THE PUNCHLINE IS AT THE END

Last Entry

Wednesday came. He took extra-efforts to make himself look good on that particular day. He even went to a barber for a quick haircut and a shave. He was extra-careful while he ironed his suit.

“Tonight,” he said, “would be the best performance of my life.”

Bert smiled at the mirror. He then made a heinous laugh that sent the birds from his window fly with terror.

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“What’s with the balloons?” the stage manager asked.

“You’ll see,” and he smiled that hideous smile.

“This better be good Bert. Your ass is on the line tonight.”

He ignored him. He scanned the crowd.

"A high turn-out tonight,” he said. “Good. Very good.”

The usual program started and before it was even twelve, he was introduced by the emcee. Entering the stage with balloons at one hand, he looked like a clown.

“What’s this, a children’s party?” someone from the crowd shouted. There was laughter.

Bert snickered. Dancing without any coherent steps, he gave the heckler a balloon. He also gave the rest of the audience a balloon for each table.

“Here’s the deal,” he began. “For every joke you don’t find funny, you would have to blow up a balloon.”

The audience agreed. They thought it was part of the act. Someone said if they could take the balloon home. He replied that they could not because there’s something special in it.

“Let’s begin, alright,” he said. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

The audience answered back. “To get to the other side.”

A man at the front table said, “Can I now blow up this balloon? I’ve heard that before.” There was laughter, but Bert wasn’t really listening.

“Why did my girlfriend have to leave for Japan?” he asked.

“Because your dick is too small,” shouted someone at the back. There was hysterical laughing from his group.

“Wrong,” he shot back. “Okay, you may now blow-up the first balloon.” He pointed at the drunken man at the middle of the crowd. He was holding the biggest balloon.

The man raised his head and asked the lady beside him for a hairpin. “Anyway, your joke is not funny.”

With that, he blew up the first balloon. But instead of air or helium inside the balloon, it was laughing gas. As soon as the gas reached the nostrils of the drunkard on the closed club, there was uncontrollable laughter.

“I’m just making sure that the boss’ orders are fulfilled.”

He was beginning to get real angry. He knew that the people around him would be in his control. He then reached for a small microphone at the stage and also the gas mask he had prepared. He stuck the mike inside the mask. He went centerstage and sat aton its edge.

“Now let me continue with my performance. A lot of you may be wondering why I’m wearing this mask. As I’ve said, this would be the biggest performance of my life. I promise that all of you would laugh,” he told the audience.

“By the way, if you would all please prick the fucking balloons I gave you.”

Not really knowing what’s happening, the crowd complied. Suddenly, there was laughing gas everywhere.

“Oh,” he said, “I added a little something special on those toys.”

He was referring to the liquid inside some of the balloons. He half-filled some of them with pig’s blood and urine. So you could imagine that amidst the laughter caused by the laughing gas, blood and urine splattered all over the floor, and on people’s dresses.

But all of them were laughing hysterically.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” said one of the female customers. She was also screaming at the same time. “There’s blood all over me. Get me out of here. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Despite her laughter, there were tears in her eyes.

Some people started to get up and were heading for the door. Bert drew a gun. “Not this time assholes. Either you let me finish with my act or I shoot.” He was pointing his revolver at the door of the club. In his eyes were menace never seen before on his otherwise smiling feature.

People were afraid but it was masked by the filth and the laughter.

“You’re crazy,” said one man.

“Please let us go,” cried the other.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” tears were falling down on the face on that someone who was laughing.

“Now let me finish,” he pointed his gun. The audience sat on their seats; with terror on their faces, scared and confused. They tried to listen to him.

“I see you’re all in the mood tonight,” Bert continued. “Let me tell you the story of my life. Let me tell you the circumstances that made me what I am today. Things that made me do whatever it is I am doing right now.”

Roars of laughter echoed from the crowd.

“Good,” he continued. “You see, I always wanted to be a policeman. My parents were damn too poor to send me to high school. I became a stand-up comedian because instead of crying like most of you people do, I laughed at my life. I hated my childhood. Damn! My brothers beat me up. My parents never took notice of me. The day I ran away from home, no one even looked for me. No one loved me except Emma.”

“I’m sure you know what I mean. The simple things that she does. I terribly miss her. It’s like a song, really. The way she looks in the mirror to check for pimples and stuff. Girl thing. The way she opens the door to give me that warm smile.”

Bert was silent for a moment. He then continued.

“There were times when she would hold my hand for no apparent reason. I remember one time that she cried over a movie we saw on TV. I laughed at her. It took me two hours to appease her. But now,” he paused “neither the power of poetry nor a love song, not even the strength and sweetness of a flower can bring her back to me. Is it a matter of choice? I just know that I have lost her.”

“Fuck, I sound like a poet,” he laughed but tears were falling on his eyes.

Suddenly, one man stood up and ran for the door. Bert aimed at the door and fired a shot. He did not aim at the man but it him in the back.

“Oh yes! I’m also a sharp shooter. I practice with pellet guns. Now there are only four bullets left. I tell you, I itch to use all of them.”

He stood up. The crowd who tried to scream had let out a roar of laughter. The laughing gas was still in effect. The club smells of urine and blood.

“Why did Emma have to leave for Japan, I ask you?” He slowly took off the gasmask from his face. Just a little longer, he was also laughing hysterically.

“I love her more than anything else in this God forsaken world! No one loved me more than she did. . . .” he began to cry and to laugh along with the crowd. He knelt at the center of the stage. He drew up his gun and shot in the air.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” three bullets were heard. He then pointed his revolver at his forehead. “Laugh at my life!” He squeezed the trigger and felt dizzy inside. He was thrown unconscious to the floor.

EPILOGUE

It turned out that the last bullet did not fire. He lost consciousness suffocating from lack of oxygen. He was later turned over to the police. He went to prison for homicide and a couple of other charges. The city mayor closed down the club.

One day, a postman arrived at the club carrying a bag of letters, all for Bert. It seemed that the post office had a problem delivering his mail because someone on the other side of the street has the same name and surname as he has. By the time the letter was returned to the post office then sent out again for delivery, well, we all know what happened. Just as the postman, after seeing the establishment closed, walked towards his service motorcycle, a beggar approached him.

“Why did the postman cross the road?” the man in dirty clothes asked.

“To get to the other side,” the postman answered.

“To deliver letters, of course,” said the beggar.

The postman shrugged. He heard that joke before but not on that light.
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The guys at the post office was right,” he thought. “You could really find the funniest people on this side of town.”