KILLER JOKES

"So, I told my doctor I broke my arm in two places. He said, 'Well, don't go back to those places!'"

The break room burst into hysterics, Bob delivering yet another side-splitting punchline. People leaned on chairs and doubled over, wiping tears. The joy in the room was palpable. Like it had a life of its own.

Except for Tom Greaves.

He stood by the water cooler, staring expressionless into his mug of black coffee. Loud and overwhelming laughter swirled around him, but he was untouched by it. His mouth remained a thin, tight line, his face as blank as a sheet of paper.

Bob noticed and grinned. "Tom, man, you got to give me something here! I just killed it! Even you must admit that was funny!"

Tom glanced up, offering a forced, hollow smile. "Not really my kind of thing."

The room fell awkwardly silent for a second before Bob's booming laugh filled the space, leading the others to follow. They knew Tom wasn't like them.

It wasn't that he didn't try; he just didn't understand jokes, and he never had. Humor, for him, was as distant as the stars. Since he was a child, jokes seemed like puzzles with missing pieces. When other kids cracked up at cartoons or wordplay, he sat there, confused. His father never laughed either, constantly telling him, "Laughter is a waste of time, Tom. You should be serious. Life's too short for jokes."

And so Tom buried himself in work. He could understand numbers, tasks, and goals, but the gnawing question always lingered: Why don't I feel what they feel? Why can't I laugh like they do?

****

After another joyless day at work, Tom trudged home in the rain. A flickering neon sign caught his attention as he passed a small alley: "Fenton's Rare Books."

The door was ajar, the dim light inside casting strange shadows across the cobblestone path. Tom normally wasn't one to stop for something so obscure, but something pulled at him that night. He stepped inside.

The shop smelled of old paper, dust, and something sweet, almost like sugar cookies. Shelves stretched high, packed with ancient tomes and odd trinkets. Tom wandered the aisles aimlessly when a small, thin book caught his eye. It was tucked into the corner of a dusty shelf, half hidden behind a stack of faded newspapers. He reached for it, his hand shaking slightly as his fingers touched the worn leather cover.

The title was embossed in gold: Killer Jokes. Something about the book called to him made his pulse quicken. He opened it to the first page and read aloud, almost without thinking:

"Why did the chicken join a band? Because it had the drumsticks!"

And then something incredible happened. Tom laughed. Not a smirk or a forced chuckle, but a deep, belly-shaking laugh. His body trembled with it. He hadn't felt anything like this before. It startled him.

The shopkeeper, an elderly man with graying hair and a crooked smile, appeared behind the counter. "Ah, I see you've found my little treasure," he said. "That book has... power."

"Power?" Tom asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

The man nodded slowly. "Everyone has a sense of humor buried deep down. That book helps bring it out."

Tom paid for it, excitement buzzing in his chest.

At home, Tom sat at his kitchen table, the book in front of him like a prize. The room was still, save for the occasional rainwater drip from his coat, now hanging over a chair. He picked up the book and began reading again.

"Why don't some couples go to the gym? Because some relationships don't work out."

He laughed again, harder this time. The sound filled the small apartment, bouncing off the walls. He couldn't stop. Every joke hit perfectly, and with each turn of the page, his laughter grew louder, more uncontrollable. It was like a dam had broken inside him, flooding his body with years of suppressed joy.

He didn't sleep that night. He read the entire book cover to cover, laughing until his sides hurt and his throat was raw. It was magical. He finally got it. He could finally laugh.

But as the hours passed and the dawn light seeped through his windows, Tom began feeling strange unease. Were the jokes so funny, or was it something else? Tom wasn't sure if he was laughing because he wanted to or couldn't stop.

****

By morning, his obsession had taken root, digging into his thoughts like a vine that wrapped itself tighter with every passing hour. The world outside faded compared to the thrill that coursed through him—the thrill of finally understanding and belonging. At work, Tom could hardly contain his excitement. He had felt like an outsider for so long, and now he had a secret weapon that made people laugh and made him feel alive. The jokes in the book weren't just funny; they were powerful.

He burst into the break room, restless energy propelling him forward. Bob told one of his usual jokes that once left Tom isolated and lost. But not today. Today, Tom was eager, no, desperate, to share his newfound humor. Without hesitation, he interrupted Bob mid-punchline, cutting through the room like an electric charge.

"Why did the tomato turn red?" Tom asked, his voice brimming with confidence. "Because it saw the salad dressing!"

The room erupted, just as he had hoped. Raw and spontaneous laughter exploded from his colleagues, catching everyone off guard. Faces flushed with mirth, bodies doubled over as they gasped for breath between fits of uncontrollable giggles. Tom's grin widened, his heart racing with exhilaration. This, this was what he had missed for so long. This was the joy he had watched from the outside, the joy he had longed to feel.

However, he could not stop because he was already reciting jokes from memory to keep the laughter going. His hands trembled with excitement as he thought of the next joke, his voice louder, more urgent.

"I tried to catch fog yesterday," he said, barely pausing for breath. "I mist."

The infectious sounds of joy spilling into the hallway increased the noise, and more people wandered into the break room. It was a symphony of laughter, now swelling to a cacophony that filled every corner of the room. Tom could feel the energy around him, how people clung to every word he said, and how their eyes sparkled with anticipation for the next punchline. It was like riding a wave, and Tom was at the crest, soaring higher than he ever thought possible.

"I'm reading a book about anti-gravity!" he shouted over the din, his eyes gleaming. "It's impossible to put down!"

But something was changing. The once joyful atmosphere began to take on a strange edge. It deepened, growing harsher and more guttural. People weren't just laughing anymore; they were gasping and choking on it. Bob's face turned an alarming shade of red, veins bulging at his temples as his eyes began to water uncontrollably. His voice, once carefree, became strained and frantic. His chest heaved in the effort to draw breath between the relentless spasms of laughter that wracked his body.

Tom faltered, a flicker of doubt creeping into his mind. "Guys? Are you OK?" he asked, wavering as he stepped back, watching the scene unfold.

But there was yet to be a response.

Bob's body shook as though possessed, his mouth twisted into a grin too wide, too unnatural. Brown eyes bulged, bloodshot, as his body contorted, fighting against the urge that consumed him.

Tom's heart raced. Panic clawed at his throat as he scanned the room.

It wasn't just Bob.

One by one, his coworkers were collapsing, their bodies shaking with uncontrollable mirth. Their faces, once filled with joy, now contorted into masks of horror as they gasped for air, their laughter turning to gurgles. Some clutched at their chests; others fell to the floor, convulsing as their bodies buckled under the strain.

Then it happened. Bob collapsed in a sickening, sudden silence. The room seemed to freeze at that moment. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, his face still twisted in that horrifying grin, wide-eyed and lifeless. His mouth twitched once, twice, and then it was still.

Tom's breath hitched in his throat as the horror of the situation crashed over him. Bob was dead.

He had killed him with a joke.

And it wasn't just Bob.

One by one, the others followed, their bodies dropping to the floor, their faces frozen in the same grotesque, posthumous smiles. The room that had been filled with life only moments ago was now filled with bodies, the air heavy with the scent of death.

A cold, creeping dread settled in Tom's chest as he reached for the book in his pocket. The room was eerily quiet now, the only sound being the distant hum of the air conditioning, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded moments before. He looked around, his heart pounding in his ears. They were all dead.

He had killed them.

Tom stood alone in silence, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. The jokes had worked; oh, they had worked too well. The laughter he once longed for had turned into something monstrous and deadly.

"You ever hear the one about the guy who couldn't stop laughing?" Tom said softly, his voice shaking as the reality of everything sank in. "Turns out, neither could his friends."

But there was no one left to hear him. No one left to laugh at the punchline. Only the silence and the book still pulsed with an eerie, sinister energy in his hands.

His mind reeled. How had it come to this?

****

Panicking, Tom bolted to the bathroom. He had to get rid of the book. In the restroom, he threw the book into the garbage bin and stared at it, his heart racing. Was it over? Could he be free of it? But something dark and irrational gnawed at him.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, two police officers were already at the scene. They approached him calmly.

"Mr. Greaves, we need to ask you some questions," one of them said.

Tom's throat tightened. Could he speak without killing them? He opened his mouth cautiously, terrified of what might happen. "It... it was horrible," Tom stammered. "They just started laughing. I didn't know what was happening."

To his relief, the officers took notes. No one laughed.

After answering their questions, Tom left the building, but the gnawing feeling persisted. The book was still there, wasn't it? But it wasn't gone. The compulsion tugged at him, darker and stronger now. Before he knew it, he found himself back in the restroom. With trembling hands, he retrieved the book from the garbage bin and clutched it against his chest.

****

As he left the building, the security guard asked, "Is everything alright, Mr. Greaves?"

Tom tried not to answer, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Why did the golfer bring extra pants? In case he got a hole in one."

The guard starts laughing, but it quickly turns to gasps. His body shook violently, his voice deepening into a desperate, choking noise until, with one last breath, he collapsed, dead. Tom backed away in horror.

It was the book; it had to be.

The jokes were only deadly when he carried the book.

But he couldn't let it go.

Still shocked and realizing this, Tom started walking down the street when a woman crossed his path, smiling. "Good morning!"

Tom clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to speak, but the words forced their way out. "Why did the bicycle fall over? It was two-tired."

She doubled over instantly, clutching her stomach. Her laughter turned into choking sobs as her body convulsed, and she fell to the ground, dead. Tom didn't even look back. His steps quickened, his head down, eyes fixed on the slick pavement. But the sound of screeching tires made him flinch.

A taxi screeched to a stop beside him, the driver yelling, "Watch where you're going!"

Again, Tom tried to keep silent, but the joke spilled out. "I used to play piano by ear, but now I use my hands."

The driver howled, clutching his steering wheel until his body shook uncontrollably. Then there was silence. Tom ran down the street. He couldn't escape it. A joke slipped from his lips whenever someone crossed his path or spoke to him, killing them.

****

Tom reached his apartment, his heart pounding like a drum. His footsteps felt heavy; the weight of what had just happened was pulling him down, threatening to bury him. His thoughts raced, but he couldn't focus on anything. All he knew was that he had to get inside, away from everyone and the world that his jokes were tearing apart.

As he approached the door to his building, his neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, stood outside in the small yard, watering her plants. She was always cheerful, always ready with a kind word or a smile. Today was no different. She looked up from her flowers, the hose still spraying water over the petunias, and said, "Hey, Tom! Rough day at work?"

Tom stopped dead in his tracks. His throat tightened, panic flaring inside him. He knew what would happen if he answered. But the words - he couldn't stop them. They surged up like a wave, unstoppable, crashing through the barriers of his will.

"Knock-knock," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling.

Mrs. Alvarez smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, Tom, you, and your jokes. OK, I will buy it. Who's there?"

Tom's heart raced, his body shaking as he tried to hold it back, but the punchline slipped through his lips before he could stop it. "Orange."

Mrs. Alvarez chuckled, playing along, unaware of the danger. "Orange, who?"

Tom's voice was barely his own as he whispered, "Orange, you glad I didn't say banana?"

The transformation was immediate. Mrs. Alvarez burst into laughter, the sound joyful at first, light and airy, just like the countless times Tom had heard her laugh. But then it deepened, growing louder, sharper, and more desperate. Her body began to tremble, her knees buckling under its force. Her hand dropped the hose, water spraying wildly across the grass.

Tom watched, helpless, as Mrs. Alvarez crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face. Her voice echoed in the small yard, a sound that grew more horrific with every passing second. Her face contorted, her body convulsing in violent spasms as she gasped for air between the uncontrollable fits of mirth. Then, just like the others, she stopped, and there was a sickening silence.

Mrs. Alvarez lay still, her body twisted unnaturally in the grass. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the sky. Her mouth was frozen in a grotesque smile.

Tom staggered backward, bile rising in his throat as the horror of what he had done consumed him. All he could do was turn and run, slamming his apartment door behind him, the sound echoing in the empty hallway like a gunshot.

Inside, the darkness seemed to swallow him whole. He locked the door, twisting the deadbolt with trembling hands as though it could keep the madness at bay. But deep down, he knew it was no use. The book had him now.

He was no longer in control.

Tom stumbled to the window, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He yanked the curtains shut, blocking out the world outside as if that simple act could protect the people beyond the glass from the curse he carried.

His mind raced, replaying the events of the day. The laughter. The death. Over and over, he saw their faces, frozen in that same horrible grin, their eyes wide with terror, their bodies lifeless. And it was his fault.

All of it.

His hands shook as he stared at the book, its pages now glowing faintly in the darkness as though it pulsed with some malevolent life of its own. The jokes had come so easily at first, innocent and harmless. But now, every word slipped from his mouth was a weapon, a punchline that could kill. He couldn't even speak without fearing the consequences. No matter how hard he tried, every word twisted into a joke. And every joke was deadly.

Tom buried his face in his hands, tears spilling down his cheeks.

As he sat there, his body trembling with fear and regret, the final joke lingered on his lips, waiting. It hung in the air like a dark cloud, a punchline that hadn't yet been told but was ready to escape at any moment. He could feel and taste it, and the urge to speak it grew stronger with each passing second.

But this time, there would be no audience. No laughter. No one left to hear the joke.

Just him.

****

The rain had stopped, and the streetlights' dim glow illuminated the deserted streets. Tom peered through the curtains, his heart pounding. There was nothing but a blank wall where Fenton's Rare Books had been. The shop was gone.

Tom's breath hitched in his throat. Had he imagined it? His hands clenched the book tighter. The room was so still, yet in the silence, Tom could swear he heard a low, sinister chuckle, faint and distant like it was carried on the wind.

Tom backed away from the window, his heart racing. The thought echoed inside his mind, growing louder with every passing second. The book was still in his hands.

It was real.