Chris Maiorana

Death Shtick

A pretty blonde girl walks into a comedy club, mid-afternoon… 

With a setup like that it’s no wonder the bartender thought she was lost. 

“I’m here to see Dickie Crusher,” the girl said. 

The bartender pointed to a lonely stool at the corner of the bar, where a man was sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke, huddled over a legal pad. The man with bug eyes, thick glasses, and crazy hair was Dickie Crusher. No doubt about it. 

Dickie looked up from his scribbling as the girl approached. The ballpoint pen sticking in his hand made him look like an ape gripping a crayon. “What do you want?” 

“My name is Sally Amis. I’m a comedian. Trying to make it in the biz. I was wondering if I could talk to you, privately.” 

“Trying to make it in the biz, huh? You want to watch me jerk off?” Dickie laughed maniacally. His dingy, tobacco-stained teeth were as comical as his routine. 

Sally smirked and crossed her arms. “Thanks for the offer. Not interested.” 

“I’ve seen you around. Hitting the circuit. Sucking up those AM slots. Tough crowds. Drunk. Are you funny?” 

“Yes, I’m funny.” 

“OK. Make me laugh.” 

“I haven’t got a mirror handy.” 

Dickie snubbed out his cigarette, murmured positive-sounding grunts. “OK. You got a wit. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re funny. At the same time, I never said unfunny people can’t have a career in this biz. Please, come into my office, young lady. I promise I won’t try anything.” 

Dickie’s “office” was a shabby dressing room in the back. 

“You might say I have a ‘residency’ here. This is my desk.” He threw the legal pad down atop the rickety vanity in front of the mirror with the burned-out bulbs. He pointed to the cracked leather sofa at the other end of the room. “That’s my wink wink casting couch. Tee hee. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sally didn’t sit. Shoulders tensed, she kept the conversation focused and professional. “I wanted to talk about your jokes. I’ve studied your bits quite closely. For example, that joke you did about the shooting at the doughnut shop on La Brea?” 

“Oh, yeah. Gangland style drive-by. Talk about getting glazed up, am I right? Those doughnuts weren’t the only things with holes in ‘em. Hee hee!” 

“That’s just it. It seems for every crime committed in the city you have the jokes ready in your back pocket. Why?” 

“Bits. I get a bit, and I work it how I work it. And why not? It’s called being a comedian. Any disaster, crime, national tragedy, terrorist attack, you name it. It’s fair game. While the masses are mourning, I’m getting material. It’s how comedians are wired. Most guys are afraid to share those bits, because they want careers, families, and Netflix specials. I tell it like it is, baby. That’s why I’m headlining in this gin joint. No Netflix special for me. But I can make ‘em laugh. Boy do I. Deep down, people need to laugh at what scares them. I’m providing a community service. I’m a hero!” 

“Like the one about the pressure cooker explosive that went off at that movie premiere last month?” 

“Yup, shame, talk about review bombing. Heh heh!” 

“And the woman in Los Feliz, from last week?” 

Dickie’s brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t recall.” 

“Witnesses say she went home with a weird-looking guy? They found her in a freezer.” 

“Oh yeah! Hee hee. Netflix and chilled, am I right? Gnuch! Gnuch! BOINK. Buh-la-la-la! Buh-la-la-la! You’re not laughing.” 

Sally didn’t find Dickie’s jokes particularly funny. But she knew the crowds ate it up, because of the way he delivered his bits. The squeaking voice, the googly eyes. The strange noises. It was the blessing and curse of a trickster to be able to squeeze out a smile in spite of the dark nature seething under the surface. 

The attractive blonde pulled out a ragged notepad to assist with her interview. 

Dickie grabbed a rubber chicken from a large prop chest by the couch, gently squeezed it by the neck. “What do you want to discuss now? My penis size? Nothing to write home about, I assure you.” 

“What about the new bit from just a few days ago? An eleven-year-old girl was found raped and murdered just outside of town. Witnesses claim they saw a man carrying a large cardboard box into the woods, in which the remains were discovered.” 

“Never heard of it,” Dickie said. 

“You did a joke about how kids get so ‘carried away sometimes.’” 

“Haha! Damn, I am pretty funny!” 

“The weird thing is, you seemed to have the bit before the story broke. Even before next of kin had been alerted.” 

“What are you saying, kiddo? That I what? You want I should help the police, like a sniff dog? If I do a bit and it hits too close for comfort then that’s the breaks. Like I told you, these bits are in the air. I just grab a hold of one and tell it like I see it. What’s it to ya, anyway? What kind of comedian are you?” 

A grave look crossed Sally’s face, distorting her otherwise symmetrical features. “I’m not a comedian. I’m a detective. I’ve been studying you closely for months. Everyone else in the LAPD thinks I’m out of my league, that I’m chasing a shadow. They laugh at me as they pass.” 

“They must be the only ones who find you funny.” 

“I know there’s something off about you. And I’m willing to put it all on the line to get you. Because I think you’re sick. You and your whole shtick.” 

Richard “Dickie” Crusher took a long drag off his cigarette. “Now that’s funny. You should run with that. And I mean run.” 

“I’ve been working undercover. Been pulling those late-night spots. Trying to get my face out there. All so I could get close enough in your orbit to be sure. But as soon as I saw you, I knew I had my guy. Your jokes are too specific. Too many details. Like you were actually present at the scene of the crimes. You’ve slipped up now, joking about a story before the public was even aware of it. But the joke’s up, Dickie. Because even though I don’t have the evidence to take you in right this minute, I know you’ll keep slipping, and soon, because you can’t help yourself, and you won’t stop. You better look out, Dickie, because you know I will.” 

Sally pivoted for the door. 

“I told you you should run,” Dickie said. 

Why she did it she couldn’t have said, but Sally turned to get one last look at her favorite subject, the maniac she’d lost sleep—and part of her life—obsessing over. 

She looked up just as Dickie brought the lead-filled rubber chicken down on her head, crushing the skull instantly. And he continued to hammer blows down until he was quite certain she wouldn’t be telling her friends at the LAPD anymore crazy stories. 

That night, Dickie’s act was better than he had ever played before. The audience cracked and spilled onto the floor. It was as if Dickie was delivering his magnum opus, his final shtick. For that’s exactly what it was. Sally Amis was keen enough to tell her colleagues at the station where she’d be that afternoon. And when they didn’t hear back from her, they went to investigate, and they found her stashed in the prop chest from which Dickie had pulled his rubber chicken. 

If you asked any of the audience members who attended that evening, they’ll tell you what an unforgettable show it was, and how you may never see its equal. If you ask the comedians who hover around the clubs in the wee hours of the morning, they’ll tell it to you in industry terms: Dickie really killed.