Fatal Humor

It was while dying on the wet pavement behind the neighborhood's 7-11 that I saw Dionysus — he towered above me, a chuckle already on the edge of his tongue. I suppose he found me funny — or, at least, capable of such — because he sat on top of a rancid dumpster and declared: "Make me laugh, and I shall spare your life."

"Then I'm going to need a gold coin," I choked out, "because I'm really not in the mood to tell any jokes."

The god of wine simply raised a brow and waited. The thought crossed my mind to stay silent, wait for the apparition to vanish — but if he was a god, and not the hallucination of a dying man, then it probably wouldn't be best to keep him waiting.

"Why," I finally said, "am I the one dying when you literally have the word 'die' in your name?"

The silence that followed left me wondering if I was already dead, until — "That wasn't funny."

I let out a long, slow sigh, lungs rattling as if I had just finished a marathon. "I know, I know. Can you blame me? I mean, I know they said that the death of comedy is on the horizon, but I never realized that actually meant, y'know, dying."

"Are you trying to make me kill you faster?"

"I don't know; it depends." I twisted my head around a bit, trying to lock eyes with whatever shape was Dionysus. "Does good ol' Hades care for a couple of jokes?"

Slowly, slowly, Dionysus began to chuckle; the sound echoed around the alley, and would've given me chills if I didn't already feel as cold as the grave. Did I say something funny? I didn't think so. I don't think I want to know.

"Good enough," the god declares. "But if you don't have anything better tomorrow — well." Blinding light etches itself into my eyelids — when did I close my eyes? — and I hear the screeching sound of tires. "You might be able to get your answer yourself."

"Tomorrow?" I asked, faintly, but the only response is the muttering of voices around me, and an entombing, unsettling darkness.