The clown works quickly, his hands a white-gloved blur. With a flourish of fingers, he presents his finished work in his open palm: a mess of knots made from what appears to be a plastic bag.
"There ya go, kid. One trash fairy," the clown says to your daughter. He lights up a cigarette, stows his lighter in his pocket, and makes a shooing motion at your daughter with his free hand.
Your daughter wrinkles her nose as if smelling something awful.
"What the hell is this?" you scoff.
"I already said, lady," the clown replies. "It's a fairy. Just like your kid asked for, all right? Now get lost." He takes a hard, impossibly long drag from his cigarette, burning it almost to the filter.
"You're just giving out old trash to kids? Just what kind of clown are you?" you ask.
The clown removes his finished cigarette from his mouth and throws it at your feet. "One that recycles, lady. Fuck off."