He Who Laughs Last

This is how the world ends. Not with a whimper. But a chuckle…

My buddy, Chandler, is sitting next to me when the news starts pouring in. Sixty-five dead at the release of the new Judd Apatow movie. Roman’s Chinese Theater burns in the background. A reporter stands across the street, fire light making her hair orange. She’s says something, but gets interrupted by a guy off camera.

Someone’s yelling, “Wanna hear a joke?”

“This is Kyla Briggs, live for KTLA, signing-”

The ax comes swinging into view, catching Kyla across the bridge of the nose.

“Funny shit, huh?” the man’s voice asks before the station cuts back to a very stunned looking anchor man.

Chandler puts the bong down, Pineapple Kush still glowing in the pipe.

“Did I just see that, Joe?” he asks me. Pot smoke wafts from his mouth in one thick cloud. He coughs, wipes the side of his face, and looks at me for answers.

I have none. I saw it just like he did. And I know just as much.

“Fuck,” is all I can say. I’m standing now, my hands drying themselves on the front of my jeans. My weed baked brain tries to make sense of everything. Why the hell we were watching the news in the first place? Fucked up thing to be thinking after seeing someone’s melon split.

“How I Met Your Mother was just on. Now it’s the news.” I’m telling myself this even as I’m thinking it. We were watching that sitcom – Neal Patrick Harris is funny as shit in it – and it went off. News came on next. Mystery solved.

“Think she’s dead?” Chandler slaps himself in the forehead. If he hadn’t, I would’ve. Fucking idiot.

The guy in the bad suit is telling us about how reports are coming in from all over the country. Chucklers – they’re calling them Chucklers? – are committing atrocities while in fits of laughter. Bad Suit tells us that they have another reporter in the field and I’m hoping this one doesn’t have an ax resting in their kisser.

The station cuts and I feel like I’m watching that one movie, Cloverfield. Or maybe, The Blair Witch Project.

The camera’s bouncing and I can’t see shit but shoes and pavement. Over the microphone comes sounds of elation and happiness. I’m all kinds of screwed up when the screaming starts.

PAP!

I’m still wondering what that sound is when the camera man hits the ground. The camera skitters away down the sidewalk and rolls over. Chandler and I, both, tilt our heads like morons trying to compensate for the flipped view.

I see Chandler reach for the bong. I guess he feels like he needs to get higher and forget all this crazy shit.

On the TV, a severed hand falls into view, bouncing on the concrete.

Chandler has a mouthful of weed smoke when a female voice titters, “Lend me a hand, asshole.”

I’m shocked stupid but Chandler finds it too fucking funny. He coughs out the toke he’s got in his lungs, erupting into laughter.

He doesn’t stop.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

His lips are pulled back so far I think they’re going to split at the corners. His teeth clench and saliva bubbles burst through the small spaces between his canines.

“Heeeeee, heeeeee, heeeeee.” He’s laughing. I know he is. But his eyes aren’t.

I jump when he breaks the mouth piece off the bong. It shatters on the coffee table. Shards of tie-dye glass fly everywhere.

He’s up and coming at me.

In junior high school, we did West Side Story, me and him. He’s reliving that scene where the hood is tossing his knife back and forth from hand to hand while he sings and dances.

Chandler is Goofy on repeat. ”Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.”

He’s closer now and I don’t know where to go. The recliner is behind me. The couch is to my left. Only thing to my right is the corner of my living room. Chandler’s blocking my only way out.

I wonder if my mouth is dry because of the fear or the dope.

Chandler stabs the bong at me, almost guts me with the jagged edge, but I sway to the side just in time. I try to punch him. The shot glances off his cheek and slides across his sweaty face. His oily perspiration feels fever-hot on my knuckles. Hell hot.

Chandler cackles, “You just gotta laugh, Joe! Ya gotta!”

He raises the broken bong over his head.

I bring my knee up and kick him as hard as I can in the sternum. He’s sailing backward. Up over the coffee table he goes.

Chandler lands in the pile of bong-glass shards. The noises coming out of him are still gleeful, horrible sounds. He’s getting up, but I’m already moving past him.

“Hee… hee, hee… heeeeeeee,” he whines. He can’t get off his knees. I see him struggling, but he can’t seem to get the strength. Chandler slaps at the back of his neck. Finally, he snags something. His hand comes back holding a three inch piece of bong glass that he’s pulled from the back of his neck.

How it missed his spinal cord, I don’t have a clue.

“Haaaaaa… heeeeeeeeeeeee.” That last wheeze goes on for almost ten seconds before turning into a gurgling rattle.

Chandler’s on his face now. He’s not moving.

***

The Chucklers have been coming nonstop for two days now. I fended them off for as long as I could. Now I’m sitting here wondering what the fuck to do because I’m out of options.

My mother’s phoning me. She asks if I know any good “knee slappers.” In the back ground, my dad won’t stop fucking giggling. I hang up the phone when the screaming begins.

A text from Dad.

It Reads: Ur mother never saw the irony in callin u a son of a bitch. LMFAO!!!

I can’t help it.

Huh, huh huh…