The Joke’s On Death

In which Death meets a clown, and things go sideways.

There are many places Death might expect to have a decent cup of coffee.

A Parisian café, for instance. Or possibly a lonely mountaintop monastery where monks chant and beans are roasted by lightning. Or, if all else fails, the quiet between worlds.

But not—absolutely not—a hospice break room in the lower east wing of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, wedged between a broken vending machine and a refrigerator that hums the bassline from Staying Alive.

And yet.

Death stirred his coffee with a plastic stirrer that could, in moments of intense reflection, double as a toothpick or a fencing foil.

“Not bad,” said a voice beside him. “A little under-existential, but it’s got notes of despair and a nice moral finish.”

Death turned. Slowly. He tended to do things slowly. It gave people time to panic.

The man beside him wore big shoes, a red nose, and a rainbow wig like a pride parade had exploded on his scalp. His ID tag read: BINGO in glitter letters, and beneath that, very helpfully: Licensed Laughter Specialist.

“I’m Bingo,” said Bingo. “Terminally hilarious.”

I AM DEATH.

“Wow. Subtle branding,” Bingo said, eyeing the scythe tucked behind the recycling bin. “You moonlight for a metal band or is this your full-time gig?”

Death did not sigh. He did not have lungs. But there was something about Bingo’s presence that caused even the shadows around him to shrug slightly.

Bingo offered his hand. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

They shook hands. Death’s grip was bony. Bingo’s was sticky with jellybeans.

There was a pause. It hovered awkwardly in the air like a balloon animal unsure of what it was supposed to be.

“So,” Bingo said, tapping the side of his clown nose thoughtfully, “you just hang out here? Waiting? Or do you do walk-ins too?”

I AM HERE FOR SOMEONE. BUT NOT IMMEDIATELY.

“Great, great. That means I’ve got time to finish my bagel.”

He produced one from a pocket that shouldn’t have been large enough to hold it, slathered with cream cheese and something that might’ve once been salmon.

Death stared.

“Don’t worry,” Bingo said through a mouthful, “I’ve got one for you too.”

I DO NOT EAT.

“Good,” said Bingo. “More for me.”

They sat in silence for a bit. One a skeletal harbinger of the end of all things. The other a man with a kazoo in his pocket and jellybean lint in his sock. And somehow, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was just... peculiar.

They met every day after that. Bingo never asked if Death would come. Death never said he would. But somehow, there they were—every morning. Same terrible coffee. Same humming fridge. Bingo brought his bagel. Death brought nothing but time.

Bingo told jokes. Death didn’t laugh—at least not audibly—but the room felt warmer when Bingo delivered a good punchline. And if the flickering fluorescent light above their table stopped buzzing for a moment just after, well, that might have been coincidence. Or not.

Bingo had been dying for three months. In his words, he was “on the waitlist for the Big Circus in the Sky.”

He’d been diagnosed with something unpronounceable that sounded like a sneeze and acted like a thief. It had stolen his appetite, his energy, his ability to eat anything spicier than lukewarm custard. But it hadn’t taken his punchlines.

He told the diagnosis to every new nurse like it was part of a routine. “I’ve got terminal whooping whatsit,” he’d say. “But don’t worry—I’ll be here all week. Possibly.”

Some said he was in denial. But really, Bingo had simply decided that if he was going to leave the stage, he’d do it in a tutu, on a unicycle, playing the kazoo.

He’d worked every floor of the hospice. The kids loved him, even when his magic tricks failed. Especially when they failed. The nurses adored him, partly because he made them laugh, and partly because he brought his own snacks, most of which were edible.

Sometimes he cried in the chapel alone, not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t sure if the world would still laugh when he was gone.

But mostly—he kept smiling.

Sometimes, when the chemo was particularly bad and his joints ached like unpaid debts, he’d close his eyes and remember the first time he made a room full of people laugh.

It had been a wedding. He wasn’t invited. He was seven. He’d slipped on spilled punch and taken down three flower arrangements, a roast chicken, and the father of the bride. It was glorious. The laughter had been immediate and explosive. He’d cried from the pain—and from the joy. A woman in a feathered hat had called him a ‘natural disaster,’ and his career was born.

Another time, he told Death, “I once made a CEO laugh so hard he choked on a canapé and fell in love with his dental hygienist.”

WHY?

"Because he finally saw someone look at him with pity instead of performance evaluations. Also, she had really good forearms."

Death did not understand forearms, but he nodded respectfully.

He visited the children’s ward with a squeaky tricycle and pockets full of absurdity. Sometimes he wore a duck costume. Sometimes a banana. Occasionally, in moments of somber reflection, a tutu.

He once convinced Death to wear a red clown nose. Just once. It made a toddler giggle so hard she forgot to cry.

Later that evening, over coffee, Bingo asked him what it felt like.

Death had been quiet for a long time before answering.

IT REMINDED ME OF A MOMENT, ONCE.

Bingo waited.

A FEW CENTURIES AGO. A FARMER'S WIFE HAD JUST PASSED. THE FAMILY WAS POOR, BUT THE YOUNGEST CHILD—SIX YEARS OLD—TOLD JOKES WHILE SHE WAS BEING LAID TO REST. NONE OF THEM MADE SENSE. BUT THEY WERE VERY DETERMINED JOKES.

“What happened?”

I LAUGHED.

“You laughed?”

I SHOOK. INTERNALLY. THE GROUND SHOOK WITH ME. IT CAUSED A SMALL LANDSLIDE. THE VILLAGERS SAID IT WAS AN OMEN. THEY BUILT A SHRINE. IT'S NOW A GIFT SHOP.

“Sounds like a powerful laugh.”

IT HURT.

“But you remember it.”

ALWAYS.

And they sat there a while longer, the vending machine clunking in sympathy, while Bingo quietly slipped another red nose into Death’s pocket.

“Just in case,” he said.. Just once. It made a toddler giggle so hard she forgot to cry.

Death didn’t quite understand him. Most people feared him, pleaded with him, offered him bribes, or in the case of one stockbroker, threatened to unionize.

But Bingo? Bingo just gave him coffee.

“You know,” said Bingo one evening as they watched the sunset from the hospice balcony, “I used to be terrified of you.”

PEOPLE OFTEN ARE.

“But then I realized, you’re just the last guy at the party turning off the lights. You’re not bad, you’re just punctual.”

Death considered this.

IT IS A CHALLENGE TO BE LATE WHEN YOU EXIST OUTSIDE OF TIME.

“Well, it’s a comfort. I figure when you come for me, I’ll be ready. We’ll have one last cup of coffee, and then poof.”

Death didn’t respond. He didn’t do promises. The last time he’d made one, Atlantis had sunk.

But he did nod.

Just once.

They played chess. Death won. Then they played chess again. And again. And again. Death won every time.

Bingo took his defeats with the grace of someone who had once been chased through a birthday party by a goat wearing a party hat. "It's not about the winning," he insisted. "It’s about the dramatic flair with which you lose."

Death, who had never lost anything except one very confusing hand of Go against Sun Tzu, nodded solemnly.

Then they played Twister. Bingo won. Several times. It turned out being able to dislocate your hip with a honk and a grin gave you a significant advantage in reaching for 'left foot blue.'

Death, who had no skin to sweat through, nonetheless found the game... challenging. His attempt to do 'right hand red' resulted in two small nurses having to disentangle him from a laundry cart. The cart never recovered.

They tried other games, too. Uno. Death had no idea what he was doing but somehow kept winning. Bingo accused him of cheating with the laws of probability. Death countered with the rulebook. A draw.

They even tried karaoke. Bingo sang. Death watched. And for the first time in centuries, he tapped his foot.

One day, Death arrived to find Bingo mid-routine with a group of wide-eyed children. He was juggling rubber chickens while reciting Shakespeare in a Yorkshire accent. Death stood in the back and watched.

He’d once stood in the back of a battlefield and watched someone else juggle intestines. This was slightly more cheerful.

The time came.

It always does. Not with the fanfare of trumpets or the rattle of sabres, but with the soft sigh of an hourglass settling its last grain. The kind of moment that made even clocks pause in sympathy.

The hourglass in Death’s cloak rattled gently, a sound like a sigh through bone. The sand inside sparkled faintly, like the last fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Death looked at it. Not because he needed to. He always knew. But habits are hard to kill.

He stood at the hospice threshold longer than usual. It wasn’t reluctance—Death did not dither. But he did take one small, unnecessary moment to straighten his cowl, adjust his grip on the scythe, and breathe in the scent of disinfectant and jellybeans.

He found Bingo asleep in a hospital bed surrounded by half-inflated balloons, get-well cards, and one stuffed rabbit with a monocle.

“You came,” said Bingo, eyes opening slowly.

YES.

“I don’t suppose you brought the good coffee?”

Death produced two cups from somewhere under his robes. Bingo took his. Sipped.

“Still a little despair-heavy, but not bad.”

He swung his legs off the bed.

“Are you ready?” Death asked. Not because he needed to. But because, sometimes, it was kind.

“Yeah,” said Bingo. “But do me a favor, will you?”

YES.

“Tell ‘em I went out with a bang.”

He pulled a small red detonator from his robe and pressed it.

A thousand glitter cannons, rigged weeks in advance, exploded across the hospice wing. Confetti, streamers, and rainbow-colored whoopee cushions rained down like some demented ticker tape parade.

Death blinked. Then, in what might have been a smile if you squinted sideways at the void:

NICE.

And they walked on, one step beyond.

Back in the break room, the vending machine, unprompted, played Send in the Clowns.

The coffee tasted like closure.

The nurses talked for weeks afterward about the glitter explosion. About how every surface sparkled for days, how even the janitor found a whoopee cushion inside a light fixture three floors up. Some said it was tacky. Others said it was healing. Most said it was exactly what Bingo would've wanted.

Children in the hospice started drawing pictures of a clown with angel wings, sometimes riding a unicycle across the clouds. Parents who’d once winced at his jokes now chuckled quietly in waiting rooms when no one was looking.

And every so often, Death returned—not for work, but for coffee. He never said anything. He just stood by the humming fridge and took one long, thoughtful sip.

The break room always had an extra chair now. No one moved it. No one dared.

Somewhere far beyond the veil, a kazoo played a slow, meandering solo.

And Death, who never forgot a soul, added a jellybean to his collection.

Not because he needed to.

But because it made the coffee taste just a little bit sweeter.

Later, tucked under the base of his mug, he found something new.

A note, folded into the shape of a paper crane, smelling faintly of bubblegum and mischief. It had clearly been hidden there long before the final walk. It read:

"Hey, tall dark and bony. If you're reading this, congrats! You made it through my final act without combusting into existential glitter. I'm impressed.

Thank you—for the coffee, the company, and for not taking the jellybeans (even though I know you were tempted). Keep the nose. Use it sparingly. The world needs more laughter, even if it comes from unexpected places.

PS: I rigged the break room vending machine to occasionally dispense red noses. You’re welcome.

Until the curtain rises again— Bingo"

Death read the note twice. Folded it gently. And placed it beside the jellybean jar.

The coffee that day was perfect.