backward into columns and tripping over chairs as he careened around the dining hall. If the rampaging weasels hadn’t been enough, the dragon bouncing between tables like a pinball off bumpers convinced the dinner guests to start making a panicked commotion. A loud chorus of gasps, shrieks, and calls for refunds sounded as Beluga tore through the crowd. 
Finally, with one hard shove, his head came loose with a pop, sending the stewpot flying and leaving his noggin shaped like a cylinder. He looked around wildly, blasting steam from his snout as he tried to find the duck. All he got instead was eye contact with a plethora of annoyed stockbrokers, and worse yet, security staff. 
	Even with tomato soup dripping down his cheeks, it was clear Beluga’s face with red for a different reason. “I- I can explain! You see, there’s this duck-”
	Never missing his queue, Duino elbowed the crowd out of the way with a brazen call of “HOT STUFF, COMIN’ THROUGH.” As he got to the front, he “tripped” with an overdramatic “whoooOOOOOA”, landing flat on his beak. Beluga realized the bird had been carrying a large serving tray of thick gravy the same instant the liquid collided with him like a tidal wave. 
	The entirety of the clown’s profile vanished under a thick layer of tan liquid, knocking into him loud enough for his nose to emit a honk. It was also hard enough to send the stooge stumbling, knocking into a long banquet table and causing it to collapse under his weight. The assorted champagne glasses and mimosas that had decorated the table all poured out and spilled onto the dragon as they slid toward him, doing little to assist his attempts to free himself from the layer of gravy. 
	By this point, security had caught up with the dragon. But snickers from the officers and the crowd at large were seeming to give them pause. That, and a few nervous glances between the security personnel as they questioned how they were going to throw out a guest they couldn’t even lift. Beluga slumped back against the ramped table, sighing. Of course tonight hadn’t gone to plan. At least it couldn’t get any worse. 
	A loud clang sounded, causing all eyes to look up toward the massive golden statue that decorated the hall’s center. A saucepot, dripping with leftover tomato soup, had just collided with the golden wad of bills, and now the focal point of the evening was teetering back and forth. The scattered giggles turned to widespread shouts and gasps, as on a night of abundant affluence, the guests realized at least one expense had been spared: nailing down the decor. 
	The statue gradually became more and more tipsy as it shifted under its own weight, leading to a tidal pool of guests all shoving and elbowing each other to escape its shadow. It finally gave up all equilibrium, tipping like a redwood toward a far corner of the banquet hall. Luckily, this corner had mostly already been evacuated due to a well-dressed wrecking ball carving a path of destruction through it. Unluckily, said wrecking ball was now perched on the end of an upturned table, and the massive statue was about to turn it into a catapult. 
	CRASH! 
	The very tip of the wad of bills slammed into the upright end of Beluga’s backrest and plowed into the ground, flipping the table and anything it was supporting high into the air. This list of items included broken mimosa glasses, lace doilies, and a screaming sauce-coated clown dragon. 
	Gravity and Beluga had never seen eye-to-eye, so he was particularly unprepared for such a sudden upheaval. Gravy and dignity flew off of him in all directions as he clumsily spun into the air, yelping in terror. Every eye in the building, having watched the statue plummet and be glad this hadn’t happened to them, was on the skybound dragon. 
	Through his flailing and spiraling, Beluga soared toward the massive diamond-draped chandelier at the center of the hall. He made a mad grab for it, practically swimming through the air, only to have the fixture be just out of reach from his hands. His dismay was shortly replaced by confusion, however, as he still came to a sudden halt. Hanging above the base of the displaced statue, his hope he’d suddenly learned how to fly was dashed as his vision was obscured by a shower of petticoats hanging over his nose. 
The oversized bow on his dress had snagged on one of the chandelier’s prongs, and was leaving the dragon hanging about thirty feet over the assembled crowd. And every single one of them had a perfect view of his oversized polka-dotted bloomers. 
Stunned silence and gasps of concern gave way to raucous laughter. The whole of The Meringue seemed to be delighting in the dragon’s misfortune, with the clicks of cameras and loud whistles erupting from the crowd below. Beluga was no stranger to bringing the house down at the circus, but he desperately wished he could do so in a literal sense. Unfortunately for him, the chandelier seemed to be a lot better engineered than the statue, and it wasn’t going anywhere. 
He, on the other hand, was. The oversized bow on the back of his dress let out a loud ripping noise, causing him to flail his hands in a panic. 
“Uh… uh! A little help, please?!” he called out to the crowd, trying to use his petticoats to cover himself up. 
The majority of the crowd seemed to be having too much fun to do much of anything (plus you know how the rich are, never like getting their hands dirty). The band of weasels, however, leapt into action. 
The one still wearing the oversized trench coat barked orders as the rest quickly gathered at the base of the fallen statue, coordinating their efforts. They attempted to form a pyramid, which ended with all of them falling over each other. They also tried tossing one among their number up to the ceiling, cheerleader style, which resulted in nothing but four weasel-shaped imprints to the ceiling. Their final approach involved becoming a ladder, stacking on each others’ shoulders to form one massive pole, only to fall over each other and form a massive wheel that spun into the kitchen. 
The crowd was now in full hysterics. Beluga didn’t have a great view of what was going on below, but it was clear his saviors weren’t having much success. As he hung there, gently twisting back and forth, it occurred to him that maybe- just maybe- it might be time to look into a career change. This train of thought was prematurely derailed as he felt something soft bounce off of his head. 
Twisting to get a look, he managed to spot a corn muffin falling back toward the ground. And worse yet, the rest of the weasels were gathering up foodstuffs and handing it out to each other- and the crowd. If their plan wasn’t already clear, the instructions the weasels were barking firmly established what was about to happen. 
“Knock her down!” “Shake her loose!” “Time for the piñata!” “Really let ‘er have it!” 
Oh, no.
As he swung the other way, he got a perfect view of the kitchen doors swinging open. And from them five weasels ran out, each carrying a precarious stack of pies. They flanked a massive warehouse-grade dolly upon which a cake the size of a dragon sat, being shoved along by a very excited-looking Duino.
Oh, NO.
Beluga did everything he could to escape. He wiggled back and forth. He wiggled some more. He… well, that was about everything he could do. So as Trench Coat leveraged a countdown starting at five, and every giggling guest began their ceiling-facing wind up, all he could do was hold up his miniature umbrella and curse the worst skunk he knew. 
“FIRE!” 
Beluga disappeared under a layer of blueberries, crust, and whipped cream in an instant, and was only further cocooned as guests reached for their second or third pastry. For a group who didn’t like getting their hands dirty, they had no qualms ushering the same fate onto someone else. And despite all the liberal use of libations, their aim was shockingly true. 
The dragon was knocked back and forth as different sides of the banquet hall were resupplied in waves, the weasels quickly running back and forth from the kitchen with fresh armloads of desserts. His left side became cherry-coated, only to swing lazily in another direction and to receive a pelting of chocolate. Goop filled his mouth and spilled into every inch of his clothes, not a single spot being missed. And as the layers piled on, the dress began to slip. 
One particularly thick custard tart exploding onto Beluga’s muzzle was the straw that broke the dragon’s backbow. The material ripped from all the extra weight, every seam tearing itself apart at once. The dragon fell from the bodice like the yolk from a cracked egg. Now dressed in nothing but polka-dotted undergarments, the clown went into a forward tumble, plummeting toward the ground. 
“Somebody catch me!!” he screamed out. 
Luckily, someone did! 
Unluckily, well… 
No face was more delighted than Duino’s as Beluga crashed headfirst into the massive multi-tiered cake the duck had left on the statue’s pedestal. A huge explosion of icing flew out in every direction, completely coating the patrons at the front and mucking up the hair of everyone within fifty feet. An enormous chorus of gasps, screams, and laughter erupted from the upper crust crowd, and as they wiped their eyes clean, they were treated to the visual of a massive polka-dotted backside sticking out of the top of a wedding kick, stubby legs kicking uselessly as the rest of the clown was deeply embedded in heavy sponge. 
By the time Beluga was able to get his face unstuck enough to see anything, the crowd had entertained themselves with jeers, photos, and picking through the salvageable desserts for a bite to eat. He spat cake onto the ground and groaned, as a familiar voice chimed in, clearly holding back a laugh. 
“Y’know, professional diving is about making as little a splash as possible.”
“I think you’ve given me enough feedback for one day, duck.”
	Duino stifled a laugh. “Aww, c’mon! I’m just trying to congratulate you!” He turned to the crowd, piping up. “Everyone! Can I please get a hand for tonight’s entertainment, Lady Wideload!” 
A massive cheer rose from the crowd, all aimed at Beluga. The clown, still too stuck in cake to move, did his best to give a gentle bow. 
“And for being such a sport, I think she deserves a token of our appreciation!” Duino waved his hands around, calling for the crowd to increase their fervor. “Wouldn’t you agree, folks?” 
The cheers increased. Well! At least some recognition would be nice! 
“I couldn’t agree more!” The duck reached out of the dragon’s periphery. “Well, Lady. This is from us!” 
Beluga’s bright smile vanished underneath a pie the size of a trash can lid. Chocolate pudding ran into his ears, muffling all the incoming noise- but the overwhelming laughter was still ringing clearly. The dragon went fully limp, exhausted and defeated. He was in so, so much trouble. 

_____________________

	The next day, four showers and a trip to the tailor later, Beluga sat in Smacky’s office, rubbing his neck as he recounted the evening. The skunk was stonefaced, puffing cigar smoke and taking notes on a bright yellow notepad. 
	“Well.” Smacky finally broke his silence as the dragon finished up. “Ya went through all that?” 
	Beluga nodded. “I tried to be an upstanding guest, I swear! But things just… got out of control.” 
	“That tends ta happen when it comes ta clowns.” Smacky nodded, toying with his cigar. “But I’ll have ya know, I also got a letter from the Upper Crust Society this mornin’.” 
	The dragon went pale. “Oh, no. Do I owe them for the damages? Are they pressing charges?” 
	“Far from it, ya worrywart.” Smacky grinned. “It’s an invite ta next week’s event.” 
	Beluga was dumbfounded. “But… wha- why?” 
	“For providin’ such quality entertainment!” Smacky laughed, slapping his knee. “I had a feelin’ ya’d create some chaos when ya went- that’s why I picked ya. Bit of a dirty trick, literally, but that shindig is painfully stuffy. That’s why the plannin’ committee always invites me, ta liven it up.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t realize I’d double-booked it with the duck, though. That I coulda done a better job warnin’ you about.” 
	“So… I was supposed to make a fool of myself?!” 
	“It is yer job, ain’t it?” The skunk tamped his cigar. “And yer darn good at it. I’d say start clearin’ your schedule, because I get the feelin’ yer gonna be in demand at their next couple functions, too.” 
	There were enough butterflies in Beluga’s tummy to open a conservation garden. “But… every week?! I can’t do that!” 
	“Well, not alone, maybe!” Smacky raised his eyebrows. “See, yer invitation includes a plus one. And as it happens, I’m usually free that night. Whadya say, toots? Think ya can show an old man a good time?” He extended his hand daintily. 
	Beluga caught a reflection of himself in the mirror of Smacky’s makeup stand. And what he saw was familiar- the smudged greasepaint, the scuffed giant red nose, the torn and frayed polka-dotted undergarments, and most prominently- as much as he wanted to deny it- his own wide smile. He looked back to Smacky, and took the skunk’s hand in both of his. 
	“Pick me up at seven.”