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The apples continue in a constant loop from my fingertips, spreading delight among the tables surrounding me. I catch two out of the three, and when the final one is in the air, I stare at it. On it's precipice of flight I observe how it stalls in the air, wanting to stay that high. Only to come tumbling, tumbling down. I neglect the urge to catch it, and allow it to break upon my scalp, apple bits scattered here and there. A tsunami of laughter crashes over my ears, followed by a roaring applause.
I take my bow and turn to leave.
Anger erupts however, when I turn. They demand more. I look into my bag of tricks and amuse them once again for hours on end. Throwing knives in a comical fashion, in a humorous design. The classic whoopie cushion. Even down to telling what each audience member is, to their face, but with a smile. I unload it all. Finally I am excused. I turn down the hall from this chamber of Hell. A shimmering light taunts me at the end, beckoning me. Not one to dissaude a calling, I go to it. My eyes find a mirror before Us. Yet my face seems different to me somehow. There are lines I do not remember existing before. Peering closer, I recognize them not as lines at all.
They are cracks.
My hands, trembling with realization and fear, go to the edges of my face, the seam of ear and flesh, searching. They find the edges, but not smooth as they once were. They have become rough, digging into my flesh with each expression of emotion. It worries me that I have not the memory of when I put this on.
It worries me more to wonder when I can take it off.

The most useful tool to ruling the crowd, is but a simple Fool.