Disclaimer! All fictional entities featured belong to Kazuki Takahashi and were rented by me. Except Sara Scinner and Silpheed the cockatoo; they're mine. This story has been beta-read by Pidge-san, AlukaKaiserin, and ChazzyLuverGurl.

"CHEAP LAUGH"

ACT NINE

So Zane never called, and oddly enough, Sara didn't come back. The first three days after that incident, however, he found himself checking every curb and corner before crossing it. He did not do this because he was afraid; he was just wary of any unwelcome surprises (either from Sara or Missy, who had unlocked the cuffs herself just to go to the bathroom, giving him the chance to get the hell out of there). In his condition, he couldn't stand many more surprises. He even avoided the store he usually went to and walked five extra blocks to buy groceries from another place (seeing ambulances, police cars and a fire truck in front of his usual store triggered this tight, uncomfortable feeling in his gut that told him that something awful had happened in there, and that Sara had been involved).

She hadn't even called, or at least tried to. Three days melted into a week, and Zane began to relax…as much as he could afford to, at least. He decided to rest in an apartment; moving from hotel to hotel every day had become too tiresome and laborious for him. Besides, no matter where he went, rabid fans—especially the female ones—managed to find him. When one is dying, they tend to stop caring about anything except two things: their unfinished business, and their ability to stay alive so they can finish said business.

On the bright side, he could go back and focus on more important things. He meditated on these things as he entered his kitchen and put away all of his groceries.

The temperature outside was sweltering; if he had felt like it, he could've fried a steak out there on the concrete. He wiped the sweat off of his brow with a cloth. In the far back of his mind, he wished that he had something a little lighter to wear on days like this. When Mr. Shroud was his manager, he had seen to it that everything else in his wardrobe except his black attire had been disposed of. Sure, he could've gone out and bought more clothes, but he never had the time. All of his time was dedicated to dueling and winning. Now that he was dying, though, he didn't think it mattered anymore if he had any more clothes.

Besides, he liked his outfit. Dying in leather sounded much better than dying in a tuxedo fit for a chimpanzee. Phoenix would probably die in a monkey suit, but not him.

The only question was this: who would it be that he'd see on the other side of the field when he would die? This would be something he would spend grueling months trying to answer.


"Well, Silpheed, that's the second job I've lost. But there's a bright side to this! I've managed to earn enough dough for these babies!" Sara glided down the sidewalk, gesturing to the ugliest and rattiest yellow roller skates one could ever lay eyes on. She'd purchased them at a garage sale. Silpheed fluttered behind and cringed at the shoes.

"They're as comfy as bean bags! Plus, now we can deliver happiness as twice as fast as before! That should help, what with all the apology baskets we have to give everybody." Indeed, she had baskets crammed in her backpack and about a dozen more piled in a little red wagon she'd borrowed from a neighbor. Its wheels squeaked like tortured mice over the bumps on the sidewalk.

Presently, the two stopped at an intersection and waited for the signal to cross the street. Silpheed took the opportunity to plop into the wagon, between two baskets, and take a breather. "RAWK! How'd ya get laid, anyhow?"

"The term is 'laid off,' my feathered friend. And the story's a lot funnier if I used a flashback." She and Silpheed stared up into the red traffic light.

Click.


A short, stout old man in overalls and wild grey hair tapped on Sara's shoulder. "Excuse me, miss, but can you direct me to the aisle where they keep the prune juice?" he wheezed. He clung to his shopping cart almost in the same way a little boy would.

Seeing a chance to be helpful, Sara smiled. "Right down Aisle One, sir! Here, I'll show ya!" She had learned from her own grandpa that old people had poor memory and sense of direction. With this in mind, she led him to the aisle, where they kept the juices that didn't need refrigerating.

She gestured to the bottles of prune juice at the very top of the shelf. "Prune juice!"

"How wonderful!" The old man reached up to grab a bottle, but being the short and stout old man he was, he could hardly reach halfway up the shelf. He tried standing on tiptoe. No avail. "Oh, fiddlesticks! Don't these store people ever think about little people like me before shelving their products? If only my grandson were here…he could grow a foot taller in a snap when the circumstances called for it."

"Hey, no prob! I'll get it for ya!" Sara reached up as far as she could and tried to stretch her fingers, but her fingertips barely brushed against the tip of the top shelf. Cramming her tongue into her left cheek, she stood up on tiptoe. She even hopped up and down, grabbing at the tantalizingly close bottle of prune juice.

Eventually, she stamped her foot and huffed, "Fiddlesticks is right!" She eyed the grocery cart the old man clung to.

"P-Perhaps you could pull out a stepladder?"

"Even better: can I see that cart?"

"Er…all right?"

He handed it to Sara, uncertain on what she was about to do with it. Grasping the handle with both hands, she started to back up by about fifteen feet, all the way into the stand where they displayed their peaches and cherries. She stood still for a moment, shoulders hunched and eyes squinting at the shelf. Her foot tapped the floor, almost in the way a bull would.

"…GERONIMOOOOO!"

She dashed for the shelf as swiftly as a Sonic Duck, the soles of her sneakers slapping against the linoleum. The wheels of the cart shrieked in anticipation. How fortunate it was that the old man had enough sense to stay well out of the way! How unfortunate, however, that Sara toppled more than just a bottle of prune juice off of the shelf.

WHAM!

She struck it square-on. It all happened in a flash: the entire shelf trembled from impact, tumbling over on its base and scattering food all around like an avalanche. Like a line of dominos, every shelf behind it—right up to Aisle Fifteen—toppled! Glass shattered! Liquids marred the clean white linoleum! People screamed bloody murder! One shopper even had the misfortune of getting caught by the leg under the land—scratch that, food-slide! Once the dust cleared, the entire store looked like a demolition area.

The old man's violet eyes widened as he clutched a hand over his chest. "It's the end of the world! Call my grandson!" He made a mad sprint for the automatic doors and didn't come back. For an old man, he could sure run.

Sara surveyed the mess with a finger to her lips, eyes wide with shock. "…Whoops! Wait, sir! You forgot your prune juice!"


"Man, did I get the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. Mr. Kister told me that luckily, the only thing I killed with my little stunt was my job. Thank the Lord of Laughter for the half-off sales on seafood."

"RAWK! Why not a stepladder?"

"Sure, I could've just used a ladder and kept my job. But don't you think that sounds a little cliché? Any average Joe can use a ladder. It takes a real genius to knock stuff out of place!"

Silpheed rolled his beady eyes. That Sara: always doing things differently.

Along the way, their throats turned as dry as blackboards with thirst. They happened to be passing a joke shop, The Gay Clown, which was the place Sara bought all of her gags from. They had a water fountain inside, so the two stopped to get a drink. Imagine her surprise when she barged in and rang the bell, only to find a boy at the counter instead of her friend Zoey.

The boy looked up at the two and waved. "Good afternoon! Welcome to The Gay Clown!"

Sara leaned to the side to whisper to Silpheed, "Hey Silph, either we walked into the wrong joke shop, or there's a stranger-guy at the counter."

The boy smiled at them. "Don't be shy! Feel free to look around!" Sara had to admit that for a stranger-guy, he had quite a pleasant smile. She believed that you can figure out a little bit about a person by the way they smiled, and by judging his, she guessed that he was a nice stranger-guy.

Still, she had to ask, "Who are you? Where's Zoey?"

"She's in the hospital with a broken leg. There was some freak accident at the store. Poor girl wound up on the wrong side of an anchovy avalanche."

Sara jammed her tongue into her cheek. Strange, that sounded awfully familiar…but poor Zoey, indeed! She made a note to visit her with a basket.

"Anyway, I'm a friend of hers that's running her store while she's away. The name's Farley."

Ever the type to be eager to make friends, Sara trotted up to Farley and offered her hand. "Awesome-nity! Any friend of Zoe's is a friend of ours! I'm Sara! This is Silpheed! Put 'er there!"

Farley put her there, all right. He ducked into the counter and pulled out a Barbie doll in a tiny cotton bikini. He dropped it into Sara's palm.

"Awww, put 'er there!" she hooted. "You're a real joker, aren't ya?" Silpheed remained silent, mostly because he was eying that sexy Barbie and undressing it in his mind. Dolls always let people have their way with them.

Farley grinned, twirling a lock of his muddy blonde hair around his finger. "Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? You can't run a joke shop with a pole up your butt, can you, now?"

Sara shook her head, still quaking with laughter, and set the doll aside. This gave Silpheed the perfect opportunity to hop off of her shoulder and carry it off to the bathroom. In the meantime, Sara and Farley drained the time like soap under running water, just chewing the fat as though they'd known each other since they were both in diapers. They babbled about everything, from pranks each of them had pulled (the harmless ones), to about which was the funnier dueling comic (Farley vouched for Sagi Sal, while Sara praised Cory Boh). Farley even enlightened her on the history behind several gags.

"Y'know, joy buzzers don't actually electrocute the victim. When they press the button, all it really does is release a spring that rapidly unwinds and creates a vibration that feels like an electric shock."

He held out a whoopee cushion at arm's length and beamed. "And did you know that the whoopee cushion—also called the raspberry cushion—was invented in the thirties by a Canadian rubber company after several of its employees experimented with scraps of rubber? When it first made its debut, they initially thought it was too gross to make any sales." He set it on the counter.

Sara lovingly stroked the rubber sack with her index finger, as though it were a puppy. "Ding-dong, were they wrong! We really gotta give those Canadians credit for something! I honor this baby in all my duels, y'know!" She pressed down on the cushion with her thumb.

PPPPHHHBBT!

"One time, I even used it in this duel with my buddy! It didn't make him laugh like I intended it to, but it was sure a barrel of fun! And when I lost, I fell on top of the guy and I tooted for real! Of course, I hadn't meant to, but you know how it is. Things slip out. I'm surprised he didn't kick my ass for that one."

Farley cocked his head, his eyes forming question marks in them. "Why would he kick your ass? I thought you were buddies?"

"Well, technically, he's my buddy. But then, everybody's my buddy, even you! It's that he doesn't seem to consider me as his buddy. He doesn't think of anyone as his buddy. Heart-breaking, really. I've been trying to cheer him up for weeks. Know what I always say? Laughter prevents cancer!"

Farley frowned. "Wow. Have you succeeded?"

"Well, I tried to give him a package of donuts, but he locked himself in his room again; I couldn't see if he was smirking or not. A crazy fruit loop, that Truesdale is."

Suddenly, the boy's eyes widened into the size of Frisbees. "Oh, no effing way! Truesdale? The emo kid? You're trying to crack him up?"

"Well, someone needs to! And don't kid yourself: no man is incapable of laughter!" Sara exclaimed with a wink. "I think we got pretty close, though. We even wrote 'The cake was a lie,' on account of we'd tried to give him a cake before and it hadn't really worked out. Here, ask Silpheed; he was there! He was even the one that thought about the donuts, right, boy? Silpheed?" She turned around and scanned the aisles behind her.

Then, Farley perked up. "Did you hear something? Sounded like it came from the bathroom."

The two ambled around the corner to find two bathroom doors: one for "comedians," and one for "comediennes." Peculiar grunting noises emitted from behind the comediennes' room. Sara stepped in front of Farley and opened the door. "Silpheed, are you in—whoa!"

Farley peeked over her shoulder. "What, is he in there—oh my God."

They found the dirty little bird on the floor, on top of the Barbie doll, up against the wall, beneath the automatic dryer. They appeared to be going at it doggy-style, with his beak wrapped around the doll's neck. The instant he realized that he was being watched, he stopped what he was doing and let go of the doll. His beady eyes were now as wide as marbles, and his feathers were all in disarray.

And what did he have to say for himself?

"…This is exactly what it looks like. RAWK!"

Sara wagged her finger. "Boy, if you knock Barbie up, I will make you get a job, and you will pay child support! Also…do you know what Ken will do if he finds out?"

Just for kicks, Farley pulled out a shirtless Ken doll with a skull tattoo and angry eyebrows drawn on it with a black marker.

"RAAAAWK! RAWK, RAWK, RAWK, RAAAAAWK!" Panicking, Silpheed hopped in circles, scattering feathers all around the floor. His claws click-clacked against the linoleum in a rapid, frantic rhythm. Finally, he crawled underneath a stall and hopped into the toilet.

FLU-SSSSSSSSH!

Sara covered her mouth and went pale, as though her bird had been cornered by a cat. "Oh no, not again! Hang on, Silpheed!" She slid into the stall after him, almost tripping up over herself along the way. Farley just stood there holding the dolls (he held Barbie up by the ankle, for fear what exactly that cockatoo had been doing with it). His face twisted into something that looked like a grimace and a grin at the same time, but he remained quiet. After all, what could he really say?


God, I could've had a heart attack in the time it's taken those jackasses to get me my prescription. But at least I can get out of here, now.

Zane slunk down the hospital hallway with a tiny, brown paper bag in his hands, his boots squeaking against the waxed linoleum. His black attire looked so out of place against the sterile white scenery. Why, if anyone there was crazy enough, they probably would've mistaken him as Death.

The lobby was just up ahead. A little farther and he'd be on his way home. Suddenly, a girl skidded through the automatic doors in the ugliest yellow skates he'd ever seen, bearing a bouquet of sunflowers and a cockatoo on her shoulder. Zane recognized her right away, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Great. What's she doing here? Come to torture all of the weak and pathetic, I assume. Ugh, forget it. Just keep walking. She probably won't even make it past the desk before getting the boot.

In a way, Zane was right. Sara had barely gone past the desk, when the receptionist reached out and grabbed her by the shirt. "Hold on there, ma'am. Unless your pet is a service pet, no animals are allowed in the hospital."

"RAWK! I do service!"

"Yeah, he does! He's my partner in the funny business!"

"I could also do you some service in the bathroom, if you want. RAWK!" Silpheed didn't actually learn from the whole Barbie incident. He never learned.

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. She pointed to the exit. "We don't allow roller-skates here, either," she grumbled. She and Sara stared at each other for a moment.

Then, with a shrug, Sara leaned over and untied her skates, slipping them off of her feet. She set them on the table, leaving herself in her socks. "There. Now we can go see Zoey!" Before the receptionist could protest any further, she and Silpheed twirled away, almost as though they were ice-skating.

"RAWK! Band on the run, band on the run!"

"Hey, you! Get back here!" the receptionist demanded, jumping out of her seat and taking off after them. "Security!"

Fortunately for Zane, he'd seen the whole thing, and managed to side-step the parade before they could run him over. Seeing Sara laugh along the way made him roll his eyes. At least she hadn't noticed him. The sooner he could get out of this nuthouse, the better. Along the way out the doors, however, an old lady with a walker was being helped into the building. She only had to look at Zane for two seconds to make her shriek bloody murder.

"Oh my Lord, it's DEATH! I'm too young to dance with you!" She made a one-eighty degree turn back to her car and stumbled in it. For an old lady in a walker, she sure could move quickly.

TO BE CONTINUED…