Stand Up Comedy

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The man isn't //obese// per se, but his body forms a visible hill shape as he lies on his back - it wouldn't be such a strange sight anywhere but on a stage. It's early in the set, still technically the beginning, yet there's been slightly too long without an opening line. The room has grown restless. Just as a heckler in the back of the crowd brings his arms up in disdain, ready to yell for some entertainment, the mic shoots from hip to mouth and the comedian begins. His words ravel out like magic. 

"You know when you're in bed,"

he pauses just long enough for the most startled hearts in the audience to settle,

"...and you're tryna get some shut-eye, so you can actually function tomorrow. You know, like how we as animals have agreed is a good idea, for like a millions years of evolution?"

A little grandiosity gets a chuckle from the front row.

"But your brain - for some reason - hasn't come to the same conclusion."

The chuckling propagates. He's still a man lying flat on a stage, and the Italian accent adds to it all.

"So you're laid there, just tryna get to sleep, but your brain is saying //Let's think about everything!//"

He does a voice for the brain character, a high-pitch squeak he could have made obnoxious, but genuine, oblivious innocence plays off funnier.

"No, no, it's 2 AM. Let's think about //nothing//, like we're s'posed to."

"...But thoughts keep on popping up, random ones at first. Then," he grimaces, "you get one about what you could be doing, right now."

The comedian draws out the last two words like a death sentence and sounds of recognition are heard from the crowd.

"And then you're really fucked. Because then, your brain - //Hi! I'm your brain!// - starts running through everything you've been slacking on recently and the worst part is-"

He holds the room's tension up with one hand.

"It's got some good ideas."

The hand drops, and a wave of laughter follows.

"You start feeling this urge to get up and fix every issue in your life like you could actually do it. Just this..."

He waves his hand out as if to cast the idea into reality.

"...this spontaneous productive drive. And this might be less of you here - but sometimes you spend so long lying there, thinking of all the ways you want to be productive, that you actually..."

The man sits up.

It's the first big laugh of the night, mixing quickly with joking cheers as the comedian sits proudly on his stage. He doesn't give the moment long.

"So you drag yourself out of bed..."

the man rolls around onto his knees,

"...and you stumble over to your desk, productive thoughts still-" he flutters his fingers, "buzzing. You boot up whatever laptop or desktop or stovetop you work on."

He mimes a loading icon by circling a finger lazily where a screen might be, then his face lights up and he turns to the audience, pointing at the non existent screen.

"Time to get to work."

"...So you search through your badly labelled files and find whatever needs attention, open it up, and the very fucking second the image of it hits your eyes-"

Silence in the room. Some of the crowd know what they're expecting, some don't; anticipation reaches its zenith all the same.

"//Wow! I sure am tired!//"

The crowd erupts, and the comedian grins a real satisfied, sharkish grin. 

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"Hello, hiya, I'm Toni - I will be your clown this evening!"

"Yeah, my name's Toni de Fata, but my friends just call me //de Fat//."

It's a cheaper laugh, one which wouldn't hit as well if it weren't a Friday evening. He adds a well-worn Italian caricature to it, makes it sound like //his// classic line.

"I'm a comedian, so I do a lotta introductions. Which - if I'm gonna be honest," he puts on a faux earnest tone, "is a little unfair, ah?"

"So, tonight, I wanna try to get an introduction from all of yous. Haha don't worry - not one at a time."

"How this is gonna work is I'm gonna count down and then you're all gonna shout out your names together. Then we'll all be acquainted, and I'll listen out for a real good one, okay?"

The audience are tentatively excited. Most of the front row have been expecting some crowd work and half the room is already judging the novelty of their own names. 

Toni brings up three fingers and begins counting down. For the quiet and shy among the crowd, the prospect of joining in with the fun and speaking out behind the safety of //probably// not being picked is enough to sway them. At two fingers the spell even infects front of house, bartender and usher alike ready to whisper their given names for fear of missing out. Dozens hold their breath in anticipation.

As the last finger drops, only one audience member remains silent. A confused, worried looking old man holds his drink and his lips tight because, despite the words he heard from this Toni de Fata, he can see the same still thing carved across his face.

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As the crowd members leave Ely Comedy Club, each do so distinctly. They don't all take to the same route and streets, and the shortest among them trail behind the long-legged. Muscle memory and neural architecture gives each of them a unique gait and rhythm as they make their respective ways across town. They're all different, but they're all headed to the same charred, overgrown, sunken building, and they're all doing it with ##green|someone else##'s grin.
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Stand Up Comedy

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