The arrival takes place in trickles of ascending self-importance, each stepping onto the stage in the established pecking order, a conglomeration of the inbred nouveau-nobility: alpha begetting alpha, half brothers playing musical chairs with their half sisters, teeth bared in the most perfunctory of a smileshake. Watch them fly, frittering away their allotted span as triviality follows triviality, dressed in the sickly sweet stench of dead Othello's.

Leave modesty at the door, an ego trip is in progress.

"First one to crack shall be brought to slaughter at our alter" laughs a rising sea of blended niches at fever pitch as each personality attempts the out-awe only to be clawed down by the equally eager hands that grab.

Then the jester grins obligingly, industriously, like a scared overfriendly guest they've brought into their den - a living metaphor of the blood of their planned victims. It walks out, grinning softly to itself, shutting the door softly behind it, in quiet silence.

The disquieting noise of the innocent about to be stabbed by long knives are stifled by a jesters grin as it walks down a darkened corridor and fades - its manic smile merging into the shadow.