Heckler (conclusion)

Image of salt shaker warning post contains salty language
Digital art of cat-like face




(part three)



“So like, my credit hour cost was two-hundred something, toss in fees, round it up… Say the minimum wage goes to fifteen, say I work a shift and a half at Starbucks, I earn back one hour at state. Or maybe not, I’m an English Lit dropout, not a math major.”

I could see standup was a lot about acting, Chez’s stuff kind of funny—but add mugging and take the right pauses, he was pulling some steady chuckles.

“I don’t use my higher education at my day job, and I don’t use it at my night job, so…”

“Yeah you do,” I said. “What was that joke about the whozit? By the way, what is your night job?”

He didn’t let me get him this time, though he freezed a teench at the double-whammy.

Back in his groove: “Listen, if you all help me out and make me famous…”

“You gonna sponsor a scholarship? Maybe faster, hire a joke writer.”

Chez scanned the seats like he couldn’t see who spoke. He looked down and gave a flinch. “Oh, man!” He squatted at the edge of the stage. “What’s your name…Thunder Crunch?” He shrugged and made a face for the audience. “Listen, I’m like everyone else. I work, I get by, I earn a buck here and there. Like Mel…” Nod to a sofa behind the stage. A bald-headed girl with Goth eyes waved a doobie. “She’s my good friend. She’s on next, and I don’t want you bothering her. Or is it just me you’re stalking?”

Here, I felt a little blindsided. Pathos, Jesus. I mean, I at least ad-libbed. I could tell he’d been saving this up, after he hired me to stalk him! Also the teeshirt was one I got free, black so I grabbed it, rock fest or roller derby, I’d’ve had to read it off myself to remember.

The pathos continued. Chez didn’t swear text me. This time it came deep from the passive-aggressive bunker. I guess you don’t know enough about comedy, to know you never step on a punchline. Maybe you’ll find work again, and today’s lesson will be useful to you.

I put the phone on the sofa arm, and watched TV.

Deedle. Can you get drunk?

Before I could thumb in What’s your point? he shot me: I don’t like your looks.

And before I could thumb in You’re not alone, but what’s your point?, he was on the hobbyhorse again.

So whazyer drug? If…

If? Getcha Don’t worry legal AF Vodka lime

[Vomit emoji] Eurotrash

I don’t think so

Don’t you drink beer?

I don’t like beer

K POS forget drunk

Well, I didn’t think it would help. Definitely, I was anxious about the third night. Chez’s script (which, he should’ve written dialogue if he was picky about dialogue) called for me to show up mad, ’sessed with getting even, rush him onstage. Truth to tell, I’m a lifelong get-outer, anytime someone asks me to get out. My confidence wasn’t high I could pull this off.








I took a seat back two rows. The comedian ahead of Chez, or the first one I stopped biting my hangnails and listened to, said, “Hey, you! You wanted by the FBI?”

“Um, no.”

“You want me to buy you a drink?”


“Not happening. Cheer up or get the hell out.”

I gave him the finger. It did cheer me up. Chez came on. “Oh, look who’s here! My old pal Thunder. Get out, jeez.”

I almost stood by reflex. But Delaney gave me my pay that morning…too bad, I couldn’t take Chez at his word. I threaded down the rows. Flinging on stage, it turned out, wasn’t possible—they had an overhang for some stupid pink lights. I got partway, tugged myself by an electric cord…

Taped, but a little feedback coming off an amplifier…

Chez, keeping to his bit, shut his mouth finally, and sighed like a martyr. Tapped his foot.

“Godfuckingalmighty. Take a swing at me if you want to.”

(Too much sarcasm in the delivery. But I could get the drift, the customers probably not.)

I heaved on my feet, and gave him the shoulder palm.

He headbutted me right in the gut. I might actually have said, “oof” when I landed.

“You okay?” Chez made grabs at my arms, while I twisted and elbow-fenced him off.

I got up again. “I don’t know. Let me check if your hair oil messed up my shirt.”

Teehees from the seats. A look from Chez, his eyes telling me things, and when he said, “You got your act together?”, I knew what he meant. My turn…and I had zero momentum left. I noticed the mic stand; I picked it up and feinted at him. I thought we could improvise, thought he would understand…

He pulled a knife.

You’ve seen those documentaries and crap, where it’s like: The Quest for Justice. This is a little poignant for me. I mean, imagine having a family who’d never give up searching for your killer…

Supposing you had to be killed. Mine would only race against the clock so I didn’t die not being told it was my fault.

(“You can afford clubs when you have to borrow for groceries? Did I tell you get your priorities straight?”)

I got myself sideways, giving the crowd a view of my vital organs. “You see that lunatic drew on me? All you see that?”

They laughed. Someone clapped a few times.

The bouncer showed up, then, and did his thing. He said: “Hey. You guys good with each other?”

In the time it took me to bug my eyes at him, Chez made the blade disappear.

I made a general announcement. “I’m gone.”



Times were fallow with Delaney. I was at a neighbor’s rent party watching the table, shooing off kids and freeloaders, when a text a came through.

A link to a webpage for a podcast…local comedy scene, news from. Chez, vid top of list, getting interviewed.








“I feel bad. I’m not proud of myself, but sorry to say, I don’t have the little shit’s name.”

Break for ha-has.

“No, seriously. Maybe someone’ll see the shirt. Thunder Crunch.” He broke again, even for being sorry and not proud. “Of course, I’d like to apologize in person if I could.”

“So it’s three years clean, you said?”

Chez crossed his fingers, both hands, for the camera. “This April. I’m learning to deal with stress. Recovery is a process.”


My takeaway…another publicity stunt, lying to cover his ass. But, salutes to Chez. I guess a sob-peddler could knife anyone, get a career boost from the apology tour. Think about it, you put out you stopped using three years ago, where’s the proof it happened or it didn’t?

“Who’s that idiot?” someone said over my shoulder. (Unless it was: “Who’s that, idiot?”)

I hit pause, and held up the phone. “Check out that face. Punch it if you see it.”


















Digital art of cat-like faceHeckler (part one)
















(2021, Stephanie Foster)




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