A jagged ashlar backdrop thickly caulked in white like chewed gum had been used to glue the bricks together. The bricks themselves were brittle around the edges. Most had at least one corner broken off, many all four. The hardwood stage creaked. The planks shifted and bowed out. The microphone looked clean but couldn’t be. He wanted to stay away from it but got in close for the sound check. He couldn’t smell it, but he felt like he could smell it. Was he only smelling himself? Someone in the crowd? He could hardly see them because of a mixture of the lights in his face and a nervous vignette that shadowed the edge of his vision and made a dark fog over their faces. They came into focus. He had to piss. I gotta piss, he said. They laughed. It wasn’t a joke. I’m serious, as soon as I stepped up here, I had to go. I must be nervous. He relaxed his muscles. A sting. He’d spurted a bit. God, don’t show. I just spurted a bit, he said into the mic. They laughed. Can you see it? He looked down. He couldn’t see it. I can’t see it, can you? They laughed, not a lot, some light chuckles. Warmup, helpful chuckles, like an introduction commonly employed in most comedy shows. Good, he said.

CC’s Comedy on the Canal. DON’T BOMB. Like Albert did. Albert BOMBED. He’d made so many attempts the management didn’t quite know how to deal with the situation. It got to the point where on open mic night when Albert would shiver onto the stage like some carny geek, most of the patrons, not just the establishment, knew the BOMB was about to go off, only when a BOMB goes off in a comedy club, it’s a quiet BOMB, no noise, even the crickets stop rubbing their serrated legs together to cringe in the silence. Even the room tone, that hiss you only notice when there’s silence, even that wasn’t there, as though Albert’s lack of humor was a vacuum sucking all noise, a black hole. And then Albert truly BOMBED. It happened a few months after management sat him down in the back office, offered him his drink, I think it was a whiskey or something regularlike, and they told him as politely as they could manage that Albert should probably throw in the towel, that he was doing himself a disservice by coming back week after week and BOMBING, of course they didn’t say BOMBING but PERFORMING, only Albert knew what they really meant. He knew what BOMBING was, better than anyone. It’s just, we struggle seeing you up there, we know it hurts man, and I just wanted to sit you down and talk to you, human being to human being, and just tell you, you know, you don’t have to do this Albert. I know you want to be a comedian, more than anything, I know, but maybe it would be better to practice at home for a bit, maybe rehearse with a friend, someone you can trust. Of course, Albert didn’t have any friends, and he didn’t trust anybody. He just sat there, drinking his whiskey until the ice fell down and hit his upper lip, then nervously chewing on an ice cube while management said, You’re free to come back, whenever you want, I can’t stop you, and if it means that much to you, I get it, I just… You know, I’m repeating myself… And Albert didn’t come back, not even for his whiskey, and everyone felt sorry for the poor, unfunny sumbitch but they also felt relief. They could laugh at the good comics, and cringe at the bad ones without the weight, that looming augury of Albert who would surely come onto the stage and BOMB, and poison the air with guilt, pity, and CRINGE. Months later, he did come in, and everyone was filled with a mix of despair and hope, that Albert was either returning to sour the mood of the comedy club by BOMBING, or perhaps he finally finally finally fuckin FINALLY put in the work, practiced in his living room, maybe for his mother if he had one, maybe for a friend if he had any of those, and maybe those months were spent watching other comics, writing things down, becoming more comfortable onstage, taking a seminar online or in person, heeding advice from other comedians, professionals. Maybe this was the night that Albert, cringy, unclever, unfunny Albert would finally show them all what he was made of, would finally juice tears from their eyes and split their bellies apart and suck their breath away like devil cats allegedly do to cribbed newborns. Maybe. They hoped, they prayed, the crickets stretched their legs. It was time, come on Albert, you can do it man, welcome back, we’re here for you, might even throw in a pity laugh for yah, just give us something, give us a laugh man, come on! COME ON! Give it up for Albert! They clapped their hands. Those that didn’t know Albert, those that weren’t regulars or had just stopped in, they clapped and whooped and cheered because this Albert seemed to be the bee’s knees considering the regulars and establishment cheered him on with so much gusto. They thought his hunched shoulders, sunken turtle head, and sweaty eight-head were all a part of the act, and it was funny! Some were already laughing because, hey, how clever, this petrified amateur routine, what a great avenue to travel by. He took the mic and wished there was feedback to block out the sibilant hiss of his breathing, the nervous break in rhythm, but Albert was familiar with a mic and knew how to avoid feedback. He just sat there breathing for a minute, looking over the crowd blacked out by the nonlight behind those blinding his eyes, making him squint, calling the sweat out of his pores with their heat, a few chuckles clicking and hiccupping in the darkness, because they thought it was a part of his act, this neurotic, sweaty mess. I… haven’t been up in a while, uh… He looked down at his shoes, coffeestained dress shoes, felt the heat of his suit on his back, the sweat coating the insides, but never would it be visible on the suit jacket, only the blue button-up. I, uh, I was asked, uh, not to come back for a while, because, uh, well, uh, I’m not very funny and, uh, well, I, uh… He was visibly shaky now, sweat not dropping but squirting out of his pores in wide arcs, splashing out of his pant legs onto the dress shoes, spilling over the stage so the woman in the front row had to raise her heels and click her knees and go Ooh! He reached in his jacket pocket and left his hand in there. I, uh, because I, uh, well I… I always— People outside felt the ground shake more than the hollow boom. People inside didn’t hear anything until the ringing in their ears faded into their ears along with the screaming, the debris clacking like dry clay, crackling flames. Albert’s father was a veteran, see, and he’d managed to smuggle some of his wargear that should’ve been turned back in once his service was up, including an M-16 assault rifle, ammunition, and a pineapple grenade that Albert had stuffed into his jacket pocket and then pulled the pin out of while trying to deliver his final joke just in time for the grenade to go off as he was saying the word BOMB. It worked perfectly. He’d finally done it, but it was timed so well Albert didn’t really have the zeptosecond to realize the grenade went off. Contrarily, his last thought was Damn, I said it too— But he couldn’t think soon before his limbs were flung about, his body concaved, his innards set aflame, cooked instantly, and the nodules of the pineapple grenade went flying through his jacket pocket into the crowd before him, the lady with the high heels, a man’s eyes who’d seen Albert BOMB so many times he couldn’t count. The worst was delivered to those in the first few rows, but people seated as far back as the bar were hit with bits of shrapnel, that, or bits of flesh and skull powder. In all, including Albert, five people were killed, one of them a few weeks later in the hospital. Albert BOMBED. Get it? CCs were closed for some time so the police could carry on with their investigation. It was opened a few months later, and a young comedian boldly ascended the stage one open mic night and started his routine with, Hope I don’t BOMB as bad as Albert. The joke didn’t receive much praise, a few Oohs and Ohs, and the young comedian BOMBED. But not as bad as Albert.

Konner McIntyre (28) of Thornton, CO has two self-published works, a fantasy titled HAY FOR DEAD HORSES and a dystopian visual novel in collaboration with illustrator Sydney Rushing titled PLASTIC BY NATURE (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love the Robot). Both works are available in bookstores across Colorado. He has several novels of various genres and styles in development as well as a collection of short stories and eight years of experience screenwriting and producing short films.