To which I replied: “Tribbles and the Borg. In round two they become trorgles. By the time Thanos asks WTF, the Highlander takes *his* head ‘cause there can be only one. Then it’s just math at that point.”
This, dear Reader, resonated with a few people. And so, I offered that I was fundraising for my trip to Egypt @booksofm on Ko-Fi, and obtaining some donations would yield said fanfic for free as a reward. Though the offer funded early thanks to a kind kiwi-loving soul, and another patron of my hilarious-to-me arts, Bryan CP Steele, added funds to have a walk-on role in the story. Yes, that’s right, another man named Brian wanted to join the reverie.
(Pssssst… This is called foreshadowing.)
With the new blue check rollout (and other?) changes coming as early as Wednesday, I didn’t want to hold off fulfilling my promise so I wrote this piece last night. I am posting the story here, for your benefit, as well as on Ko-Fi. Channeling this fan energy! Can you spot all of the easter eggs? There are quite a few of them. Hee.
So here it is… In all its unvarnished, unedited glory… I call this piece: “The Last Laugh.”
The Last Laugh
In all the worlds, in all the known universes, there are few quests worth mentioning. Most unmatched heroes—whether they identify as gods of thunder and lightning, shapeshifting machines, self-torturing-yet-wealthy crusaders, or half-human infernalists—fight because their conscious compels them to. Even reluctant heroes influenced by a fate-spinning amulet, cloak, or helmet often abandon all reason to sacrifice themselves and their loved ones time and time again.
But what of the heroes’ foes and their valid quests? Should the average villain master their mirror image and command their shadow? Or is it inevitable their grief-stricken heart will simply freeze when tested? Is it not a depressing thought to know all villains are fated to lose—even the unbridled masterminds designed solely as obstacles for the heroes to overcome? Arguably, even the mooks who don masks befitting their personalities should have a chance to redeem themselves. Shouldn’t they? Why should their lives be spent worshipping one masked villain? Still, though it is true that gangs dressed as clowns, ninjas, even serpent-worshipping soldiers are disposable in service of the greater good-or-evil, hope still lingers in their six-fingered nightmares, urging their misguided selves to shape the world anew in their lackluster dreams.
A villain’s quest is not the same as the hero’s, of course. Rarely mentioned, of those that granted them redemption fewer still began as waking dreams—the stuff of pure imagination—channeled by rings, stones, bands, even masks to seek perfection. None, however, has proved to be more noteworthy than the shared dream of a hive mind.
Before this quest can be revealed, one must first understand how such a collective mind treats the word “perfection” for it as subjective as the definitions of good and evil. The proof? Too many villains—notably the bruised titans of this age—wrongly believe their genocidal appetites are “good” because they’d rescue a universe that didn’t need saving just to earn death’s favor. The truth? Their “quests” are simply speech-drunk desires driven by unchecked egos and broken hearts. Others, however, seek to wield Mother Nature’s many wholesome gifts as a weapon either knowingly to cleanse the natural world of its toxins or, perhaps more shockingly, to destroy its many peoples while remaining blissfully unaware of the havoc they wreak. Take, for example, the ball-shaped furry creatures who coo as gently as happy bluebirds. Are they mindful of the terrors that emerge from unchecked reproduction? For these soft creatures reproduce so quickly their numbers, if left unmanaged, dominate entire ships exhausting all resources—even those that appear to be bigger on the inside.
Of course, no villainous cause can be complete without considering the fragile human foes and their aimless quests for perfection. Unfortunately, it appears ape descendants are simply condemned to banality because they excel at lying to everyone, even themselves. Perhaps it is the cruelest prank imaginable that such fragile creatures can gain immense power so easily through machines, insect and animal bites, demigods and deities, magical relics and potions, industrial accidents, genetic mutation and manipulation, and alien artifacts if not aliens themselves. What good is power if the villains never win?
Perhaps, nay perchance, of these powered humans, it is the precious few cursed with immortality who will never adapt to the rigors of their hero’s journey and must do crime in the absence of personal growth. Whether they subsist on blood or suffer behind a masked vigilante’s identity, it is unconscionable to think how many immortal human beings are condemned to centuries of loneliness and rage simply because they failed to protect so many refrigerators from total annihilation. In truth, immortality is the opposite of perfection for these humans are so debased they even behead their kind, as if they’re magnetically pulled to the sharpest of swords, wrongfully assuming there can be only one head attached to one body. Trapped on a world with no shimmering portals, time travel, or spaceships, what hope do immortals have? What quests could possibly satisfy them other than the magical bonds of friendship? Sure, any immortal being who quickens their life’s pace by murdering others may not be worthy of such companionship—but still they try. Imagine, then, how desperate that lone, dark-haired, bike-riding man truly is, hunting his kind until he alone survives?
The immortal’s dream-sliver of “the one” is a foolish quest, but it is no better than the cooing creatures’ fantasies of “the many.” Thankfully, the immortal’s murderous goals are contained and, for this reason, outstrip the titan’s aspiration to save all life by murdering half of it. Still, none of these quests can be considered perfect or even achievable to the cross-species collective burdened with cybernetic implants and DNA-rewriting nanoprobes. To the hive, their perfect dream is both one and many.
Of these four villainous aims, it is the collective’s unfulfilled and noble quest—to unite the many as the unquestioning one—that remains notable for one simple reason: an authorial purveyor of fantasy named Brian dared to ask an interesting question.
After agonizing for mere minutes over the philosophical implications of each misguided quest and the possibility of villainous redemption, Brian posited in less than 140 characters a brilliant thought experiment. Creating two teams, the author wondered aloud which tagged duo would win in an epic battle: the immortal headhunter and the immense, plum-hued giant or the cute, fluffy round thing and the droll cyborg.
It was a question so interesting, so delightfully wicked, a catty goddess of mischief saw fit to answer it simply because she was bored—but first, she needed a mark. That very night, the horned deity approached a sand-imbued lord, a solemn figure who ruled over a realm of dreams and nightmares. The goddess whispered into the dream lord’s ear, convincing him this battle must be decided lest humanity fall into despair, lest his beloved humans—even the wealthiest men alive—lose their sense of humor.
And so, the trickster persuaded the serious sovereign to conjure a dream-powered arena capable of hosting “what if” scenarios. Then, she made a bet with the brooding monarch for the future of laughter. If the goddess won, no one would laugh any longer. If the dream lord won, humor would return to the land—even for those too embarrassed to laugh at themselves.
Of course, the somber lord’s wit was no match for the green goddess’s experience. Not only did the immortal trickster suggest the battle’s location, she picked the players, encouraging the dream lord to choose two champions. Thankfully, the lord—savvy enough to understand the trickster’s desires but not his own—agreed to the deal provided the goddess chose a mortal witness—perhaps the man named Brian who dreamed this battle into being. Without realizing it, the visionary ruler handed the playful trickster another opportunity to play a prank…on him.
And so it was that Brian—not Brian—was yanked into the dream world to witness a battle he had not imagined and could not hope to understand. Unlike Brian, the fantasy author who regularly drew inspiration from such mindful questions, this Brian was the painter of tiny figurines, a talented father and aficionado of joy, who preferred to challenge the gods with pen, paper, and fortune-shaping dice. And, unlike Brian, this Brian had always acted on mischief’s side giving in to narrative mayhem whenever possible.
Blissfully unaware of his role, Bryan (not Brian) patiently watched as the goddess of playful pandemonium—adorned in a shimmering green ballgown and gilded, spiked crown—hovered just above the grand arena. Then, the mysterious goddess, whose very name has been lost to memory, rubbed an emerald atop her finger, summoning a viridian gong. Seconds later the sunless ruler of dreams pointed at the two, buff heroes and assigned the impressive, but humorless, figures the meaty task of representing laughter in a three-round battle.
Now, the combatants did not know why they’d been summoned to this impossible, cloud-formed colosseum and its arena of glittering sand. Had the four known they were fighting for the future of laughter, they would not find such a thing funny at all, for none of them possessed the ability to make a joke. Indeed, the four impossible villains—one cooing floof, one cyborg, one immortal, and one genocidal giant—faced one another because it was in their nature to do so.
At the sound of that mighty gong, the grape-juiced giant pointed at the sentient ball of fur and swung his mighty, double-edged sword at his miniscule opponent, only to grunt in frustration as the small fuzzy thing bounced off the top of his boot and slowly rolled away. With a gentle coo, the furry orb taunted the genocidal maniac, unafraid of his murderous intent, for they knew something the destruction-bent titan did not.
They were pregnant.
While the violaceous giant attacked the supposed “weakest” target, the immortal biker stood idle for they, unfortunately, could not find the cyborg who was curiously missing from the field of battle. The immortal grunted again, louder this time, and with more manly vigor. Despite his towering height and intimidating nature, the motorcycle-loving strongman did not wish to dull their blade against an unworthy opponent too cowardly to face their doom. Instead, the black-clad immortal hastily threw his muscled arms up in victory, foolishly believing the cybernetic creature was no threat—never realizing the stands occupied by a single, human spectator were also part of the game.
Unable to fell their opponents in the first round, both the purple giant and the leather-and-steel adorned biker grunted yet again, storing their thoughts for compelling monologues, wondering why they’d be summoned to defeat such pitiful adversaries. At the sound of the gong, the mighty villains gave each other a curt nod, then rested at opposite ends of the arena, confident their combined strength, size, and immense weapons would secure an easy victory by the end of round two.
In that pregnant pause between rounds, the goddess of mischief and the ruler of dreams saw fit to ask their judge Brian (not Brian!) which team would win this epic battle—but he was unable to answer them in complete sentences. The Brian summoned to witness this war for the future of laughter also grunted imperceptibly, not because he was a mighty hero, but because he was not Bryan or Brian, but Bryan and Brian, an infuriating and amusing revelation. Somehow, the cyborg on the battlefield formerly known as Brian had assimilated the spectator, erasing the new life of Bryan, creating a small, but growing, collective of two.
The sovereign of subconscious, frustrated by this puzzling turn of events, gently ushered the two cyborgs back onto the battlefield to fight. As soon as their boots touched sand, the goddess of mischief grinned wickedly and hit the gong with her mighty mallet, kicking off round two. Confident her team of unlikely villains would emerge victorious, the trickster cackled. Not only had her cyborg formed a collective, her other champion—that cuddly, evasive ball of self-loving floof who’d tormented the significantly-bruised giant—was no longer one, but many, and was still multiplying with or without their midnight snacks.
Confused by this turn of events, the bruised giant lumbered toward a single furball and bent down to attack it with a murderous speech promising genocide to all their unwitting kind, a monologue so illogical and so evil even his teammate, that impatient, head-seeking, engine-loving immortal, could not stand to hear it. Unfortunately for the dream lord, the long-lived biker felt so repulsed by such indefensible notions of furball genocide, he finally realized a new prize awaited him: a rather large eggplant-colored head.
“What the fuck?”
Ditching the opportunity for his own self-serving monologue, the immortal swung his sharpened blade, cleanly separating the titan’s head from his thick amethyst body, staining the ground with dark, violet blood. Emboldened by the promise of victory, the giant’s beheading was only the beginning of the immortal’s murderous rampage—or so he foolishly thought.
Desperate for a win, the dream lord cheered for his surviving champion with an imperceptible wave of his ghostly hand, but the deity’s faint encouragement could not help the immortal overcome his bloodlust long enough to understand the titan’s question was not directed at him.
“What the fuck?”
This time, the immortal asked the unanswerable question for he, too, witnessed an indescribable sight. If their team had two, unique opponents in round one, he alone faced an army now, a battalion of self-replicating, cooing furballs—dozens, if not hundreds, by his count—pursued by a pair of slow-marching cyborgs. Thinking quickly, the immortal lifted his sword to strike the nearest cyborg, but he lost his footing, silencing the ring of steel as it fell limp by his side. With a mighty roar the immortal strained for an attack, but the empowered floofs surrounded him. They, like the goddess of mischief, would not be deterred.
While the lord of dreams watched in abject horror, the floofs tripped his champion, felling him with a deafening thud. The biker roared in impotent anger, shouting again and again—but the dream lord was powerless to help. Shaking his head, the solemn sovereign was appalled that mere pests had bested both his giant and his immortal headhunter simply by outnumbering them.
“What the fuck?”
This time, it was the dreaming lord’s turn to quietly whisper the unanswered question. This time, it was the cyborgs’ turn to display their powers, to show why their collective was not benign. Wielding the power of two, the cyborgs marched around the perimeter of the fluffy pile and injected each furball with nanoprobes designed to overwrite their DNA, forcing them to join their growing collective, gifting them with implants that amplified their coos and sped their reproduction.
And so it was, well before the end of round two, that the battle had been decided. Not only had the immortal fallen, the entire arena was overrun with cybernetic pests commanded by the altered humans formerly known as Brian and Brian.
“Is that all?” the dream lord whispered. How would he grieve the end of laughter, he wondered. How could he. “Will I never hear another laugh?”
The goddess of mischief stifled a giggle, for the lord of the dreaming lands could be incredibly thick-headed sometimes, especially when the truth was in plain sight. Sitting beside the sovereign, she asked: “Do I really need to explain the joke?”
The ruler nodded with great reluctance.
“What time is it?” the trickster asked.
“I’m not sure,” the dream lord replied. “It must be close to dawn, I think.”
“And what happens when the dreamers wake?”
The sunless deity’s eyes widened with the realization this evening’s events were naught but a dream powered by Brian and Brian, the unusually-colored giant and his partner, the immortal headhunter, and a growing—no shrinking—family of cooing furballs.
Suddenly, the dream lord felt waves of relief crashing over him. This was not a battle for the future of laughter. This was simply a battle of wits to prove that the many—no matter who they were—would always win against impossible might provided they stood together.
The ruler of the dreaming lands smirked, then conjured a refreshing kiwi fruit. Not only would the dreamers wake safely in their beds, the evening’s dream might inspire them to tackle their own heroic journeys. Tilting his head back, the dream lord opened his mouth to laugh, but the goddess of mischief put a finger to his lips.
“Never forget, my solemn sovereign of all subconsciousness, I will always possess that which you seek.”
“Oh?” he asked, worried he’d angered a curious, but interesting opponent. “And what is that exactly?”
The mischievous goddess fluttered her eyelashes and giggled. Then, she yawned and said: “The last laugh.”
Uggggghhhhhh... I tried reaching you on Twitter. I realized in the 11th hour that you shared the same name with the OP. I updated the spelling as fast as I could! Thank you for being gracious about it. :-)
So, you are now one of my heroes, M. :)
(Although my name is spelled Bryan... but, if anything, the misspell makes the gag better!)
Uggggghhhhhh... I tried reaching you on Twitter. I realized in the 11th hour that you shared the same name with the OP. I updated the spelling as fast as I could! Thank you for being gracious about it. :-)