"That's for damn fucking sure," said the Clown. "Put these on," he 
continued, taking something out of his pocket. He reached out to Hackworth, who 
was two or three meters away from him—but shockingly, his hand detached 
itself from his arm and flew through the air, the smutty white glove like a 
dirty ball of ice tumbling elliptically through the inner planets. It shoved 
something into Hackworth's breast pocket and then withdrew; but because 
Hackworth was watching, it described a smooth sudden figure-eight pattern in 
space before reattaching itself to the stump of the forearm. Hackworth realized 
that the clown was mechanical. "Put 'em on and be yourself, mister alienated 
loner steppenwolf bemused distant meta-izing technocrat rationalist fucking 
shithead." The Clown spun on his heel to leave; his floppy clown shoes were 
built around some kind of trick heel with a swivel built in, so that when he 
spun on his heel he really did spin on
his heel, performing several complete rotations before stopping with his back 
turned to Hackworth and storming away. "Revolutionary, ain't it?" he 
snapped.