It was a man in a clown outfit. Hackworth recognized it, vaguely, as an 
advertising fetish for an old American fast-food chain. But the costume was 
conspicuously ill-used, as if it were the sole garment of a refugee. It had 
been patched all over with swatches of chintz, Chinese silk, studded black 
leather, charcoal-gray pinstripe, and jungle camo. The clown wore integral 
makeup—his face glowed like an
injection-molded plastic toy from the previous century with a light bulb stuck 
inside the head. It was disturbing to see him talk, like watching one of those 
animated CAT scans of a man swallowing.