In the dim glow of the Clown Bar, a figure broods in solitude, his painted grin a stark contrast to the seething rage in his eyes. Clutching his semi-automatic pistol as if it were a lifeline, this fallen jester drowns in the liquid fire of 'Death Dealing Whiskey,' the irony of the name not lost on him. The air around him is heavy with unspoken tales of resentment; the bar has become a sanctuary for clowns who bear the weight of a world that has turned its back on them. His colorful garb, once a symbol of joy and laughter, now hangs heavy with the burden of obsolescence. Among his kin, he's not alone in his fury, but his thirst for vengeance sets him apart—a silent oath to a cause yet unrevealed, his story shrouded in the mystery of their collective fall from grace.