Floating in your closet is the duck costume from the night before, its fury permeating the air. Your eyes fixed on its "face", a strange-looking construct with the duck bill floating loosely before it and the eye hole empty, you stumble backwards, feeling each of your feet sink into something warm and smooth. Looking down at them, you see them engulfed in the pair of rubber duck-foot boots, covering them at least as far as the ankles and disappearing under your pants and out of your sight beyond there.
Taking advantage of your surprise, the duck launches another assault, its bill flying at you while you're still distracted by the yellow feet, spinning around and wrapping around your mouth, its string quickly making its way over the back of your head. You stand up immediately, shocked, and before you give another chance to those ghastly costume remains you slam the closet door shut. For a few seconds it rattles and shakes, the costume apparently trying to force its way out of there and onto you, but after a few seconds the sound lets up and you can lean back and relax. Well, sort of. There's still the matter of the boots and bill to deal with.
Deciding to deal with your face first, you reach up to the bill, but find that you can't seem to pull it all the way off. The bill will lift from your mouth, but the string keeps getting caught in your hair. You eventually catch on that you'll have to take off the string first, so you reach behind your hair and begin to gently pull it up, accidentally snapping it. No big deal, the mask'll come off anyways... except it doesn't. The snapped string drops, hanging limply by the sides of the mask for a few seconds before falling to the floor, but the bill itself remains adhered. You grab it with both hands and give it a good tug, but rather than lifting easily as it did before it now sticks to you as though it were glued down. You try feeling around it, noting with a bit of surprise how well it fits you, as though it were molded for your face, but unfortunately find no good way to get it off. In your frustration you let out a shout, and what comes out is only half like what you wanted. The other half is, quite distinctively, a quack. You try saying some basic words, but again, your voice is mixed with those quacks, and what you manage to get out is a virtually incomprehensible series of quack-like noises that just vaguely resemble the words and syllables they should.
Turning your attention downwards, you begin to pull your pantlegs up and away from your flat, webbed feet. The yellow boots look like they must be extremely tight, capturing your musculature beneath their surface fairly well while still somehow managing to maintain that duck-like appearance, but as much as you'd love to wonder over their incredible workmanship you'd much rather get them off right now. Pulling your pantlegs up to your knees, you find that the boots only stop about three quarters of the way there. Or rather, they fade. At some point, the rubbery sheen and yellow coloring of the boots seems to just sort of shift into your regular human legs. There's no tops to them or even any bottoms to your legs, the two pairs just seem to flow into one another.
Slumping over against the wall behind you, stuck with the painful realization that you'll have to live the rest of your life with a pair of duck feet and a bill that makes you sound like a cartoon character, you're already miserable enough without what happens next.