Post by joker on Mar 22, 2010 8:46:36 GMT -5
A joke.
The purpose of a joke, is to provoke laughter or amusement. Usually there's an intended audience for a joke - you don't tell the one about two prostitutes and a doberman in a nightclub at a six-year-olds' birthday party. Coco the Clown learnt that the hard way, you see. A lot of the time it's about testing the water, trying to find that intended audience to get the laughs out of them. Then you spend hours perfecting the material, and your delivery of it, and before you know it, you've brought the house down around you. Unless of course, your intended audience was always yourself.
That was always the intended audience for Joker.
It rains in Newport, Maine. Not much, but sometimes. Enough to spook the locals, probably thanks to that big-shot writer from the same state. But tonight it rains, and it rains hard. The locals seek shelter in the bars, pubs, clubs, and the safety of their own homes. Tonight, gentle viewer, we take shelter at a dingy little underground bar and comedy club - Big Tooth Grin. The interior was bathed in the dim orange lights, cigarette smoke weaving itself around the beams, dancing. The bartenders serve up drinks to the guys and girls teetering on the verge of "three too many" territory. They don't care - it's more profit coming their way at the end of the day, and the bouncers can handle anyone if they get uppity. They're chameleons, blending into the background in their dark suits and hulking frames. You'd almost believe they weren't there at all. Almost.
The hecklers take their seats at the tables and stools in front of a small stage. A blue curtain hangs against the wall, a filtered yellow
light providing a smiley face, making it show up green. The hecklers are recovering from their latest round of abuse. A short, skinny drink of water with thick-rimmed glasses and a box full of props, fleeing the scene a good two minutes in. They're the judges, and each one of them's a vicious bastard, looking for you to make just a single mistake. Expose yourself for a moment, and they'll rip at the soft, fleshy parts until you're just a paralyzed carcass caught in the headlights of an on-coming 18-wheeler.
The business of laughter is a messy business.
Joker watched from the sidelines, a lucky strike dangling between two fingers of his right hand. The left grips a glass of Jack. He's focused, calm, and ready. There's only two times he feels this sort of buzz - waiting to go on stage, and waiting behind the curtain
backstage. It's his drug of choice, like electricity. It gets him off. Suffice to say, it's his "thing". But he's composed, unlike Jerry, who
nervously sips from a bottle of piss-poor quality beer (if you can even call it that). Joker tips the ashes of his cigarette into a discarded pint glass, followed by the butt, letting it swim in the warm dregs.
He knew exactly where the rookie went wrong. The precise moment he fell off the tightrope. When he let that soft bit of flesh on the neck hang visible. He was bumbling along with his act in a mediocre way. Couple of laughs here and there, but nothing special. An entertainer, but a manufactured one. Easy jokes, obvious gags, lacking the nerve to try anything edgy or risqué. It felt hollow.
"Comedian": "Sorry, I don't usually work here..."
He'd started a joke with that line. Who knows how it was going to end? Who cares?
Heckler: "Then why don't you fuck off?"
The audience lapped it up, big time. The sort of pat-you-on-the-back-for-a-job-well-done laugh. With just that one line, there was an opening. The crowd chanted. "Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!" and the entertainer didn't need a second thought. He quickly gathered his box of crap and left the stage, three minutes before the next act. He'd lasted two, which was better than a lot of first-timers. A colander with springs and eyes attached to it rolled lazily around the stage. The hecklers flocked back to the bar, stocking up before the next act. Before Joker.
Jerry: "Well, it could've been worse. Nobody likes to follow a Chappelle, or a Connolly."
Joker: "It's not hard to follow a clown either. Trick is to keep your ears open for the squeaking shoes."
A fat balding guy in a white shirt walked onto the stage, and up to the mic. The lights had come back up. This time, the smiley face
was upside-down. Trick of the light, maybe? Maybe the guy in charge of the filters was just as a drunk as the crowd. Either way, it
triggered a mild laugh. The fat-arse, with wet patches under his armpits and a shining bald head, let an audible curse slip.
Announcer: "Alright, let's bring on the next guy. He's a Brit, so go easy on him eh? Let's hear it for Mark Matthews!"
There was a mild pop of applause. Some of them had seen this guy before. Others had no idea, but at least they appreciated the balls it took to get up on stage like this. Joker walks onto the stage, clearing his throat. In his one hand, his glass of drink. In the other,
a stool. Not a prop, just there for the sake of it. He places it down on the stage quietly, sitting at it, and looking out into the crowd.
He looks bleak.
Joker: "Anyone here from Finland?"
Silence. No jeers, no cheers. No laughs, no boos. Mild confusion sets in. Joker scratched his cheek.
Joker: "No? Nobody?"
He was met with more silence. Jerry looked on, pensive. This was new material alright - he had no idea where Joker was going with this.
Joker: "Well, that's my act buggered then."
There was a pretty strong pop of laughter. No applause, just acknowledging a good opener. Joker stood up, finishing his drink, and putting it on the stool. Roughly, he jerked the microphone free from the stand. He walked. He talked. He flowed around the small stage, like it was his territory. He owned it, there and then, for five minutes.
Joker: "Believe it or not, I used to be a wrestler, few years back. One of them rasslers."
Someone had grown a pair that night:
Heckler: "What happened? Too much cock-sucking for you to handle?"
The audience ate it up. Suspense was building, but it was all part of the act. The ball was firmly in Joker's court, and this fuck was too dumb to even notice it.
Joker: "Ever get tired of doing shit, you fucking monkey? I got tired of it. Tired, real tired. Bet that's how your wife feels when you whip it out eh?"
He cleared his throat, putting on a nasally voice. It sounded like Lois Griffin. Impersenations, that was always a talent of Joker's. He
could mimmick all the greats, and some of the obscure ones too. It wasn't something he liked using often though. You keep stabbing with the same knife, it gets dull eventually. Same thing with comedy material. You have to mix it up, keep it fresh.
Joker: "Oh my gawd, he's got it out again. Damn it, I was just getting to the good bit of this Dan Brown..."
Laughter filled the room. The heckler had fallen silent. He could've stopped, but Joker had that look in his eye. He wanted to press further, to make the idiot pay for heckling. A little payback for the little guys who didn't have the stones to do it? No. He did it to feel normal.
Joker: "Well, I guess I can pretend for five minutes. Less if he's had a few beers. Am I right ladies?"
There was a mild cheer from the back of the room. The bartender had told him that it was a girls night out party, and one of them was
set to be hitched the next day. How the hell they ended up in this dank pit was beyond anyone's guess. Alcohol does funny things to
you, I guess. Like commitment.
Joker: "See mate, the world's all linked like that. I get five minutes up here to make you lot laugh, you get five minutes of riding your wife, everyone's even. Both end with someone unsatisfied as well. World's all connected like that. Connected. All about joining... the dots. Used to be connected in the rasslin'. Loved it. That's what keeps you going right? Doing what you love. You do. What you love."
He paused for a beat.
Joker: "I love wrestling, I love trying to make you guys laugh."
He pointed back down to the heckler. Now he was the mauled creature in the headlights.
Joker: "Gentleman down here loves boring his wife in the bedroom. Love what you do sir, love it."
Applause. Gratification. Finally, they were on his side.
Joker: "You see some weird shit backstage there, I tell you. I won't drop any names, but the stuff you read about. So much of it's true. Used to tag with a guy who had a coke problem. Really, is there any better business to have an actual nosebleed? In a sport where violence is so key, isn't it just fucking perfect timing to pick up a coke habit and get a nosebleed mid-match? Crowd love that shit."
He cleared his throat again. He warbled, warming his voice up, and without missing a spot, you'd have imagined he was from the heart
of Texas.
Joker: "And there's a rough boot to the gut, Williams goes down, it busted his nose up pretty bad though, that completely unrelated kick to the gut gave him a nose bleed!
... Wait, no, sorry, that's his blow habit folks. But if it damn sure doesn't look good on the cameras! We'll be backstage later watching him snort it offah some 18 year old pretty thing's ass, it's all comin' up next, after this 60 year-old serial rapist "The Painmaster" takes on a bear!"
They were eating out of his hand. The room might have shook with laughter. But there was still time for one more laugh. The last laugh. He turned his attention to the curtain, with the upside-down smiley face. It gave him an idea. A great idea. A new logo, perhaps? Thoughts of merchandise fired across his mind. Thoughts he hadn't had for a long time.
Joker: "Isn't that just the best statement? You know, a man like me can look at that, and say that speaks volumes about our society. How fuckin' cynical we've gotten. A joke's got to be wrong now, got to touch a nerve, hint at something more sinister, something sad, something wrong. Maybe that's right. Maybe. I mean, we sure as shit don't laugh at a chicken crossing the road anymore. We can assume the chicken's going that way without a motive. And everyone eats up a joke about being unable to please your wife or husband or dog or whatever. Y'know, if you're doing a show down south."
There was a cheer from a party to the left of the stage, audible over the laughs. A cheap shot, sure, but it worked. Kept the momentum going.
Joker: "So you get a choice when you see something like that. You can either be convinced that it's a sign of the times, and it means something, and you have to do something about it, say something about it. Or..."
He put the microphone back on the stand. Time was just about up, the closing seconds. Last try-out act of the night before closing time.
Joker: "You can just acknowledge that the guy who set it up's drunk as fuck right now, and he's going to go home, snort some coke offah some hooker, and then fuck his bored wife. Thanks guys, you been great, have a good one."
More applause as the lights went out over the stage. A couple of them stood up. It wasn't the kind of applause you'd expect to hear from one of the bigger places. This place was no Hammersmith, but it was noticable in a place as small as this. Jerry continued to applaud through the ruckus of people gathering coats, bags, handing in glasses, and heading to the door. His eyes were fixed on the dark, empty stage as Joker joined him, collecting his jacket and slipping it on.
Jerry: "Not bad. Better. Spent a little too much time rambling. You're no Hicks."
Joker: "Yeah, and you're no Freud."
Jerry: "Saw that look on your face when talking about wrestling. You sure this is a good idea? I mean, we've still got a lot of work to do."
Joker: "It'll be good for me. Can't spend all my time sat on my arse writing. You get fat that way, and you don't need that kind of competition."
Jerry laughed loud. It was closer to a donkey being hit with a lead pipe than a sign of humour. Fucking annoying laugh.
Jerry: "I can make some calls, track down some old faces if you want? No promises, but we'll see where it goes."
A slight pop of a cap, followed by a shaking noise, as Joker knocked back three green pills. His jaw clicked slightly - it hadn't set right since a hardcore rules match a few years back when he took a set of stairs to the face. Good thing they set his nose right. He took the bitter pills.
Joker: "Put out the feelers. You know the guys I like to work with."
With a nod, Joker and Jerry walked out into the rain. The Newport Rain. A sign in itself.
The purpose of a joke, is to provoke laughter or amusement. Usually there's an intended audience for a joke - you don't tell the one about two prostitutes and a doberman in a nightclub at a six-year-olds' birthday party. Coco the Clown learnt that the hard way, you see. A lot of the time it's about testing the water, trying to find that intended audience to get the laughs out of them. Then you spend hours perfecting the material, and your delivery of it, and before you know it, you've brought the house down around you. Unless of course, your intended audience was always yourself.
That was always the intended audience for Joker.
It rains in Newport, Maine. Not much, but sometimes. Enough to spook the locals, probably thanks to that big-shot writer from the same state. But tonight it rains, and it rains hard. The locals seek shelter in the bars, pubs, clubs, and the safety of their own homes. Tonight, gentle viewer, we take shelter at a dingy little underground bar and comedy club - Big Tooth Grin. The interior was bathed in the dim orange lights, cigarette smoke weaving itself around the beams, dancing. The bartenders serve up drinks to the guys and girls teetering on the verge of "three too many" territory. They don't care - it's more profit coming their way at the end of the day, and the bouncers can handle anyone if they get uppity. They're chameleons, blending into the background in their dark suits and hulking frames. You'd almost believe they weren't there at all. Almost.
The hecklers take their seats at the tables and stools in front of a small stage. A blue curtain hangs against the wall, a filtered yellow
light providing a smiley face, making it show up green. The hecklers are recovering from their latest round of abuse. A short, skinny drink of water with thick-rimmed glasses and a box full of props, fleeing the scene a good two minutes in. They're the judges, and each one of them's a vicious bastard, looking for you to make just a single mistake. Expose yourself for a moment, and they'll rip at the soft, fleshy parts until you're just a paralyzed carcass caught in the headlights of an on-coming 18-wheeler.
The business of laughter is a messy business.
Joker watched from the sidelines, a lucky strike dangling between two fingers of his right hand. The left grips a glass of Jack. He's focused, calm, and ready. There's only two times he feels this sort of buzz - waiting to go on stage, and waiting behind the curtain
backstage. It's his drug of choice, like electricity. It gets him off. Suffice to say, it's his "thing". But he's composed, unlike Jerry, who
nervously sips from a bottle of piss-poor quality beer (if you can even call it that). Joker tips the ashes of his cigarette into a discarded pint glass, followed by the butt, letting it swim in the warm dregs.
He knew exactly where the rookie went wrong. The precise moment he fell off the tightrope. When he let that soft bit of flesh on the neck hang visible. He was bumbling along with his act in a mediocre way. Couple of laughs here and there, but nothing special. An entertainer, but a manufactured one. Easy jokes, obvious gags, lacking the nerve to try anything edgy or risqué. It felt hollow.
"Comedian": "Sorry, I don't usually work here..."
He'd started a joke with that line. Who knows how it was going to end? Who cares?
Heckler: "Then why don't you fuck off?"
The audience lapped it up, big time. The sort of pat-you-on-the-back-for-a-job-well-done laugh. With just that one line, there was an opening. The crowd chanted. "Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!" and the entertainer didn't need a second thought. He quickly gathered his box of crap and left the stage, three minutes before the next act. He'd lasted two, which was better than a lot of first-timers. A colander with springs and eyes attached to it rolled lazily around the stage. The hecklers flocked back to the bar, stocking up before the next act. Before Joker.
Jerry: "Well, it could've been worse. Nobody likes to follow a Chappelle, or a Connolly."
Joker: "It's not hard to follow a clown either. Trick is to keep your ears open for the squeaking shoes."
A fat balding guy in a white shirt walked onto the stage, and up to the mic. The lights had come back up. This time, the smiley face
was upside-down. Trick of the light, maybe? Maybe the guy in charge of the filters was just as a drunk as the crowd. Either way, it
triggered a mild laugh. The fat-arse, with wet patches under his armpits and a shining bald head, let an audible curse slip.
Announcer: "Alright, let's bring on the next guy. He's a Brit, so go easy on him eh? Let's hear it for Mark Matthews!"
There was a mild pop of applause. Some of them had seen this guy before. Others had no idea, but at least they appreciated the balls it took to get up on stage like this. Joker walks onto the stage, clearing his throat. In his one hand, his glass of drink. In the other,
a stool. Not a prop, just there for the sake of it. He places it down on the stage quietly, sitting at it, and looking out into the crowd.
He looks bleak.
Joker: "Anyone here from Finland?"
Silence. No jeers, no cheers. No laughs, no boos. Mild confusion sets in. Joker scratched his cheek.
Joker: "No? Nobody?"
He was met with more silence. Jerry looked on, pensive. This was new material alright - he had no idea where Joker was going with this.
Joker: "Well, that's my act buggered then."
There was a pretty strong pop of laughter. No applause, just acknowledging a good opener. Joker stood up, finishing his drink, and putting it on the stool. Roughly, he jerked the microphone free from the stand. He walked. He talked. He flowed around the small stage, like it was his territory. He owned it, there and then, for five minutes.
Joker: "Believe it or not, I used to be a wrestler, few years back. One of them rasslers."
Someone had grown a pair that night:
Heckler: "What happened? Too much cock-sucking for you to handle?"
The audience ate it up. Suspense was building, but it was all part of the act. The ball was firmly in Joker's court, and this fuck was too dumb to even notice it.
Joker: "Ever get tired of doing shit, you fucking monkey? I got tired of it. Tired, real tired. Bet that's how your wife feels when you whip it out eh?"
He cleared his throat, putting on a nasally voice. It sounded like Lois Griffin. Impersenations, that was always a talent of Joker's. He
could mimmick all the greats, and some of the obscure ones too. It wasn't something he liked using often though. You keep stabbing with the same knife, it gets dull eventually. Same thing with comedy material. You have to mix it up, keep it fresh.
Joker: "Oh my gawd, he's got it out again. Damn it, I was just getting to the good bit of this Dan Brown..."
Laughter filled the room. The heckler had fallen silent. He could've stopped, but Joker had that look in his eye. He wanted to press further, to make the idiot pay for heckling. A little payback for the little guys who didn't have the stones to do it? No. He did it to feel normal.
Joker: "Well, I guess I can pretend for five minutes. Less if he's had a few beers. Am I right ladies?"
There was a mild cheer from the back of the room. The bartender had told him that it was a girls night out party, and one of them was
set to be hitched the next day. How the hell they ended up in this dank pit was beyond anyone's guess. Alcohol does funny things to
you, I guess. Like commitment.
Joker: "See mate, the world's all linked like that. I get five minutes up here to make you lot laugh, you get five minutes of riding your wife, everyone's even. Both end with someone unsatisfied as well. World's all connected like that. Connected. All about joining... the dots. Used to be connected in the rasslin'. Loved it. That's what keeps you going right? Doing what you love. You do. What you love."
He paused for a beat.
Joker: "I love wrestling, I love trying to make you guys laugh."
He pointed back down to the heckler. Now he was the mauled creature in the headlights.
Joker: "Gentleman down here loves boring his wife in the bedroom. Love what you do sir, love it."
Applause. Gratification. Finally, they were on his side.
Joker: "You see some weird shit backstage there, I tell you. I won't drop any names, but the stuff you read about. So much of it's true. Used to tag with a guy who had a coke problem. Really, is there any better business to have an actual nosebleed? In a sport where violence is so key, isn't it just fucking perfect timing to pick up a coke habit and get a nosebleed mid-match? Crowd love that shit."
He cleared his throat again. He warbled, warming his voice up, and without missing a spot, you'd have imagined he was from the heart
of Texas.
Joker: "And there's a rough boot to the gut, Williams goes down, it busted his nose up pretty bad though, that completely unrelated kick to the gut gave him a nose bleed!
... Wait, no, sorry, that's his blow habit folks. But if it damn sure doesn't look good on the cameras! We'll be backstage later watching him snort it offah some 18 year old pretty thing's ass, it's all comin' up next, after this 60 year-old serial rapist "The Painmaster" takes on a bear!"
They were eating out of his hand. The room might have shook with laughter. But there was still time for one more laugh. The last laugh. He turned his attention to the curtain, with the upside-down smiley face. It gave him an idea. A great idea. A new logo, perhaps? Thoughts of merchandise fired across his mind. Thoughts he hadn't had for a long time.
Joker: "Isn't that just the best statement? You know, a man like me can look at that, and say that speaks volumes about our society. How fuckin' cynical we've gotten. A joke's got to be wrong now, got to touch a nerve, hint at something more sinister, something sad, something wrong. Maybe that's right. Maybe. I mean, we sure as shit don't laugh at a chicken crossing the road anymore. We can assume the chicken's going that way without a motive. And everyone eats up a joke about being unable to please your wife or husband or dog or whatever. Y'know, if you're doing a show down south."
There was a cheer from a party to the left of the stage, audible over the laughs. A cheap shot, sure, but it worked. Kept the momentum going.
Joker: "So you get a choice when you see something like that. You can either be convinced that it's a sign of the times, and it means something, and you have to do something about it, say something about it. Or..."
He put the microphone back on the stand. Time was just about up, the closing seconds. Last try-out act of the night before closing time.
Joker: "You can just acknowledge that the guy who set it up's drunk as fuck right now, and he's going to go home, snort some coke offah some hooker, and then fuck his bored wife. Thanks guys, you been great, have a good one."
More applause as the lights went out over the stage. A couple of them stood up. It wasn't the kind of applause you'd expect to hear from one of the bigger places. This place was no Hammersmith, but it was noticable in a place as small as this. Jerry continued to applaud through the ruckus of people gathering coats, bags, handing in glasses, and heading to the door. His eyes were fixed on the dark, empty stage as Joker joined him, collecting his jacket and slipping it on.
Jerry: "Not bad. Better. Spent a little too much time rambling. You're no Hicks."
Joker: "Yeah, and you're no Freud."
Jerry: "Saw that look on your face when talking about wrestling. You sure this is a good idea? I mean, we've still got a lot of work to do."
Joker: "It'll be good for me. Can't spend all my time sat on my arse writing. You get fat that way, and you don't need that kind of competition."
Jerry laughed loud. It was closer to a donkey being hit with a lead pipe than a sign of humour. Fucking annoying laugh.
Jerry: "I can make some calls, track down some old faces if you want? No promises, but we'll see where it goes."
A slight pop of a cap, followed by a shaking noise, as Joker knocked back three green pills. His jaw clicked slightly - it hadn't set right since a hardcore rules match a few years back when he took a set of stairs to the face. Good thing they set his nose right. He took the bitter pills.
Joker: "Put out the feelers. You know the guys I like to work with."
With a nod, Joker and Jerry walked out into the rain. The Newport Rain. A sign in itself.
