Surely you jest.

When I came to, the inside of the barn looked like the inside of a barn. No neon sign, no bar, no table or chairs, and no patrons. Just me lying on the dirt staring up at the rafters. So, after much internal debate (which I won't go into, since I obviously lost), I got up and stepped outside.

Immediately my senses were assaulted. Though this was still the world I had left behind, somehow it wasn't. Things were more... well more of what they were always meant to be but had never really been until this very moment. It was like the knob on reality had been cranked to eleven. Colors were more vibrant, scents more pungent, and sounds more distinct. I began to walk in no particular direction.

A short while later I heard it. A jingling, like spare change in baggy pants and a wind chime in the breeze. Then, for the briefest moment, it sounded like a wind chime in baggy pants and spare change in the breeze. Or at least what I thought these things might sound like.

The jingling came closer, until he stepped out of the forest, and I stared him in the face. His was the strangest visage. And after a moment of scrutiny, I realized why. This was the same face I saw in the mirror every morning. Well, except for the black and white patterns marked upon his skin. And his clothing was unlike anything I'd ever and secretly never wanted to wear.

He wore a pirates scarf and a captain's hat. A black T-shirt, with red underneath. He wore bicycle shorts and knee-high stockings; one white, the other black. And his shoes were pointed with bells all a-dangling.

"Who are you?" I managed to whisper.

He laughed. "Stanley," he said. "But you can call me 'the midnight rambler'."

"The midnight rambler?"

"Yeah, sounds cool doesn't it. I used to be a pro-wrestler, and that was my ring name. The Midnight Rambler! Or M-R for short. And mister M-R if you wanted to show due respect. But then everybody started calling me mister mister and, well that was just stupid so I left it all behind and became a professional jester instead."

"And what does a professional jester do?" I dared to ask.

"Oh, you know. Laugh at the King's jokes, provide misdirection in His Majesty's courts to keep foreign ambassadors off kilter, fight against men dressed as bats. That sort of thing." He winked at me. "Oh yeah, and rattle off rhymes that may or may not hold keys to the path ahead."

He had my attention. "Tell me."

"Of course. Now listen close..."

And thus he spoke:

"A stone that greets the wizard's words, a pouch to hide the poison slow, the sound of clown, a king's bright glint, a lady's thread, a knaves lament, an elven spark, a dragon's seal, then bind it all with poet's zeal."

I frowned. "That's it? That makes no sense whatsoever."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, we're practically spoon feeding you these clues. A pouch to hide the poison, a stone that greets...ah dagnabbit! It's the tooth you got in that Crown Royal bag there. Those are the first two lines, for cryin' out loud. I'm telling you what you can expect to get from the folks you encounter along your quest. The talisman that will help you defeat Gollumita."

I slowly realized what he was saying. "Oh. Yeah...stone that greets... that makes sense. I suppose."

"You're not welcome you know! I'm only doing this because Cletus threatened to spit in my hat if I didn't." And then he hopped back into the forest and was gone.

I was about to walk away, when I saw something twinkle on the ground. I bent over and picked it up. It was a bell from the Jester's shoe. I put it into my pouch in case I ran into him again.

Then I resumed my aimless trek as I wondered aloud;

"The sound of clown... now what could that mean?"