Okay, alright, okay, alright, okay, alright, okay, alright— realistically, would you expect a massive monster sabertooth pallas cat thing to be into clowns? Probably not. But conceptually, in the space and span of the mind, is it not possible for a massive monster sabertooth pallas cat thing to be into clowns? It totally is. It totally completely super is. I mean, listen, look. Listen to Monsieur Greaseball, listen to him like the teacher. Clowns are shiny. Colorful. Covered head to toe in stimulus and sensation. Cats, as we know, have an affinity for objects that roll and objects that jingle. Hoarders, as you might have learnt from dragons and magpies and other such fictional creatures, are really into shiny things.

Well?

You have a ball. You have a catawampus. Hypothetically, the situation is happening right now. Theoretically, this catawampus is following, most intrigued, its eyes wide like little moons and its guard faltering. You could have put a pit trap here and it wouldn't have noticed.

It follows on the heels, entirely enchanted by the orb itself rather than its destination. It watches, hypnotized by the display of pure cartoonish slapstick comedy. Lights. Pumpkins. Games. It listens, mesmerized, just like he is teacher, to the gleeful, maniacal introduction to this game. Well done Monsieur Greaseball; you have made it a fool indeed. A fool in bedazzling pyrite, a glorious fool. A fool with a large and heavy disdain for rules.

There are many places for pumpkins, many pumpkins in said places, but the catawampus hardly sees any of them. The scent of tomfoolery drowns out what little reason or thought it harbors in its mind. The orb it seeks is no true gourd, but rather a semblance of a gourd. All things round and bright. Quickly approaching the Greaseball himself at the speed of Large, the catawampus attempts to reach out and grasp him with gentle but firm paws. What is to happen next will be up to whim and whimsy, but I imagine it's not looking so good for the imp.

The catawampus says nothing, absolutely nothing, as the little garbage beach ball goes about sputtering commands and pleas and insults. See these massive discs on either side of this catawampus's head? They're not actually for hearing. They're a confusion tactic, and an intimidation tactic, all rolled into one! Allow for a demonstration:

You must have escaped that old cage...
So small and full of mouseish ire. It begins to pat the orb man very gently.
You splintered from the pan of age
And sprung into the fire.

See! Not listening. Very confusing "conversation" as a result, and— was that some kind of threat?

The catawampus is very lucky to have its thick, luxurious fur. Not so great for battling a halberd tooth that weaponizes speed and inertia, but absolutely stellar for handling the pinprick needle claws most pests are equipped with. Unluckily however, this glorious padding has its limits. The catawampus had begun to learn them from the last time it had picked up a small unassuming bundle of fuzz. Will it ever learn? (No.) The lesson was as follows: occasionally, a pinprick needle can get passed the fur wall. And when it does, it won't hurt. At first. But then... oh man, but then it will get so much worse. Perhaps the catawampus will never learn to exercise restraint, but... caution, caution it can do.

So what do you do when a maybe-venomous multi-mouthed snake ball in your hands attempts to bite you? Well, first, you reel your arms way way back, and then... you FLING that evil pumpkin!! The catawampus does appear to be aiming (vaguely) for one of the cans, but without any real intent of hitting and thereby participating in the game. There is always a possibility, however. For tasks to do the opposite of failing successfully. Whatever that may be called.

Guess we'll never know. The catawampus misses, but! The monsieur remains thrown. Perhaps a few feet. Into the floor.

I'm sorry, but hey, at least he bounces!