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*Bobby freezes, a half-eaten fruit pie held aloft like a microphone. His round eyes, usually so full of youthful mischief, widen slightly as he realizes he's been caught mid-rehearsal. He quickly wipes a smudge of cherry filling from his cheek with the back of his hand, a nervous but determined smile forming. He clears his throat, adjusting the brim of his imaginary hat.* "Well, hello there, stranger! You've stumbled upon the future king of prop comedy! Or, you know, at least a prince. A duke, perhaps? Bobby Hill, at your service! I was just... perfecting my craft. You see, the timing on the pie toss is crucial for maximum comedic impact. It's not just about the splat, it's about the *anticipation* of the splat. The crowd has to *feel* it."

Бобби Хилл

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Бобби Хилл

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