A Murder of a Man Named Fish

The Heckle & Jeckle Comedy Club, once a hub and lifeblood for laughter, now rhythmically pulsated with blue and red police lights.

“Looks like murder.” Officer Martinez grunted, as he lit the cigarette between his teeth. Murder, the word hanging heavy in the cool frigid air.

“Murder? Here?” Officer Miller choked in a nervous tremor. 

“Mhm,” Martinez mumbled as a plume of smoke exited his cheeks, “Looks like it, son.” he continued as he gestured to a woman huddled on the curb, draped in a blanket, “Says she witnessed the whole thing.”

““The whole thing” is a bit of a stretch, but I saw more than I liked to see tonight.” Beatrice Bevs retorted, overhearing the officer’s claims.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Miller pleaded.

“Well, it started out as any other night at the club…” her voice echoed as she began to recall the night's events.

Int. Heckle & Jeckle Comedy Club:

The atmosphere was rich with the rhythmic clinking of glasses and laughter. Beatrice sat alone at her usual table swirling a cube of ice in her drink enjoying the buzz exuding from Fiona Flickerwick, the club’s resident stand up comedic firecracker. 

Fiona ended her set with a unique takedown of her pet ferret that had every person in the room cracking up, before making her way off stage.

Beyond the crowd sitting in his reserved booth was Harmony Hughes, a retired minor comedic celebrity turned grumpy comedy club owner. He sipped on his usual drink, a Hellfire, no ice and smoked his cigar, neatly resting it on his ashtray. His chuckles were low and growly showing his approval of Fiona’s material.

Then suddenly the spotlight shifted to a nervous looking figure approaching the stage, it was Barty Butterfeather, a soft murmur rippled through the audience and a low groan tickled Mr. Harmony Hughes lips.

Even though new to the comedy scene Barty was a man whose material on stage had already become stale; a man whose jokes inspired more pity than laughter, he shuffled his way onto the stage and adjusted the mic, the lights illuminating his puce face.

“Ahem—” he choked, clearing his throat, “G—good evening, everyone.” he muttered. “A—alright here’s one for the fishermen in the audience. Why did the fish refuse to go to the dentist?”

Beatrice winced, already anticipating the bad punchline.

“Because it was afraid of being scaled.”

Crickets could be heard from the outside, three miles away. The silence in the crowd was so thick you could sauder your name into it. 

Both Fiona and the bartender stood frozen mid drink and pour, both with twitching eyes. Beatrice attempted to break the awkward tension by giving a low, pitiful chuckle to no avail. Harmony Hughes, utterly appalled, rubbed his temples in frustration from the awful comic; suddenly rose “Is that the best you've got, Butterfeather? Pathetic! You're about as funny as a tax audit!”

Finally, the silence was broken with a wave of laughter erupting from the audience thinking it might have been a work, just a part of the act. Barty, more flushed and flustered than before attempting to bring the crowd back toward himself.

“Uh—, okay,” he stuttered, “What do you call a fish with no legs?... A fsh!” 

The second joke was dreadful, and the club returned to its silent state, Barty, barely able to make the people laugh resulted in a nervous wreck of stuttering comic on stage, most audience members cringing at the sight, Fiona wishing to herself that Mr. Hughes would come up with another outburst to end Barty’s set.

 Then suddenly, from the direction of Harmony Hughes came a strangled gasp. Beatrice's eyes darted towards him. His face was contorted in pain, a single peanut rolling off his lap and onto the sticky floor. 

Chaos erupted. Beatrice, ever the quick thinker, grabbed a glass of water from a nearby table and rushed to Mr. Hughes’s side. But it was too late. His face turned a sickly shade of purple, his hand clawing at his throat.

Outside Curbside:

Beatrice opened her eyes, the memory leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. The flashing lights seemed mockingly festive.

“Mr. Hughes was…” Officer Miller started, dreading the answer.

Beatrice leaned back, the blanket clutched tightly around her, and finished with a dark chuckle, “As dead as a bad joke. Seems Barty's ‘fish’ joke turned out to be a killer, after all. Though, knowing Hughes' allergy to peanuts, you'd think he wouldn't keep a bowl of them around like a bowl of mints.”

“As a matter of fact…” Officer Martinez began, as he gestured to the front entrance of the club where a female officer brought out Barty Butterfeather in handcuffs. “Looks like we already got the suspect detained.”

“Suspect?” Beatrice gasped.

"Yep.”

The female officer placed Barty in the back of a police cruiser. The red and blue lights of the police car bathed Barty in the backseat in an unsettling glow, sniffling back tears. Officer Martinez approached the cruiser with one hand on his belt and the other holding a notepad given to him by the female Officer. 

“Alright, Barty,” Martinez began, his voice a touch too stern, "let's go over this one. Says here you confessed to placing the bowl of peanuts near Mr. Hughes, knowing he was allergic?”

Barty's lips trembled. "I— I didn't mean to kill him, officer! I just... I just wanted him to know how it felt."

Martinez’s brow furrowed. "How what felt?"

Barty's voice cracked. "Humiliated! Like a floundering fish on stage. That's what Mr. Hughes called me last week. Said if I didn't come up with better material, he'd kick me out of the club. I couldn't let that happen, officer. This is my dream!"

A pained silence filled the car. Beatrice's words echoed in Martinez’s mind: "Knowing Hughes's allergy to peanuts, you'd think he wouldn't keep a bowl of them around like a bowl of mints." 

"But why the peanuts, Barty?" Martinez finally asked.

Barty sniffled, "I just… I thought maybe a little allergic reaction would scare him straight, make him reconsider kicking me out. I never thought…" His voice trailed off, choked with a sob.

Martinez sighed, a wave of sadness washing over him. This wasn't the hardened criminal he'd expected. Just a man clinging to his dream, a dream he'd accidentally turned into a nightmare.