Writing the Great American..Short Story?

To start, I'd like to thank everyone who has read my story, and I'd like to thank my brother and my dad for helping me edit it as time grew short, and the looming deadline to submit for a contest crept closer.

I still intend to polish it, and submit it for publication and other contests. I have also had some ideas as brief follow-up stories for each reality, at least on my blog. I am working on one right now, and should have it posted this weekend.

One thing I have discovered during the rapid process of trying to compile and finish a near-7000 word story in such a short time is how much one can miss with the first rough draft. Even though I understand that rough drafts are specifically written to be critiqued, it doesn't make it any easier. I think the short deadline left me less vulnerable to any negative emotions one can feel when your own words are attacked, and for that, I am grateful.

I am debating whether I keep working on a bunch of short stories, or hammer out a novel. The story idea I have come up with lends itself to short stories. It also helps that I'm short on time most days, so at least for now I think the choice has been made for me.

Anyway, thanks for reading it, and if you actually read this, do yourself a favor. Go buy a bag of Tootsie Roll pops, and eat one, and only one. Enjoy it.

I said one. I SAID JUST ONE. Weirdo. I didn't say stick as many in your mouth as possible. The owl says, "how many licks does it take to get to the center?", not "how many can you jam in your mouth like a yokel?"

Thanks again everyone, and keep an eye on the blog. I plan to post more here now that I have the writing fever again.

Gus

The Punch Line Isn't Funny

I was always amazed that the Alternate Reality Device, when activated, refreshed my senses with a burst of vanilla and coconut. I suspect the aliens that created the device must have been considering selling it to humans at some point. I could imagine the marketing team commenting on how humans don’t like the scent of sulphur and moon rocks, and to just shove some potpourri and smelly “human” items into the device. Oh, and lights and shiny screens. We humans do love our flashing lights and doodads.

The device opened up its tear in space-time, plopping me down upon a somewhat deserted alley, crammed between two big buildings painted a nauseous shade of beige. For an alley it was remarkably clean. No bums, cardboard boxes or leftover pizza anywhere in sight. No concrete stains; no rats, dead or alive, to offend the anti-rodent crowd; no druggies begging for change; I was pleasantly surprised.

“My compliments to the alley cleaners,” I mumbled, placing the device in my satchel. I separated my datapad from the device, flipped it open, and let the flashing lights and gizmos dazzle me as it warmed up. Eventually, it loaded to the home screen, and I pressed the A.I. button. I was greeted by Bannock, the computer’s remarkably hard to understand Artificial Intelligence. Artificial Intelligences are allowed to choose their accents, and for some reason (I’d assume just to annoy the Hell out of me) Bannock chose a mix of Scottish and Irish. It sounded like a cross between a Leprechaun and Sean Connery.
“Greetings, sir! Wha’ canna do fer ya?” Bannock cheerfully chirped, its throaty, slightly smoky voice irritating me even before the accent kicked in.

“Have you had a chance to search for him yet?” I asked.

“Confirmed, sir! I tol’ ‘im earlier today tha’ ye be planin’ on meetin’ ‘im in a backalley away frum the population of this reality, sir. Wuld ye like me to summon ‘im ‘ere?”

“No, that’s okay. Just point in the right direction.”

“Aye, Laddie! This way, ye basterd!” A holographic arrow shot up from the display, pointing north. I started walking, my Converse All-Stars squeaking on the clean cement.

The sun was shining as I came out into a street devoid of people. Buildings towered around me, most of them the same boring vanilla as the buildings surrounding the alley. I didn’t see any windows on any of the buildings, which I found only slightly odd.

The sidewalk was as spotless as the alley I came from. The streets were two lanes wide, and instead of cars zipping by, guys dressed in 1950’s outfits and girls wearing poodle skirts and sweater tops rode antique-looking bikes down the road. I could hear Elvis’ voice crooning through a speaker attached to a streetlight. A 1950’s style diner stood at one corner, but aside from that bit of color, I couldn’t find a single smidge of rainbow in any direction. There was nothing but beige buildings stretching for what seemed like miles.

Something is off here, I thought to myself. I hit the AI button again.

“Bannock,” I whispered, “did we go back in time? I didn’t know you could do that!” I was impressed.

“No, sir! Our placement on the space-time continuum is right were it means ta be. I canna scan the surroundin’s fer anything unusual, if ye like.”

“Please do. This place is stuck in the 1950’s, except…off. Let me know.”

“Aye, sir. Over and out!”

Usually, when visiting other realities it was fairly easy to blend in. Nearly every reality I had ever visited had at least a portion of the population who wore t-shirts and jeans. I could meld with the populace until I met my target.

Not here, I thought to myself. I’m a big damned bleep on the radar if someone is watching. And everybody was watching. Everyone stared at me, mouths practically agape. I became very conscious of my simple black tee and jeans, a stark contrast to the over-indulgence of all the replica costumes from the days of the Big Bopper. Three people nearly crashed their bikes as they turned their heads to gawk at the weirdo in their realm. One guy spilled his soda on his Daddy-O bowling shirt. A young kid with greased hair ran away in horror. I need to find him, and fast.

I put on the datapad’s attached glasses, which displayed the same arrow on the inside of the lens, put the datapad back in my satchel and started to walk a little faster.

“How close are we?” I whispered to Bannock through the earpiece.

“Not far. I tink ‘e is comin’ this way, in fact.”

“Thank God.” Seriously. Poodle skirts, rolled jeans and ducktail hairdos? I half expected to see an “I Like Ike” poster.

“I’ve finished mah scan of tha surroundin’s, sir. This whole city is one giant complex. It’s massive, by God, it is! There be a wall as big as I ever have seen, and there ain’t a way out. There be over ten million people livin’ in this oversized fortress, sir.”

“Thanks for the info. What can you tell me about the society? What do I I need to know?”

“Still workin’ ye bastard. Scannin’ a society ain’t like readin’ James Joyce’s Ulysses. It takes a fair bit longer than that!”

“It should be easier. Keep working on it.” Lucky Bannock. He read Ulysses in less than a second while the rest of us suffer through entire classes to get through it.

“Aye sir. In tha meantime, I believe our target is right around the next corner.”

Sure enough, I turned the corner into an alley, and promptly ran right into my target. We both exclaimed gasps as we nearly collided, and backed up a step from each other. After the surprise wore off, I offered my hand in greetings.

“Hi, Vincent #37. I’m Vincent.” Vincent #37 stood in disbelief, as his brain tried to catch up with what his eyes saw. It was always this way. My alternate selves would stand slack-jawed as I handed them a pamphlet titled “Broken Reality: The Five Steps on How to Meet Your Alternate Self.” Dr. Phil Windbag, who was in fact not a doctor at all, wrote the pamphlet. It was full of flashing lights and pictures of Dr. Windbag, a balding, walrus-like human who oozed sleaze from his mouth with every smile. The pamphlet’s steps are as follows:
1. Keep breathing. Yes, reality has been broken, but it’s nothing we can’t fix with a little science and sandwiches.

2. Denial. You are going to deny that your alternate self is standing there, talking to you. This is normal. Don’t curse, run away or start praying to Buddha. Just suck it up, recognize that denial is part of the game, and move onto step 3.

3. Acceptance. You will begin to rationalize what you are seeing, and accept it as reality. Again, this is normal. Ask your alternate self for some candy. They just might have some! And then you have candy from another reality! Your friends will be jealous and you will be worshipped like a Demigod. Really.

4. Gratification. You’ve just had a conversation with your alternate self! You should thank science for making this possible. If you aren’t thankful for this opportunity, you should be ashamed. Please let your alternate self know you aren’t gratified, and they will show you why you should be.

5. Donations. Please feel free to donate an item of clothing, money or even yourself to the science cause! All donations will go to the Dr. Windbag Foundation For More Science-y Stuff in Society.

It wasn’t the greatest example of how to deal with meeting your alternate self, but the lab boys made me give it to every alternate self I visited. So far, no one had given me anything. At least they got to meet their alternate self. I did always feel bad that I never had any candy though, and promised the next reality I visited I would have some sweet and tart candy to hand out, like taffy. Everyone likes taffy.

I handed Vincent #37 the pamphlet. “This might help a little. Maybe.” While he read, I got a good look at #37. Same dark hair, though he had his hair greased back in the same 50’s style as the rest of his society. Same glacial-water blue eyes, same ridiculous chin; he had my floppy earlobes as well. I suspected his nose would have been the same, if I hadn’t broken mine twice in fights when I was younger. He was a bit pudgier around the middle, but everything else rang home as very similar to myself. He had a striped green and black Daddy-O bowling shirt on, and simple dress pants and black dress shoes.

After reading the pamphlet, he looked at me. “I am grateful, if a little confused. Will you still show me why I need to be gratified?” He was genuinely confused.
“No, that’s a joke,” I responded. “At least I think it’s a joke.” I had a hard time believing that this stiff was actually me. Nurture makes a big, big difference.

#37 nodded unconfidently. “I think I understand. Am I supposed to laugh?”

“Only if you want. You can throw the pamphlet away, wipe the grease from the bacon you will eat for breakfast tomorrow on it, make a paper airplane with it; I don’t care. Anyways, nice to meet you, number #37! Can we go somewhere and talk?”

#37 looked at my clothing. “I don’t know if we can go many places in public with you dressed like that. You will stand out.”

“Yeah, I realized that. What’s up with all the fifties style? Did you guys not get the memo about what happened the last fifty or sixty years?”

“No.” He was dead serious. “The only memo I got was that I needed to meet my alternate self in an alley.”

A little dense, I thought to myself. “It’s a joke. I figure you can fill me in.”

#37 nodded. “I’m actually heading somewhere right now that might be safe for you, if we hurry. The Compliance Officers may not have seen you yet.” He started walking down the street. “Hurry.”

“Compliance Officers?” I asked as I hurried to match his stride. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a lot going on here that I can’t talk about. Please be patient, and in a few minutes we can talk.”

As we walked down the small street, colorless canyon of boring buildings blocked the sun. I didn’t see or hear anyone as we continued down the street. Aside from the Elvis playing over the speakerphone, I hardly heard a sound. All the gawkers must have gotten their fill and left.

“Man, even with Elvis playing, I bet you could hear someone fart a half-block away, “ I tried to laugh away the uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t know if that is supposed to be humorous, but flatulence isn’t a funny subject,” he angrily whispered.

“What? Why? Of course it’s funny.” He had a lot to learn about being me. “Are you telling me you’ve never heard a fart joke?”

“Passing gas in public is forbidden.”

“Well, sure, it’s frowned upon back at home, like urinating on park benches, but you know, we do it anyway, and no one guns us down. Anyway, I’m talking about it as a joke. People do know what a joke is here, right?”

#37 stopped, sighed, and looked down the street, as if seeking an answer to my query in the distance. After a few seconds, he sadly turned towards me. “What if I told you that we don’t know what jokes are? What if I told you that laughing or enjoyment of any kind is forbidden? What would you say then?” He continued walking.

My God, I thought. What a horrible reality I’ve visited. Of all the realities I’ve been to, this might be the worst, and I’ve seen worlds without beer and sandwiches. I shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” I responded. “You have to understand that I am not given any information about the society I jump into. How did it come to this?” I tried to be polite, I really did. But no jokes? I can’t even joke about that.

“We can talk more when we get to our destination. Be quiet for now.”

I tried to keep quiet as we walked. I truly did. Unfortunately, curiosity is a wicked creature. It tries to kill cats, humans who ask too many questions, and the elderly.

“What happens when someone laughs?” I quietly asked.

His face turned white, either because he was afraid to answer or he couldn’t believe I hadn’t shut up like he asked. “They are taken to the Ironic Punishment Division in FreedomCorp’s Ministry of Sin and Punishment tower. No one ever returns from there.”

“A corporation runs the state here?”

“Please, be quiet,” he hissed. “They are always watching.” To emphasize that point, he motioned to three cameras about fifteen feet up each wall to either side of us, barely visible on the walls that surrounded the alley we were in. As I looked around, I also caught two more on the floating bridge above us, and mini zeppelins navigating the narrow alleys with cameras and mic booms hanging down from their rafters.

“Man, these guys have more cameras than Big Brother.”

At the mention of Big Brother, #37’s face turned even more perilous. “Please, no more talking, and follow me.”

Shrugging, I did as I was told. We walked down the alley a bit, into what appeared to be a crossroads of sort. As we turned the corner, the scope of what #37 was up against came into full vision.

“Mother of Mercy,” I gasped as I looked up. And up. And up.

FreedomCorp’s main complex hovered a few blocks away, but it was big enough to block out the sun – from horizon to horizon. The complex had thirteen major superstructures, surrounded by numerous other buildings below. The superstructures stood easily over two hundred stories, jutting up from the center of the city like a big middle finger to ward off anyone who even thought of going against the corporation. Every building was made of clear glass.

“There must be hundreds of buildings in their main complex,” I murmured, looking up at the ominous structures. #37 nodded.

“There are the ten ministry buildings, the Justice building, Parliament, the Office of Compliance, and hundreds of others as well. The people who work for the corporation live in the complex.”

“What are the ministries?”

“Well, I already mentioned the Ministry of Sin and Punishment. There’s the Ministry of Peace, the Ministry of War, the Ministry of Freedom, the Ministry of Foreign Entanglements, the Ministry of Meat and Grain, the Ministry of Education, the Ministry of Creationism and God, and finally, the Ministry of Secrets.”

“So it’s one big bureaucracy? Man, what happened here? We are still in the United States, aren’t we?”

#37 turned in anger at me. “At least whisper. Don’t people in your reality know how to keep quiet?”

“Sorry,” I sheepishly mouthed as we continued to walk. “So, we must be in the United States, but where?”

“I found a history book from an era called the 1950’s. I believe you would call this land ‘Texas.’”

I nodded. “Well, that makes perfect sense then. Back home, Texas politicians have been going backwards for decades. So where are we going?”

“Please, just be quiet for a few more minutes. We are almost there.” We walked along a concrete walkway. Since I couldn’t ask any more questions as I walked, I set my datapad to record everything about the society it could; the dialect, what’s in the buildings, how many people live here,etc. I can delve into the world a bit later, I thought to myself as #37 sped up his walk. How could a society let this happen? Why do people put up with this? Where is everyone? The initial look at the society flooded my thoughts with questions, most of them a confused jumble as to how a population could let this happen.

After a few minutes#37 took a good look around to make sure there weren’t any cameras around, and then lightly tapped his foot on a slab of cement in an irregular beat. The sidewalk next to where he was standing groaned and opened up to a hole. He motioned for me to follow. We came down a few steps, and then we walked down a long, dimly lit tunnel. I am not sure how long the tunnel was, but my Datapad said 10 minutes. Being a tad claustrophobic, it felt like 12 hours.

Eventually, we came to a door, the kind in old mobster movies-ancient, dingy, rusty, with a slat for peering out. #37 knocked twice, then three times rapidly. The slat slammed open to reveal a set of brown eyes.

“Password?” Brown Eyes grumbled.

“A priest, an airline pilot, and a banker walk into a bar,” #37 proudly said. Brown Eyes glinted in approval, until he looked over at me.

“Who’s the new guy?” Brown Eyes asked #37. “He your brother or something? You look a lot a like.”

“Sort of,” #37 responded, “but I’ll vouch for him. His name is also Vinnie.”

“Same name as you, even looks like you. Strange coincidences. Does he know any good jokes?” Brown Eyes demanded

“Do I know jokes? Does Batman dress as a bat?” I chuckled loudly. This startled Brown Eyes and #37.

“Keep it down, dammit! Get your butt in here.” Brown Eyes slammed the slat shut, unlocked the heavy door and let us in

At that point, I didn’t know what to expect. The first thought in my head was that #37 was taking me to a headquarters for a resistance against FreedomCorp. I expected to see walls slathered with maps and architectural designs. I wanted to see people with weapons, soldiers ready to do battle against the oppressive regime. I was hoping to see hordes of people reading intelligence and communication reports to gain weak spots in FreedomCorp’s systems.

What I didn’t expect was an auditorium of sorts, with a small stage. The stage had a brick background, with a piano and one mic stand in the foreground. Surrounding the stage were circular tables with chairs. On each table was one of those ugly red candleholders you see at every Italian restaurant. Doorways similar to the one we came through could be seen throughout the auditorium. Between the doors, a young kid with his hair slicked back handed out bottles of water. There must have been ten or fifteen people, all dressed alike.

What the Hell is this place? I thought to myself. The brick stage and the mic stand finally brought clarity to my confusion.

“You’re joking, right? A god-damned comedy club?”

“We don’t joke,” #37replied. “Well, except here. And yes, this is a comedy club. We try and come up with something funny – FreedomCorp burned every book that ever made anyone laugh or chuckle. You have to understand what it is like, to never laugh. We had to have someone steal a dictionary that existed before FreedomCorp came around just so we know what laughter even means. We come here to try and bring some joy to this joyless world.”

“Jesus, if it’s jokes you want, I have plenty of those. But why do you accept this? Why put up with it?”

“We don’t want to die,” Brown Eyes responded. “They would most certainly kill us. We would rather live like this than risk dying for something we can’t understand anyway. Where are you from, Vinnie? You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m not, but that’s beside the point,” I angrily responded. “I’m no freedom fighter, but when someone is doing something horribly wrong, you don’t put up with it, you know?

“You don’t understand,” #37 said, crestfallen. “We only know what FreedomCorp has given us. We don’t know any better.”

Again, clarity struck me across the face. “Earlier, you gave me a warning glance when I mentioned Big Brother. You know what that reference means, right?”

“No. We only know not to mention it out loud.”

“My God. You poor bastards have never known any better than what they gave you, but you must have an itch to scratch if you started this comedy club.”

“Small steps,” Brown Eyes slightly grinned. “You have to start somewhere. Seriously, where did you come from?”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, ignoring Brown eye’s question. “I just… it’s hard for me to understand how this could all happen. But that conversation can happen a bit later. Who wants to hear some jokes?”

“You can be up after Bryan,” #37 replied, leading me to a table. “Want a drink?”

“Do you have anything other than water?”

“No.”

“Water, then.” #37 snapped his fingers, and the teenage greaser brought two bottles of water.

“So what kind of jokes do you normally do here?”

“Well, whatever we can. Right now, we are trying insult comedy. Bryan is our lead insult comedy writer. Here he comes now!” We all stood up, lightly clapping as Bryan took the stage.

Bryan was a tall drink of water. He was wearing a light gray suit, with slicked back hair and shiny black shoes. As he walked out on stage and we took our seats, I could tell by his gait that he would bomb.

I’ve seen plenty of comedians in my day. I even tried a couple nights at the local improv club, to no avail. You pick up tips from watching successful comics. Comedians tend to have a way with how they walk up to the mic. It can range from self-deprecating to prideful arrogance, but all comedians know that their movements mean as much as what comes out of their mouth. Audiences can sense when a comic isn’t comfortable, and that negative aura can be as blinding as the stage lights.

Bryan nervously walked up to the mic, shuffling his feet with anxious abandon. The problem with such anxious behavior is it doesn’t breed smiles or laughs, and I knew right then this wasn’t going to be funny. Sweat slid down his face and into his blue eyes as he cleared his throat and began his routine.

“Hello everyone,” he mumbled. “How about that walk in here, huh?”

No one laughed, least of all me.

“So, um, I see some people in the audience. Can I call you fat?”

No one laughed. I groaned.

“Cause I can tell a good joke if I can call you fat.” A couple more seconds of silence. “Okay, what about ugly people? Any ugly people I can make fun of?”

He was completely lost. He didn’t even know how to form a joke, much less deliver it. It was like watching him try to swim upstream in a river filled with mutant eels, and without him knowing how to swim in the first place.

I felt bad for him, so I raised my hand. “I’m ugly. You can make fun of me.”

Bryan looked relieved. “Okay sir, what’s your name?”

“Vinnie.”

“Okay Vinnie, do you know why you are ugly?”

“…No, you’re supposed to tell me why I’m ugly. I don’t tell you.”

“Oh! Oh my…umm…your forehead is huge, and your nostrils flare up when you say the letter ‘O’.” #37 chuckled.

“That’s not funny,” I whispered.

I heard Bannock chime in from my pocket as well. “His comedy is more offensive than me ma’s excuse for a cup o’ tea. Why not just piss inna cup o’ stout and call it Black and Urine? Cause that’s what this lad is servin’ us.”

“Shove it, you little bastard,” I mumbled, turning off the A.I. button. I stood up. “Can I help you out Bryan?” I asked him as I walked towards the stage.

“Sure.” He looked relieved.

I grabbed the mic. “Okay, so we’ll start by making fun of my forehead. As you had mentioned, it is quite big. Did you know, it is so big that when bugs crawl up on me at night, they consider the race across my forehead to be a marathon?” Some chuckles from the audience. “And my nostrils flaring up? When I was a kid I used to snort whole chickens up there with ease!” More laughter. “Yeah, whole roasters!”

“But seriously folks, I’m so ugly that my mom used to wash my clothes on the ‘hideous’ cycle. I was such an ugly kid that my dad wanted to sell me to science as an experiment, and they wouldn’t take me because they weren’t sure I was human. I’m so ugly I had a country declare war against the U.S. in order to keep me from visiting and scaring the natives. I’m so ugly, the last date I had made me wear a bag on my head.”

Loud laughter now. Loud, boisterous, and absolutely beautiful. Every smirk, chuckle, grin and guffaw was years, perhaps decades in the making. Goosebumps ran across my body as the realization of what I had brought to these people dawned on me. I have brought them joy through the simple act of laughing. How amazing, and terribly sad at the same time.

“But enough about me, let’s talk about Bryan’s mom…”

* * * * * * *

After half an hour of telling the best jokes most of the audience had ever heard (though I would rate my performance as “meh”), #37 and I sat down at one of the tables near the back as another aspiring comedian took up my mantle.

“It’s a pity you don’t have any beer,” I said as I stared down into my glass of water. “I’ve had a beer at every reality I’ve been to so far, with the exception of one. I was on a 27-alternate reality beer streak. This will break that streak.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” #37 replied. “Alcohol is not allowed in Eden. It creates angry blood, which causes men to sin.”

“Eden? That’s the name of this place? How deliciously ironic,” I chuckled as I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “Before I start digging into your world, and who you are, I suppose you have some questions about me, and where I come from.”

“Oh, goodness gracious, you bet I do,” #37 said, eyes hungry for knowledge of anything outside the prison gates he called his hometown. “How did you get here?”

“Well, aliens crashed years ago in New Mexico.” He stared at me blankly. “Oh, New Mexico, it’s in the desert mountains about a thousand miles west of here. Anyway, the government found the wreckage, and has been reverse-engineering anything and everything they could from the stuff they found. Apparently, a few years ago they deciphered the plans to create the Alternate Reality Device which tears holes into space-time. Combined with Artificial Intelligence, scientists soon realized they could track down their alternate selves. So, here I am.”

“So, you’re a scientist?”

I laughed. “Far from it. I’m a journalist. Specifically, I write works for the Las Vegas Weekly Schmutz. The whole magazine is nothing but made-up stories. It’s purposely fake. As an example, a few months ago I wrote an article about a dinosaur that was discovered alive a few years ago, and is now the greatest chess player the world has ever seen.”

#37 chuckled. “That’s pretty funny.”

“You are getting it now! High Five!” #37 awkwardly stood up and gave me a high five, and sat down again quickly.

“So are you still writing for that magazine, or is this job part of that?”

I shrugged. “Eventually, even faux journalism becomes stale. I got tired of writing headlines for articles about giant squids the size of New York sacking the Midwest. I heard about the Alternate Reality Device from a friend who works at the alien research lab, and signed my life away to the facility to let me use the device to visit my alternate selves. They loved the idea. ‘You’re expendable, a good writer, and you already have a knack for writing the absurd. Just bring back some stuff for science to help with our funding. The presidents from Texas keep slashing it! ’ Riker-he’s my boss-said to me when I met him. So, here I am.”

“Wow. What has it been like so far?”

I thought about it for a moment. “It’s been…interesting. There’s always something that surprises me about what the universe is capable of, you know? How can one reality vary so differently from another? Why is it that I’m given an opportunity to succeed in a world that is so…open…that the right word? While others are so unfortunate? It’s been humbling, man.”

“So, if you write crazy stories about made-up things, how will someone differentiate what you are working on now from your previous work?”

“Well, the scientists will be publishing my works as a weekly story in their e-magazine, Hooray for Science! I hope that will add some legitimacy to the words.

“Are you married? Any kids?”

“No,” I told him as I motioned to greaser-waiter boy for more water. “No kids, no marriage. I’m okay with that though. You?”

“Marriage is forced upon you at the age of 26.”

“Damn! Then that must be pretty soon, then. We’re 25 in a month, yes? Do you get to choose?”

“Nope. FreedomCorp decides who marries whom. ‘For the Greater Good,’ they always say.” He sat in silence for a moment, uncomfortably looking at the ground. I wonder what is going through his mind right now, I thought to myself. “I want to escape this place?” “I hope my wife isn’t as ugly as Vinnie’s jokes?” “I sure could go for a churro right now to cure my sadness?” I had no clue.

“You’ve got to tell me how all this came about.”

#37 said as he motioned for a water refill. “You have to understand that I don’t even know that anything I know is actually true! Most of our history is only what we have been told by FreedomCorp.”

“How? It’s pretty hard to get rid of the history of the world. Pretty damn big place, you know?”

“Well, until I read that old textbook that said we were a part of the United States, I was told that FreedomCorp had always existed. ‘In the beginning, There was God, then the Corporation,’ my teacher told me when I was young. The corporation provides a means to make sure you get into Heaven. Everything they are setup for is to shield us from the outside world, which they say is full of sin and the wicked vices that stain the good name of God. Fear of the unknown drove the rise to power, and has kept them in power all these years. They control everything we have ever learned.”

“That’s remarkably stark,” I commented before getting a shot of inspiration. “Hmm. This probably won’t make sense to you, but Plato-he’s this genius philosopher from forever ago-wrote this amazing essay about some cave, and an allegory of something or some such thing.. Damn, I knew I should have paid more attention in my Philosophy class. If only I could remember. It totally relates to what’s going on here…Oh well. Never mind.” Not enough inspiration. “Back to the topic at hand: why are there so few people outside? This complex is gigantic.”

“No one is allowed outside until they reach a certain age. That’s why the buildings are so big. If you can prove yourself to your local priest, you may gain access to the outside.”

“Add that to the tally of stuff that doesn’t make sense here. What about the clothes everyone wears, the Elvis music, the random diner on the corner?”

“Again, we do what the Corporation tells us to do. They claim the clothing, the music, the diner, are all representative of what God considers being the perfect form of human function. I don’t really understand it, but anyone wearing anything outside the norm gets punished. If we looked like you do right now, we would be dragged from our apartments and ‘cleansed.’” #37 shuddered. Note to self: ask what “cleansing” refers to later.

“What religious works does FreedomCorp claim to adhere to? I mean, what’s their creed?”

“From what I understand, it’s their own. Are you saying there is more than one religion?”

I laughed. “Yes. In fact, if this world is based on the teachings of Christianity, I’d have to claim it was a little wacky, even for some of the fringe Christian religions.”

“They call it simply the ‘Will of God.’ Our teachings speak of one God. I don’t know anything about Christianity.”

“Fair enough. What about you? What do you do?”

#37 sighed. “I view camera data from Sector 12 and report any possible illegal activity. It’s a sector a good distance away from mine, so I don’t have to report anyone I know.”

“Sounds…boring.”

“It is, but we don’t get to choose our profession. We are ‘called’ to the position from our local priest.”

What about hobbies? What do you do for…well, you already mentioned fun isn’t allowed, but how do you spend your time?”

“I am required to work fourteen hours a day for six days a week. On Sunday, we are given time to do our chores and read our scriptures.”

“So, no time for anything but sleeping, eating, and praying?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“How did you find out about the comedy club?”

“Bryan and I found an abandoned tunnel a few years ago. Every Sunday after our prayers have been recorded as proof of our faith, we have worked on this club.”

“Why start with a comedy club?” #37 pondered the question for a moment. “I think we wanted to try and create something enjoyable. So much of our lives are spent doing the will of the corporation, that we have forgotten how to feel anything but numb. Bryan and I wanted to learn to laugh, to feel joy. We spread the word slowly to people we could trust, and a few weeks ago, we opened up for business, as it were.”

Remarkable, I thought to myself, that in the face of fear, these people only want to laugh. “I can see how not being able to laugh can be taken for granted,” I said as I spun the empty glass on the table. “I mean, I’m a schmuck for sure, but I also really enjoy my life, you know? The littlest things make me chuckle, and you have never been given that.”

“After we opened this club, we realized the possibility there might be more to this world than what is beyond our walls. To tell you a little secret, “#37 moved closer to me, “I hope to start more clubs under other sections soon. I hope that, bit by bit, it will help to open people’s minds, and maybe help us find a little truth”

He leaned back in his chair, a look of pride mixed with fear stamped across his blue eyes. Well, fear and pride go hand in hand with what he wants to do, I thought. “In some ways, I envy you,” I said. “You may be stuck in some nightmare, but you have the guts to start somewhere to make it right. I really hope you can make a difference.”

“I hope so too,” #37 said, looking around at his creation. “Small steps can make a big difference in the long run. I know it’s not much, but we can’t fight FreedomCorp in a big battle, it’s got to be small steps.”

“Yeah, it’s like this idea called Chaos Theory, where a butterfly flaps its wings and creates a hurricane-“
Our conversation was interrupted by a very alarmed Bannock.

“Lads, I be readin’ incomin’ folks down multiple tunnels, and I be doubtin’ they are here for an encore!”

#37’s face went white as he jumped up out of his chair and motioned for Bryan to come over. “Your…computer thing…Can it tell me if anyone is heading down the pathway behind the bar? That’s our hidden tunnel.”

“Aye,” Bannock said, a tone of sadness soaking through his ridiculous accent. “I don’t like breakin’ bad news to good folk, but you be surrounded.”

“Who could have told them?” Bryan screamed. “We vetted everyone here, who could have-“

“Sorry ta interrupt yer tirade, but I tink it was tha laughin’ they heard,” Bannock said.

My stomach immediately turned on itself. I had never felt that sick my whole life. #37 stared disbelievingly at me.

“You…you caused this?”

Oh no, I thought. “No, I mean…It’s just…You are looking for jokes, for laughter, right? All I did was provide you and the audience with what you wanted. I never thought-“

“Compliance Officers are on their way to take us away to ‘cleanse’ us,” #37 screamed at me, “and it’s all because you made us laugh too hard and too loud!”

Bryan put a calming hand on #37’s shoulder. “It’s not his fault. We knew the risks when we built this place. We knew that someday they might be right outside our doors, ready to take us away. Whoever your friend is, he’s stuck with us.”

“No, he’s not,” #37 replied. “I can’t explain, but he gets to escape. So go now while you still can.”

I shouldn’t have spoken. I should have waved goodbye, activated the button to go home, and left them to their own lives. But I had to know what would happen to them. Curiosity’s clammy hands wrapped around my voice box, and forced out one last question.

“What happens when you get ‘cleansed?’”

“They force confessions of your sins through torture,” #37 explained as word spread to the audience of the incoming raid. “they waterboard you, burn your hands with acid, and only after forty days of torture and fasting will they let you go-if you have survived. Most don’t.”

I felt sick as they crashed against the heavy door. Louder and louder. “I’m sorry,” I told them. “If I could stop this from happening-”

“Can you take us with you?” #37 interrupted desperately.

“I’m sorry, son,” Bannock replied. “Tha device only allows for one human, and it can only be used by tha Vincent from our reality.”

Louder explosions, banging sounds, drilling noises mingled with the cries and screams of the audience. #37 looked completely defeated, his head down, his eyes burdened by the reality of his immediate future. I stood up, opened my satchel and pulled out the Alternate Reality Device. It was the size of a softball, with jagged edges of a peculiar metal that shimmered like obsidian. I hooked the datapad to a small input, and pressed a button. The ball split in half, and a shadowy mist with forked lightning began to form around me.
“I’m sorry,” I said behind guilty tears.

#37 looked up at me. “Promise me that you will write about us,” he demanded. He was coming to terms with his fate, and it emboldened him. “Don’t ever let anyone forget what happened here.”

I won’t, I thought to myself and nodded.

Satisfied, #37 looked at the flash of welding sparks exploding beneath the front door. The mist continued to climb around me, covering me almost to my neck.

Suddenly, to my surprise, #37 laughed loudly. “Life is one big joke, isn’t it?” He laughed and spread his arms defiantly. “It’s one big practical joke. Like someone throwing a pie at your face when you least expect it.”

“It is,” I replied, “but unlike a pie in the face, this punch line’s not very funny.”

#37 laughed some more. “No, it’s not. The punch line isn’t funny, is it?”

The mist enveloped my face as the metal door fell to the ground, and I disappeared from #37’s existence.