The Original Edward Blake's of Comedy

   I’m killing the audience en masse. They sit in their chairs, reclined and limp, their bodies releasing violent spasms. I look them in their glassy eyes, a cold hearted killer, without pity or remorse. They asked for this, they wanted it, they deserve this. The smiles on their faces will exclaim “at least they died happy”, and that they did, they are dying very happy.
    It took three weeks for that joke to catch on. Social commentary in the form of a pun/innuendo joke is nothing new, but the spin I did about Sarah Palin is really optimizing the joke. I have three months to a year for that joke to work, and potentially four years before it’s deemed tacky. It’s a good aside, a small non-sequitur to lead into my standard bit, “How I Met Your Mother”. Regardless of its presence on a DVD compilation, and my first album “I’m Busy in Here”, the audience still whoops and hollers at the joke. I’ve been lucky to pick up a very adaptable joke to become popular; I usually change up the format and even the punchline to the audience’s delight.
    For the umpteenth time the raspy heckler voices his dissatisfaction with my set. I looked to meet the eyes of the bouncer but the security guard is nowhere to be seen. My last line of defense is currently on smoke break.
    I had tried everything against the heckler. I ignored him for a good 10 minutes, but his calls turned particularly scathing. It’s one thing to deal with the guy too drunk for his own good, but it’s another to deal with the smartass. This smartass distinctly had the air about him of an “armchair comedian”, an audience member who believed he or she was better than the professionals. I finally called him out but he ended up getting a laugh with his response back. I made attempts to ridicule him, but I could neither see him to get a comedic source nor could I build up a sentiment with the crowd. I work rather clean, so a blue bombardment could easily turn the audience in the favor of the heckler. Now without the club’s staff presence I would have to tackle this problem head on.
    “I want you to do me a favor, come up here and give the audience the show they’ve been waiting for,” I shouted across the club.
    “Didn’t Marty tell you to ‘never put the act in the audience’s hand’?! You’d think after all the jokes you stole from him you’d at least take the man’s advice!” shouted the heckler back at me.
    Marty? Marty was my mentor, my first promoter, and my friend until a fatal car crash in 97 made him no more than a memory. Steal? How dare this guy come at me with joke stealing? I’ve never stolen a joke in my life.
    “Oh, so I steal jokes now huh? Enlighten me on what I’ve stolen. Sorry I’ll get back to the show guys after I hear this guy’s utter B-S,” I furiously stated into the microphone.
    “Show? HA!” scoffed the croaky voiced bastard. “Credits on your CD says Marty, 20 year old set-ups say Marty, and that dinosaur of the joke “The Mother-In-Law” is as Marty as that Jew ever was!”
    My heart clinched in my chest. This was no ordinary heckler, he knew too much, he was inside and this had none of the signals of a gag or impromptu roast.
    “Hey everybody!” said the heckler drawing attention to himself. “This guy is phonier than Chaplin recordings. The guy isn’t even married! Never has been! His name isn’t even Zoke, it’s Zellini!”
    This guy wasn’t just going for laughs now, he’s going for my livelihood. Regardless of its intentions, the heckler’s spiel was going against the comedic code of ethics: you don’t put somebody’s career in jeopardy, period. I had to stop him.
    I could still hear him revealing the ins and outs of my act to a captivated audience as I leaped down from the stage. I weaved my way through the tables, knees knocking into the chairs of on lookers looking smug. I came to him, the heckler, and as I looked into his face a chill ran down my spine.
    The heckler was old; wispy gray hair strung backward two inches past his original hair line, a well kept silver beard forming his face. His facial features, raggedly etched from years of work and suffering, showed his complete indifference, he would not stop my revelations until I acknowledge his true reveal. With bluish-gray eyes staring me cold, Carlin sat, supreme comic being, dead yet alive.
    I looked back, pleading to audience with my eyes, I search to see if anyone shares my utter surprise, dismay, and horror. No surprise, not from the faces of Pryor, Barnett, Farelly, Belushi, Bruce....
    I turned back to Carlin and I can say that I’ve never seen a man so saddened in my life. The genius, mystic, passion, power, and soul had left him. My hero sat before me, looking like a dog I once had as a child who begged to be shot, his eyes cried for death. He spoke in a whisper:
    “Sorry kid, you’re no good. You’re just no good.”
 
    I’m back in my dressing room, sitting in a high suit in front of a mirror. Eyes red circle around in relief, though my stomach still aches from the disturbing dream. I’m still holding the clipboard given to me by the production assistant. The top of the paper reads:
    “PRODUCTION SCHEDULE FOR “COMEDY CENTRAL PRESENTS: KEVIN ZOKE”