“I’m sorry, what?” the pianist asked.

“Carnival music,” the masked man repeated, “like the kind you would hear an organ grinder play, you know?”

“This isn’t an organ,” the pianist sighed.

“I know that!” the masked man screamed as he rubbed a baseball bat against the pianist’s temple, “but, if you don’t play something lively than YOUR organs are going to be strewn all across this piano of yours! Okay?”

“Got it,” the pianist grumbled, “something lively then…”

As the pianist began to play, the masked man stepped away with a twirl before stopping in front of a man who was laying down on the ground, clutching their ankle.

“Is it broken?” the masked man asked.

“No, I think it’s just sprained,” the man on the floor groaned.

The masked man raised the baseball bat and slammed it down on the ankle of the man on the ground. The man screamed in agony. The pianist stopped playing. The man on the ground whimpered and began to cry.

“How juvenile,” the pianist remarked before they began to keep playing, their silly music cutting the awkward silence.

“Well, how is your ankle now?” the masked man asked.

“I think it’s broken, you maniac!” the man yelled.

“So then,” the masked man said with a smirk, “you do know the difference between two things, eh?”

“What the hell are you talking about–“

Before the man could finish, the masked man poured a glass of root beer over the man’s head.

“I asked for an appletini, not a bunch of sassafras,” the masked man said, “I don’t do controversial oxidation.”