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Picture a cozy, timeworn pub on the edge of a quiet town. The wooden sign above the door swings gently whenever the wind picks up, creaking like it’s telling stories of years gone by. Inside, the bar is dimly lit and smells like varnished wood and hops. The regulars nurse their drinks in silence—until the door swings open and in waddles… a duck.
Not just any duck. This one walks with purpose, hops onto a barstool like he’s done it a hundred times, and looks the bartender straight in the eye.
“I’ll take a pint of your best ale,” he says in a clear voice, “and a ham sandwich, if the kitchen’s still open.”
The bartender—a broad-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache and a towel slung over one shoulder—freezes mid-pour. He blinks twice, stares, then blurts, “Hang on… you’re a duck!”
The duck blinks right back. “Thanks for the update, Sherlock,” he replies dryly.
The bartender stammers, “But… you’re talking! You can talk! I mean… you’re ordering food!”
“Yes, and I’d love to eat it sometime today,” the duck replies, glancing toward the kitchen.
Shaking off his shock, the bartender begins pouring the ale. “Sorry, it’s just… not every day a duck walks into my bar and orders lunch. What brings you around here?”
“Work,” says the duck simply. “I’m helping with the renovations across the street. I’m a plasterer.”
The bartender can’t quite wrap his head around that, but he nods, handing over the pint. The duck takes a sip, opens a folded newspaper from a satchel, and settles in like any other regular.
Day after day, for two solid weeks, the duck comes in at lunch. Same order. Same stool. Same newspaper. And over time, the bartender stops being surprised. Mostly.
Then one afternoon, a traveling circus rolls into town. They pitch a huge red-and-yellow tent in the open field just down the road. That evening, the circus ringmaster—dressed in a velvet coat and wearing a top hat as tall as a milk jug—comes into the pub for a drink. The bartender pours him a lager and suddenly remembers his curious customer.
“You’ve got to hear this,” he says to the ringmaster, leaning in. “We’ve got a duck who talks. He orders lunch, reads the paper—like he owns the place! He’d be a perfect fit for your show.”
The ringmaster’s eyes light up. “That sounds incredible!” he says, fishing a business card from his coat. “Tell him to give me a call!”
The next day, the duck hops onto his usual stool. The bartender, barely containing his excitement, leans across the counter.
“Hey, I think I found a brilliant opportunity for you,” he says. “A real step up.”
The duck sets down his paper. “Go on.”
“The circus is in town,” the bartender says proudly. “They want to talk to you—maybe offer you a spot in the show!”
The duck’s brow furrows. “The circus?”
“Yep!” the bartender grins. “You know—the big striped tent, the elephants, the acrobats.”
“The circus,” the duck repeats slowly. “With the caravans, and the sawdust, and all the clowns?”
“That’s the one!”
The duck tilts his head. “You mean the place with no walls, a roof made of canvas, and people swinging from trapezes?”
“Yes! Exactly!”
The duck stares at him for a long moment, then says, “Why on earth would they need someone who does plaster work?”
