A: Technically, that's just an imperative with a question mark at the end, not really a question, but I'll do my best.
The most obvious descriptions -- a cow, a laundry machine, a mimic octopus, a binary star -- all fall short of adequate, though none of them would be inaccurate. There's a tangle of vines and thunder, and an oddly thrilling sensation of constantly-dropping temperature which grows more intense the further you go away from my costume. Cheap plastic and satin stripes wind around one another to suggest angles that are inappropriate, non-Euclidian, or downright obscene, but somehow they combine together at my right shoulder to form a perfect, radiant octagon, like a stopsign reborn as some grand pale-blue star. The scent of fresh milk and recent lightning flares up with each footstep of those strange little slippers, always off-balance and tense, looking more practical as a weapon than a piece of footwear. The mask is anything but masklike, the cape is sixty feet long and made of disembodied television static, all warped and swirling whenever someone nearby makes a good joke.
But oh, the hat -- that tall, black, smokestack of a hat -- it promises so much and asks so little!
