He Who Laughs Last

Ch 3: The Building of a Persona

The man made it to the city without incident. Sooner or later, someone would find the guard. The man was pretty sure he was still alive. Even if he wasn't, it wasn't his problem now. He felt a little bad about beating the man. But only a little. It had been pretty fun to let loose, let himself go. Really just go all out on the poor sucker. He was pretty sure he wasn't dead. There had been quite a bit of blood, though. It all was rather thrilling, if he stopped to think about it. He realized he still had some on his hands. He stopped and looked at his reflection in a storefront window. That freakish pale face looked back at him. At least the blood gave it some color. Still, he knew it wouldn't be good to be seen with spatters of blood on his face, so he hurriedly wiped it off on the undershirt he had been wearing under the straitjacket. He had almost mourned leaving it behind, but he knew it would be even harder to explain a straitjacket than some flecks of blood. He liked how it looked, though he wasn't certain why. The man smiles at his reflection. He felt different. He wasn't sure how, but he felt... freed. Better. He wasn't sure if those were the right words, but they fit well enough until he thought of better ones. He found himself unconsciously walking back towards his apartment. He couldn't go back there. Where else could he go, though? He didn't have any money. He thought for a while, walking at random. He stopped, looked around. This part of the city was familiar to him. Why was that? He looked up and down the street, it was his route to work. It felt like a lifetime had gone by since he'd been there, and it felt like just yesterday at the same time. He had stopped directly in front of Bob's. Bob... Bob, who he was always happy to see. Bob, who was one of the few familiar faces in this nasty, grey city that had refused to get to know him. He didn't know why there wasn't any color. Someone should fix that. Bob, who cussed him out and sneered at him every morning. He had thought of Bob as a friend, or at least someone familiar who, while rough around the edges, was happy to see him. Despite his view of the world being warped through a new lense of slightly twisted humor, the man didn't see the good anymore. He had lost the spark of his optimism, that everything was alright, and would be alright. He had a moment of despair, of hopelessness. And then he laughed. No, everything wasn't going to be alright. So what? That meant he could stop trying to force it to be. He could stop trying to make himself be happy. He could revel in the violence, the hate, the chaos that is the world and the city that he lives in. Everything wasn't going to be alright, but it was going to be funny. He lost all his cares, all his worries, then. Everything was wrong with the world, and he would do his damnedest to make it worse. He would light the city on fire and roast marshmallows. He threw his head back and laughed, long and hard, till he could barely breathe, could barely stand. The people passing by stared as they went past. He didn't care, they didn't matter. He just laughed, and when he couldn't laugh, he twisted his face into the widest grin he could, till his face hurt. The look in his eyes didn't match the grin, though. The grin looked deranged, but the eyes looked very sane. Sane and angry, though with a dark undertone of humor. And then he strolled into the bakery.

Bob gawked at the spectacle before him. A man, white as a sheet, white as a ghost, was smiling at him wider than he thought a man could. He shook himself, feeling uneasy around the man. He seemed eerily familiar. He almost wondered if he was the only person who could see him, but a quick glance at the other people in his shop disproved that theory. He shook himself again. He already wasn't having a good week. What did this psycho want? "What's your problem, man? You gonna buy something, or what?" The man looked at him, seemed to grin even wider, and chuckled. "I would like to make a withdrawal." Bob blinked at him. He didn't think he heard correctly. "What?" The man leaned forward , placed his hands on the counter. "I said I would like to make a withdrawal." "Buddy, what are you on? This look like a bank to you?" The man hopped up onto the counter, near the cash register, before jumping down onto the other side. "Hey, hey, you can't come back here. Get the hell out of my shop or I'm gonna call the cops." Bob reached for the man, ready to physically drag him from his store. He was skinny, shouldn't be too hard. The man slapped Bob's hand away and punched him in the nose, hard. Bob felt something crack, almost before he registered he'd been punched. This freak was fast. Someone screamed. Bob's hands flew to his face, and he bent over, cursing. The man pounced, punching him over and over, still smiling that horrid smile. Another scream. Bob felt the blows raining down on his back, his sides, uncoordinated, but unrelenting. He fell to his knees. He'd always thought he was a relatively good fighter, but here he was being taken down by some crackhead off the street. He thought, detachedly, that you could be an incredible fighter and it wouldn't count for squat if you were caught by surprise.

The man continued hitting Bob until he was unconscious. And then he kept hitting him, kicking him now. He kept kicking till Bob was bleeding from his mouth, coughing up blood. And then he started to laugh. The adrenaline was flowing, and he was having fun. He raised his foot and stomped on Bob's head. Again and again, till he felt it crack. He started laughing again, and turned to the cash register. This was fun, but he needed some money. He fiddled with the machine for a moment before the drawer popped open. Grabbing a few handfuls of bills, he hopped back over the counter and walked out with a skip in his step, and his head held high, his shoulders back. Time to find a place to stay for a while. As he kept walking, he heard sirens. He chuckled to himself. He was going to be hearing that a lot more often. He liked that thought.

The customers in Bob's were still frozen in horror when the cops arrived. Bob still lay behind the counter, some blood on the wall behind him, with more pooling around him. The police entered the room to find it almost entirely quiet. One woman cried, pressed against the wall, but no one else moved. When statements were finally coaxed out of them, they all said more or less the same thing. A man, pale as death, had beaten Bob to death in front of them and walked out with the contents of the register. And he had done it all while smiling and laughing.

The man had been walking for quite a while, and eventually found what he was looking for. The motel was probably the worst in the city, poorly lit and smelling heavily of cigarettes. This wasn't the kind of place you went over with a black light, if you wanted to be able to sleep. Better to be ignorant. He practically bounced into the office, and was met with a dead stare from the manager. They were the kind of person who was so old, had smoked and drank for so long, that unless you got them into bed, you'd probably never know their gender. The man grinned. "I would be so honored if you would allow me to rent your finest room, ma'am." He bowed, giggling to himself, and the person in front of him chewed on their cigarette in response. "Sixty bucks." The voice that responded was like gravel in a blender. The man slapped down a wad of twenties, snatched the key from the outstretched hand, and left. This wasn't the sort of respectable establishment that would ask questions. He found the room quickly, there were only thirty total, entered, and flopped down on the bed. He laughed to himself, giddy still over the events of the day. So much had happened, and so much still needed to be done. He hauled himself up, and looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom. He grinned and giggled. He looked absurd. His hair was like a halo of white around him, and his skin reflected the light in a ghostly manner. He knew his life would never be the same, and he didn't want it to be. He felt powerful, like he could do anything and no one could stop him. His life had gone from one of contented drudgery to something you would see in movies. He smiled at his reflection. He had probably killed Bob. The thought was crazy. How could he have? He was a nobody. He had never done anything, of any importance. He started to laugh again. He WAS a nobody. That meant he was a blank slate. Hell, he even looked the part. He could be anybody. And he was gonna be somebody. He would be somebody everybody knew, everybody recognized. Somebody everybody feared. He would be famous, he would be infamous. But he didn't like how he looked. It was memorable, but not nearly enough. It was creepy, which wasn't the look he wanted. He wanted to be a showman, somebody colorful. He thought of a circus. Like that! Yes, like a big top announcer. No. He chuckled. Nobody remembers them, they remember the acts. A clown. He laughed. Funny, absurd, memorable. That was what he would be. But not just any clown. No, no, that wouldn't do. A mixture of the two? He was frustrated. He didn't know what he wanted to be, but it needed to be big, showy, funny. He needed a look. He grabbed a handful of cash and left the room. He needed some supplies. Time to go shopping.