Comedy Shorts - Humorous Fiction Short Stories - Four Comedy Short Stories

by Robin Storey

  ‘When?’

  He waggled his finger at George. ‘Now that I won’t reveal. But I will say that it won’t be for a long time. I promise you’ll live to a ripe old age.’

  George took a deep breath. ‘You don’t leave me much choice, do you?’

  The Angel beamed. ‘Excellent. I knew you’d see reason.’

  He held out his hand. Reluctantly George extended his hand and they shook on it.

  ‘Just one more question,’ George said. ‘Why aren’t you wearing black?’

  ‘Too depressing. First impressions are so important, as you well know. When I come to collect someone, white is much more calming. We’ll talk soon.’

  Then he was gone.

  *

  ‘The purpose of this seminar,’ Tom announced, ‘is to create some new marketing strategies. As we’re all aware, everyone’s suffering due to the GFC, and our industry is no exception. You’ve all been working on some ideas and I’m keen to hear them. Who wants to start?’

  The dozen salesmen seated around the conference table shifted in their chairs and stared down at their papers.

  ‘George, would you like to get the ball rolling?’

  George cleared his throat. ‘You may think my approach unconventional, but please try to keep an open mind.’

  ‘I’m all for thinking outside the box, you know that. Fire away.’

  George inserted his flash drive into the notebook computer at the head of the conference table. His Powerpoint presentation began with one word in large black letters. DEATH.

  ‘Death is a word that invokes fear and anxiety in most people. But death is nothing to be afraid of. It’s a journey into serenity, an ending and a beginning. We can’t escape it, so let’s look forward to it, and welcome it with open arms.

  ‘Here at Vitality Health Products we want to help you prepare for death. With our vast range of vitamins, sport and exercise equipment and aids for sound sleep, we have everything you need to help you plan for the final big sleep at the end of your busy, fulfilling life. We can help you make sure you approach death full of health and vitality, so you can attain true contentment and peace in the afterlife.

  Death – it’s here to stay. Let’s embrace it.’

  The silence was deafening. Andy burst into loud applause. ‘Great stuff! I love it!’

  ‘Very outside the box,’ Dennis said. ‘Or should that be coffin?’

  The others grinned. All eyes were on Tom. He looked as if he were about to explode.

  ‘I’m assuming this is a joke,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ George said.

  ‘Have you gone stark raving mad?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll see you in my office after the meeting.’

  *

  Tom took a bottle of bourbon out of his stationery cupboard and poured out two stiff drinks. He handed one to George.

  ‘Here, you need it. On second thoughts, I need it more.’

  He downed his drink in one gulp, then leaned forward and looked George in the eye. ‘You’re serious about this idea?’

  ‘Dead serious.’

  ‘That’s not funny, George. It’s obvious your father’s death has affected you much more than you realise. I want you to take a month’s holiday and see a grief counsellor.’

  ‘I don’t need a holiday! Or a counsellor! I have my down times, but I think I’m coping pretty well.’

  ‘That just proves how unhinged you really are. Don’t argue about it or I’ll make it two months.’

  *

  George was cleaning out his father’s study when he turned to see the Angel of Death reclining in the office chair, hands folded on his belly. George jumped, his armful of books crashing to the floor.

  ‘For God’s sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  The Angel grinned. ‘It’s not your time yet, old boy. Just dropped by to see how you’re going with our little project.’

  ‘Thanks to your little project I’m off work for a month and I have to see a grief counsellor.’

  The Angel shrugged. ‘The world is full of critics, but you musn’t let a little negativity get in your way. What’s your next idea?’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Rubbish. What do you do at Vitality Health Products when you have a new product to launch?’

  ‘We advertise it of course. TV, print, radio, sometimes all three.’

  ‘There’s your answer then.’

  ‘You want me to do a media campaign for death?’

  ‘Unless you have any other brilliant ideas.’

  George stared at him. ‘Do you have any idea how much that would cost?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to sell your soul. Just start with your local media and let it snowball from there. And don’t forget to recommend me to your friends and colleagues. You can’t discount the value of word of mouth.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it? ’ George said. ‘As you’re such an expert.’

  The Angel looked at him reproachfully. ‘I’m an ethereal being, George, I’m not of your world. The only people who can see me are those who are about to depart this earth.’

  ‘Except for you, of course,’ he added, seeing the look on George’s face. ‘I made an exception for you because I need your help. Now if you don’t mind, duty calls. There’s been a pile up on the motorway.’

  *

  George decided to start with word of mouth.

  ‘That was the best I’ve played in years,’ Neil said over his beer at the clubhouse. ‘Must be my new six irons. Tiger Woods, eat your heart out!’

  ‘Talking of hearts,’ George said,’ have you ever thought about what it’ll be like to die? One minute your heart’s beating and the next it’s stopped?’

  Martin and Neil exchanged glances. ‘Naturally you think about it when you’re our age,’ Martin said. ‘But I don’t dwell on it, it’s too depressing. ‘

  George leaned forward. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, it’s not depressing at all. Death is something to look forward to, an end to traffic jams and debt and cranky bosses. Just one peaceful eternal holiday!’

  ‘I still prefer the Gold Coast,’ Neil said. He stood up. ‘Another round?’

  *

  It was easier to talk about death with his counsellor.

  ‘What I hear you saying is that you’re looking forward to dying,’ Vivian said, looking at him over her glasses. She had dyed henna hair and her dress flowed over her like a psychedelic waterfall.

  ‘I am,’ George said. ‘I’m looking forward to the peaceful release from the worries of life. You shouldn’t be afraid of death – it’s just another stage of life. It’s like being afraid of marriage or parenthood or old age. What’s the point? You should dive in and make the most of the experience. Don’t you agree?’

  Vivian shifted in her chair. ‘We’re not here to talk about what I think. Tell me, have you thought about how your death is going to happen? Have you made any plans?’

  ‘Nothing specific. All I know is that it won’t be for a long time and it will be peaceful, which gives me lots of time to look forward to it. Anticipation is the purest form of pleasure, so they say.’

  ‘How do you know for sure that your death will be peaceful? Or that it won’t be for a long time?’

  ‘I just do.’ George looked around at the batik wall hangings and the collection of crystals on her desk. ‘Do you believe in angels?’

  Vivian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  George shrugged. She studied him. ‘Do you believe in angels, George?’

  ‘I never used to and I wish I still didn’t.’

  *

  George began his media campaign by taking out a full page advertisement twice weekly in the local newspaper. Two messages ran on alternate days.

  ‘You can run

  You can hide

  But you can’t escape Death.

  Embrace it instead.’

  And

  ‘Death


  Be in it

  Sooner or later you won’t have a choice

  So welcome it with open arms.’

  The response was immediate. Letters to the editor ranged from amused to vitriolic. George received a steady stream of letters, forwarded by the newspaper, accusing him of being a crackpot or a religious maniac. One writer even accused him of being ‘a danger to society who’s advocating another Jonestown mass suicide.’

  On the Friday before he was due back at work, Tom phoned to say he was calling in after lunch. George swept the latest pile of angry letters off the table and filled the coffee percolator. The rap on the front door startled him, even though he was expecting it. He hadn’t had many visitors lately – even Martin and Neil were avoiding him and pleading social engagements on golf days.

  ‘Good to see you, Tom!’ George said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No thanks. I just dropped by to tell you that your counsellor doesn’t think you’re ready to come back to work and recommended that you have another month off.’

  ‘What?’ George was aghast. ‘I don’t need another month off – I’m going stir crazy as it is with all this time on my hands.’

  ‘I’m not really going crazy,’ he added quickly, ‘it’s just a figure of speech.’

  Tom gave a perfunctory smile. ‘Be that as it may, I’m going with her recommendation.’

  George opened his mouth to protest. Tom held up his hand. ‘It’s no good objecting, just make good use of the time and get better.’

  He hesitated. ‘If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ George mumbled.

  Tom turned to go. ‘By the way, you wouldn’t have anything to do with those newspaper ads for death, would you?’

  ‘What ads?’

  ‘In the daily paper. Embrace death. Death be in it. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ George said. ‘I don’t read the papers, it’s too depressing. Part of my grief therapy.’

  ‘Good idea. I must be off. Keep in touch.’

  The front door banged shut behind him. George’s chest tightened and he clenched his fists.

  ‘Death!’ he shouted. ‘Or Angel or whatever you call yourself. Where the hell are you?’

  No response. Typical. Never came when you wanted him, always turned up when you didn’t.

  *

  His next step was to write an advertisement for the local radio station. They were reluctant to air it at first, but acquiesced after he offered to double the fee.

  ‘All good things must come to an end,’ a treacle-toned announcer assured listeners, to a background of pan flutes. ‘Death is the supreme happy ending and the ultimate retreat for rest and relaxation.’ A disclaimer at the end warned that they weren’t encouraging people to end their lives prematurely, but to anticipate with joy their meeting with Death.

  George also approached the local TV station, and persuaded them to run a similar advertisement. There were conditions, though – it was only to be aired late at night so as not to upset children and it was to show a further disclaimer that the promoter of the advertisement had no affiliations with any funeral homes or religious groups. It featured Andy Williams crooning ‘I Will Wait for You’ in the background and animations of chubby angels in white gowns playing harps.

  Listeners and viewers jammed the phone lines, complaining that the ads were pointless and offensive. Some, despite the disclaimers, accused them of promoting suicide, religious sects or doomsday prophecies. The TV and radio stations reaped the benefits, with their ratings going skywards as people tuned in to see what all the fuss was about.

  Then George received a phone call from the producer of a national current affairs program. ‘Would you be willing to come on the program and be interviewed about your death campaign? There are a lot of people out there who are very curious about you. It will give you the opportunity to prove you’re not a crackpot.’

  It was obvious from the producer’s tone of voice that he had his own doubts about George’s sanity. At first George refused. Once Tom saw the interview, his job at Vitality Health Products would be history. But when the producer offered him a large fee, double the amount he’d spent on the campaign so far, George relented. A ten minute spot on national TV was a coup – the Angel had to be happy with that. It had now boiled down to a choice between his job or a long life and peaceful death.

  The interview was not as nerve-wracking as George had expected. If the young female interviewer thought he was a crackpot, she hid it well. With just the right blend of curiosity and empathy, she made it easy for George to expound on his ‘feel good about death’ stance.

  Watching a replay on TV the next day, he thought he’d presented his case in a rational and persuasive manner. But many disagreed. Now that his identity was known, the steady stream of hate mail became an avalanche. Some of the accusations made his stomach churn and some letters even contained death threats. He couldn’t even raise a smile at the irony of it. His ears rang with the echoes of abusive phone calls. Rocks were thrown on to his roof in the middle of the night. When he went into town people stared and yelled comments.

  ‘Here comes old Diehard!’

  ‘Hey mate, you look like death!’

  On the morning a woman spat at him in the newsagent and he came home to find his front door dripping with egg, he decided he’d had enough. He was moving back to his apartment in the city. He packed a suitcase and as he hauled it out of the bedroom he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Staring back at him was a haggard, wild-eyed wreck.

  This was what it had come to – the accusations of craziness had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He took the suitcase out to the front porch, then went to the shed and dragged out his father’s old hunting rifle. He brushed the cobwebs from it, picked up the case of bullets and took them into the house.

  He placed the rifle and bullets on the kitchen table and went back inside to find something to wrap them in. This proved his insanity. He, George Tanner, who wouldn’t even kill an insect if he could avoid it, was packing a rifle in his suitcase. But if some lunatic tracked him down and turned up on his doorstep he wanted to be able to defend himself.

  There was a rug on the couch in the living room. As he picked it up he turned around and jumped. The Angel was lolling in his armchair, legs up on the footrest.

  ‘For God’s sake, I wish you’d knock, or give me some warning.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s in the job description. Demonstrated ability to turn up at unexpected times and places.’

  ‘This campaign is getting way out of control.’

  ‘On the contrary, it seems to be going very well. I’m impressed, particularly with the TV interview. You mentioned death twenty-five times in the space of ten minutes.’

  ‘It may be going well from where you’re sitting, but look at me! Bags under my eyes as big as that suitcase! I’ve had more hate mail than O.J. Simpson! I don’t dare answer the phone for fear of being abused and everywhere I go people sneer at me. No-one wants to drink with me at the club and my golfing buddies have dropped me like a hot potato. And you know the worst thing of all?’

  By now George was shouting. ‘You probably don’t care but I’m telling you anyway. The worst thing of all is that I’ve lost my job. And you know how it happened? Not with an invitation to the office and an “I have to let you go,” from the boss, which would have been bad enough, but with a letter from the general manager, whom I’ve never even met. “Dear Mr Tanner, I regret to inform you that your employment with this company has been terminated.” ’

  The Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Calm down, old boy. You’ve got to expect some backlash – people don’t like having their fears challenged. You know the old motto. Nothing is worth achieving if you don’t have to work at it.’

  ‘Work! That’s the best euphemism I’ve heard in a long time! I’m quitting, as from this very minute. My life i
s ruined, if you could call it a life. I may as well be dead.’

  ‘Now George, I’m sure you don’t mean that. ‘

  ‘I mean every fucking word. Come on, kill me!’

  George stretched his arms wide, face flushed, chest heaving. The Angel looked at him as if he were a naughty child having a tantrum.

  ‘For goodness sake, cut the melodrama.’

  ‘I’ll give you melodrama.’

  George marched into the kitchen, picked up the case of bullets and slid one out. He loaded it into the rifle and closed the chamber. The sharp click rang out in the still air. He strode back into the living room. His father had taught him how to use the rifle, although George had refused to accompany him on his hunting trips. He slipped off the safety catch, took aim and fired.

  A whip crack rang through the air. George stared, motionless, at the sight in front of him. All that remained of the Angel was his cloak, a crumpled white heap on the armchair.

  *

  The sky was so blue it made your eyes ache. The earth sparkled under the sun, right down to the glossy leaves of the shrubs that bordered the path winding through the cemetery. It was the sort of day that made you glad to be alive – doubly so for George, as he’d spent the last twelve months in fear that his life would be snuffed out at any moment by an avenging Angel of Death. He knew he hadn’t killed the Angel, much as he tried to convince himself otherwise. Admittedly, there was the evidence of the crumpled cloak, but no body. As an ethereal being, the Angel had never been alive in the first place. And people continued to die, so he was obviously still doing his job.

  George did everything in his power not to tempt fate. He walked instead of driving to avoid car accidents, looked to the right and left several times before crossing the road and steered clear of busses, building sites and wildlife. Now that twelve months had passed and he was still alive, he was beginning to relax. Maybe, just maybe, the Angel would honour his promise after all.

  George strolled down the path in the direction of his father’s grave. It was early morning and he was the only visitor. He came here occasionally to drink in the silence and wonder how much of his father was still in the ground and where the rest of him had gone. And to think about life. He had to admit, when he could forget his fears that death was lurking round every corner, his life had taken a turn for the better.

  He’d cancelled the media ads, his notoriety had faded away with the advent of the next scandal and his life resumed normality. He found a new circle of friends by taking up lawn bowls (no danger of being hit by a flying ball) and the most exciting part was that he’d scored a job at White Dove Funerals as client services manager. It was a role he excelled in, after gladly ‘toning down the death stuff,’ at the request of the owner.