"Oh, it's nothin' I haven't heard, Love. He just thinks he's better lookin' than me. Always has a bone of contention over his own, er... stature... if you ask me... Why, at times it seems I can't even cast my eyes on a pretty woman before he's gone and spit out some accusation or insult. I tell you, the boy's got quite a mouth on him! Frankly, I'm a little surprised he hasn't tried to toss a few grudging remarks out since I've been speaking to you. But then I suppose he doesn't like it when I talk about him behind his back." 
 
Ambrose, in full makeup and medieval jester regalia, wasn't hideous to behold. Some might find him 'ruggedly' attractive. While others would just find strangely imposing with his pointed beard and symbols for fire and water painted around his eyes that themselves looked entirely red and blue like his makeup. What the audiences never guessed, however, was that his eyes always looked like that. They weren't contacts. 

He randomly lept to the left and then he walked closer to Oddy, the bells on his cap jingling behind their smiles and frowns. Yet he didn't walk a straight path, he kept shuffling and skipping sideways between steps. It was amost like dancing, but more like a mockery of dancing. 

"I'll tell you what, dear Oddy," he looked at her intensely. "You give me a length of that rope that you make and hold on to the other end as if your hands are tied in it and we can go get these dutch souls all warmed for your creep show. What do ya say to that?"