The Emporium of Lost Punchlines (2nd draft)

   
A duck walks into a bar.

While the duck waits to talk to the bartender he notices a Frenchman, an Englishman and an Irishman sitting at a table near the jukebox. The Irishman is telling his drinking companions about the time, not so long ago, when he was working as a travelling encyclopaedia salesman and how his car broke down near a farm on a desolate country road.

You can stay the night in the barn under one condition, the farmer told the Irish salesman. Do not try to cavort or mess around with either of my daughters. If you do, there will be trouble.

The salesman agreed. The farmer had two daughters. One was very beautiful and the other one was extremely ugly. That night after the Irish salesman had gone to sleep up in the hayloft, he heard a creaking sound down below and then he heard someone climbing up the ladder up to the loft. Who is there? He asked.

It was the ugly daughter.

My life hasn't always been like this, whispered the ugly daughter. And she proceeded to tell the salesman about a time, not so long ago, when she had worked as one of the highest paid, most sort after escorts in Barcelona.

Wait, wait.....I'm sorry, interrupted the salesman shaking his head... but I find this all a little bit hard to believe.

Why? asked the ugly daughter, because I am not traditionally pretty? Because my looks are unorthodox? Let me assure you kind stranger, I have other attributes, other talents, which supersede society's rather narrow conventions of female beauty. And to illustrate her point, she continued telling her story.

In Barcelona, she lived and worked out of a grand but decrepit hotel near the train station. A place that has seen better times. One night a young handsome priest who was on the verge of becoming ordained, turned up at the hotel. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

I need to be with a woman, he said, just once before I devote my entire life to God. I must know what the female body is like.

Sounds reasonable to me, said the hotel manager who also served as the local neighbourhood pimp. I have just the thing to either challenge or reinvigorate your faith. And he slid a key across the counter for room 23.

Up in room 23, the young priest and the ugly daughter got undressed and did the deed. They screwed like wild animals. As far as the young priest was concerned the sex was incredible, mind-blowing.

The following evening the young priest returned. I must try that one more time, said the young priest. I need to know if last night was an anomaly or if I am by nature a sinner. The same thing happened. Only this time around the sex was even better and more mind-blowing. This is indeed a true test of my faith, said the priest as he counted out the money owed.

On the third night the young priest showed up again but this time, on his way up to room 23, he got stuck between floors in the buildings rickety old elevator. The hotel manager/local pimp was changing a light bulb on the second-floor landing when this happened.

What now? He thought after hearing the young priest calling out in anguish. After climbing down from his stepladder and establishing that there was indeed a horny young priest stuck in the broken down elevator, the hotel manager-pimp called a 24-hour elevator repairman to rectify the situation.

Across town, the elevator repairman picked up his telephone phone. Yeah? What is it? I see. Well, I did have plans tonight, complained the elevator repairman.

Look, I have to get this priest out of my elevator, said the hotel manager-pimp. All this commotion is bad for business. I run a discrete hotel. I can't have people shouting and carrying on like this. It'll scare away potential clients.

Alright, alright....just tell me one thing, said the elevator repairman.

Ask away, said the hotel manager/pimp.

How many hotel manager/pimps does it take to change a lightbulb?

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

I have no idea, said the hotel manager/pimp. I haven't gotten around to it yet what with all these damn interruptions!

Okay, okay.....you just got me thinking....that's all. Forget it. Look I'll be there as soon as I can, said the elevator repairman. Just tell the priest to sit tight. Help is on the way.

The elevator repairman hung up the receiver, ending the call. At that moment he was laying in bed next to a sexy female penguin. He turned to his sexy female penguin companion and said, darling, I'm really sorry but I have to leave. I have an emergency job on the other side of the city. The penguin crossed her flippers over her bare breasts and said, are serious? really? You promised me a night of raunchy, unbridled interspecies sexual congress. I'm sick of this....this lack of commitment from you buddy! Life is too short for your wishy-washy brand of love.

What can I do? pleaded the elevator repairman, as he began to get dressed and gather up his tools. My business card clearly states that I am available 24/7. My professional reputation is on the line here baby. You've got to understand that. I mean, you like all the fine dining and all the fancy gifts I bestow on you right?...The truth is I need to earn money to make those things possible. Caviar and yellowfin tuna don't come cheap honey. Surely you can see this?

Fine....just as long as you're not off to see that polar bear slut, grumbled the sexy lady penguin. If I find out you're doing the dirty with her, there will be hell to pay buster! Believe me!

I already told you baby.....I'm finished with all that. I only have eyes for you. I'm telling you right here and now, there is only one anthropomorphised Arctic circle animal for me....and I'm looking at her right now.

The elevator repairman finished getting dressed, went downstairs and got into his vehicle. On the way to the repair job, he had a violent head-on collision with another vehicle. The person driving the other vehicle was a world-renowned scientist. Blood, glass and twisted metal lay strewn across the road.

The elevator repairman and the scientist were pulled from the wreckage and taken to the hospital in the same ambulance. This is going to be a hell of a mess to untangle, commented the ambulance drive.

As a result of the accident, the elevator repairman's brain was critically damaged but his body was basically uninjured. The complete opposite was true of the scientist whose brain was intact yet his body is damaged beyond repair.

There's only one thing we can do, announced the head surgeon, tipping back his third glass of scotch. We must perform a brain transplant!

My God! replied the nurse, this kind of operation has never been attempted before doctor! Do you think it will work?

No to worry. We'll call in Dr Rodrigues. Rodrigues is a world-famous neurosurgeon and a personal friend of mine. He will jump at an opportunity like this. In fact, just recently, while out on the links, Rodrigues was complaining that he needed a new challenge. This will be just the thing.

The medical team worked for 72 hours straight, transplanting the scientist's undamaged brain into the elevator repairman's healthy body.

What in the hell.....? groaned the elevator repairman/scientist once he has regained consciousness after the operation. I feel really strange. What has happened to me?

The team of doctors leaned in for a closer look. Here is the thing.....said the head surgeon, we had to put your brain inside an elevator repairman's body. It was a total mess. I'm actually surprised we got away with it. Then again, Rodrigues is a genius. What a guy! They all nodded and murmured in agreement.

Wow! This is all very confusing, says the elevator repairman/scientist. So in essence, I am a combination of two different people?

Yep! That's about the size of it, replied the head surgeon. Spot on.

After a great deal of rehabilitation, the elevator repairman/scientist was released from the hospital. From this point on, he attempted to live a normal life but this proved to be difficult. Of course, he was compelled to resume travelling around the world, giving important scientific lectures to his colleagues. Yet at the same time, muscle memory meant he has an almost insatiable urge to seek out malfunctioning elevators. To make sure the public could safely get from one floor to the next. It was quite a dilemma.

(Note: he often pondered how he should refer to himself. As the 'scientist/elevator repairmen' or the 'elevator repairman/scientist'. Seeing as how the brain housed the scientist's conscious mind and personality, it did seemed appropriate for the word 'scientist' to come before the words 'elevator repairman' in his hyphenated title. Then again, he also felt that 'elevator repairman' should come before 'scientist' in honour of the body's contribution to the overall enterprise of being alive. After all, it was the body that did all the grunt work. In the end, he decided he would adjust according to the situation. So for example, if he was standing at a podium, delivering a lecture on quantum physics, he would refer to himself as the scientist/elevator repairman. And the opposite held true if he found himself running a maintenance check on an elevator. Accordingly, he had two sets of business cards made up to reflect his shifting professional status).

A year later the elevator repairman/scientist had another head-on collision, this time with a vehicle driven by an infamous serial killer. It was a terrible mess. Blood, glass and twisted metal lay strewn across the road. The serial killer's hands were transplanted onto the body of the elevator repairman/scientist.

You know the drill, said the head surgeon.

The elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer went through rehab and was released from the hospital. This caused a number of logistical complications because now, on top of everything else, the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer was compelled to murder people with his bare hands whenever the opportunity presented itself.

A year later, the same thing happened again. The elevator repairman/scientist/cereal killer had yet another car accident, smashing into a famous male pornographic actor who was renowned for his 13-inch penis.

Jesus Christ, you again! said the head surgeon to the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer. Alright....you know the drill.

And this kept happening, as the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer/porn star continued to have serious road accidents and acquire replacement body parts, slowly transforming into a horrific amalgamation of hands, eyes, legs, internal organs, toes...etc. A terrible creature who was comprised of many different people all of whom were seamlessly stitched together. The problem was, eventually, these additions went well beyond accepted conventions of the human anatomy. That is to say, Dr Rodriguez began to experiment, attaching a range of excess appendages to parts of the body where previously there had been none. (Note: from this point on the abomination previously known as the 'elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer.....etc. etc.' was simply referred to as 'The Creature' for the sake of clarity).

I fear that Dr Rodrigues has gone too far, his colleagues back at the hospital began to mutter amongst themselves in the hallways and corridors. But what can we do? Rodrigues is a genius!

That may be so but the question still remains....why does a person need seven arms, nine feet, three anuses, five eyeballs and so on? asked the head surgeon.

A nurse appeared, pushing her way through the group of doctors. Bloody doctors, she muttered under her breath. She didn't have time for all this idle chit-chat. It was all very well being the hospital superstar surgeon but someone had to clean up the mess after all these operations. She still had a pile of excess body parts and other offcuts to take down to the hospital incinerator. Each rejected part would need to be recorded before a conveyer belt carried it off into the flames.

As you can probably surmise The Creature was shunned by society and forced to wander the uninhabited parts of the earth under cover of darkness. In this way, his legend grew and stories of his rambling exploits would be told around campfires and as a means of terrifying young children.

One night, many years later, The Creature came to a log cabin in a remote part of the northern woods. The ground was covered with deep snow and a crescent moon hung in the sky. The Creature was very hungry, lonely and desperate. He knocked on the front door. Knock knock!

Who is there? asks a voice from within the cabin.

It is me, said The Creature, answering with one of his many tongues.

'Me' who? replies the voice from within the cabin.

'Me, it's a long story' answers The Creature.

Nothing happened for what seemed like a very long time and then a wolf howled in the distance. The Creature stood where he was, unsure what to do next, his breath emanating from his body in little-frozen puffs. Should he break down the door? Maybe go on a rampage? Or was that too.....obvious? The truth was, lately, he'd grown weary of rampaging. He was tired of all the blood-curdling screams and he was developing what felt like carpal tunnel syndrome in several of his hands. Maybe he should just go away? He wasn't sure. It was hard being such a hideous creature because people always expected the worst from you. Sometimes he wanted to break with convention and do something totally unexpected. Start singing for example. After all, he did have the larynx and vocal chords of a famous opera singer.

Meanwhile, inside the cabin, the hillbilly who had been talking to The Creature through the door reached for his smartphone. He dialled the local police.

Please state the nature of your emergency, intoned the voice on the other end of the line.

Can you send a squad car around here? Please? whispered the hillbilly. Someone or something is trying to break into my home. Come to think of it, you might be better off sending a bunch of cops on snowmobiles seeing as how I'm way, way, way out here in the snowy woods. Yeah, I think snowmobiles would be the better option.

Miles away, the Police Snowmobile Squad (PSS) sprung into action. They suited up and tore out of the station house on their snowmobiles. They began to cross the frozen terrain of mountains, forests and lakes. Unfortunately, they became lost almost immediately and ended up driving around in circles until they all ran out of gas and had to abandon their snowmobiles.

This is fucking bullshit! shouted the squad leader. We are supposed to be professional woodsmen! Or at least have some knowledge of how to plot a route across this kind of terrain without getting lost! You realise we look like a bunch of amateurs!

Um....we were following you dude, muttered one of the men.

You see! That's what I am talking about! Right there! shouted the irate squad leader. You need to take ownership! It can't always be me.

They all stood around, looking down at their snow-covered boots. A wolf howled in the distance.

Not that I'm....deferring ownership boss but...um.....what should we do now? asked one of the junior snow cops.

I don't know man, said the squad leader, sitting down heavily on a log. To be honest, I'm at a loss. I just don't know anymore. I have run out of ideas. The squad leader lowered his head into his hands and his shoulders began to tremble and heave.

Is he.....crying? whispered one the snow cops.

You okay boss? asked someone else.

I'll be fine, said squad leader, his tears freezing to his face and beard like little salty icicles. I just need a minute. Can I have a minute?

Eventually, the squad leader regained his composure and the snow cops came up with a plan. After some soul-searching, they decided that change was in order. They were tired of the snow. They were burnt out. They all agreed; saving stupid people from avalanches and icy crevasses was not as rewarding as it had once been. Instead, they would become a freelance firing squad. As such, they hit the road and began travelling to different countries around the world. Countries where the death penalty was still permitted. Countries with governments that quashed civil upheaval by using such methods as a deterrent. They even did private functions. They would pull into a town or city and then start advertising their services. Firing squad for hire! We provide our own ammunition and rifles! We never miss! Proclaimed one of their typical flyers. It was slow going at first but as time went by, their reputation began to spread and business began to boom.

One balmy afternoon, the firing squad was doing a job in some filthy third world country that had just been rocked by a violent revolution. A man condemned to die, an enemy of the people's revolution, was escorted out his prison cell and into the prison courtyard where he was lined up against a bullet-riddled wall. Black vultures wheeled overhead in the desolate sky like kites of death. The condemned man thrust his chin out and spat on the ground. He was very handsome. The wives of the revolutionary generals were conflicted. The condemned man had to be executed. This was a given. He was a symbol of the previous regimes oppression and cruelty. Still, this didn't negate the fact that he was a handsome brute.

The squad leader raised his sabre. Ready! He shouted. The firing squad raised their rifles to their shoulders. Aim! shouted the squad leader. The firing squad took aim. Earthquake! shouted the condemned man. Everyone freaked out. They had all received extensive training in the event of an earthquake so they dove for cover, trying to avoid falling powerlines and glass. And it was during the ensuing confusion that the condemned man managed to escape. He broke free, ran out of the courtyard, across the road, dodging a truck loaded down with bananas and dived into a fast-moving river. Bullets began whizzing past his head but he managed to get away. Floating down the river he still had to contend with alligators and violent rapids but he made it. Eventually, the river carried him all the way out to a harbour port on the coast.

Disguising himself as a local sea captain, the once condemned man managed to commandeer a fishing trawler which he took out into the open sea. He was thinking about applying for political asylum in New Zealand. He'd heard New Zealand described as an untouched Eden with an intriguing range of microclimates and geographical features. Unfortunately, the trawler sank in a terrible storm. The once condemned enemy of the revolution, now the sole survivor of the infamous fishing trawler tragedy, managed to swim through the crashing waves to a tiny desert island. The island was a very simple affair: a dome-shaped piece of land with a single palm tree jutting out, providing meagre shade from the blazing sun. Once safely ashore, the escapee's only form of sustenance came from coconuts and the fish he managed to catch in the surrounding reef. How ironic, he thought, I escaped the firing squad only to become a prisoner of this tiny, remote island. Out of the frying pan and into the flames, as they say. It didn't take long for his clothes to become rags and for his beard and hair to grow into a shaggy mop.

Months after being rescued from the island by a gang of inept Somalian pirates, the castaway emigrated to New York. He planned to sell snow cones and hotdogs from a small cart in Central Park. Maybe even blended cocktails in the summer. He'd heard there was good money in it. While this was happening, he began seeing a psychiatrist on the upper east side. In these sessions, he talked extensively about being marooned on the little desert island. He explained that, while he had been stuck on the island, his existence had taken on an almost two-dimensional quality. Day after day, it was just him, the island and the palm tree. And each day was almost exactly the same as the one before and the one to follow. Sure, there were slight variations like that time he caught a really big fish. And that other time he caught a slightly smaller fish. And the time he caught an octopus which was hilarious, it not a little rubbery for the purposes of eating. And the other time he tried to make that large crab his pet only to get bitten on the thumb.

And sure, there were occasional storms but more often than not, there was no reprieve from the banality of his two-dimensional existence. On very rare occasions, he would see a black smudge of smoke on the horizon indicating that a ship was passing by. But what could he do? Being the only source of food and shelter, he couldn't very well burn the palm tree to make a signal fire. There were times when he was so hungry, so emaciated, that he would begin to hallucinate and see mermaids out in the water beckoning him. Beautiful women with soft, ample breasts and flowing hair the colour of coral. Once he had tried to swim into the arms of one these ladies only to find he was swimming towards a black shark dorsal fin knifing across the surface of the water.

On the island, after the sun went down, the once condemned-but-now-marooned man would sleep with the wind in his ear and with no fire keep him warm until the new day greeted him. And as previously established, each day was a repeat of the one before. Perhaps, instead of 'earthquake!' I should have simply yelled 'fire', he often speculated. At least that way I would not have become a prisoner of this desert island hell! To alleviate the boredom, sometime he would come up with a humorous sentence that commented on his condition or existence in general. Like the time he said to the palm tree, "So....what's new?". Or the other time he muttered to himself, "I really got to get out more". He composed thousands of these comments, storing them away in his mind for a later date.

The psychiatrist listened to all this from his chair near the window while the man (the political exile, marooned castaway, now proud owner of a food and beverage cart in Central Park) talked from the comfortable leather couch where he lay, his hands clasped together across his chest. The hourly rate for each session was $124. Each time the man showed up for his fortnightly appointment, the psychiatrist would inwardly roll his eyes and groan.

I have this one patient, the psychiatrist would tell his colleagues, at a local tavern, and all this guy ever talks about is this desert island he was stuck on. Every session I have to sit there and listen to these stories about the fish and the palm tree and the hopelessness the passing days....blah, blah, blah. Enough already with the desert island! I mean...I seriously want to grab this guy by the shoulders, shake him violently while I shout, get over it! Move on! No one gives a hoot about the firing squad or the desert island! Right into his face. Of course you can't do anything like that, can you? I mean these guys are our bread and butter, right? They paid the bills. Every time I get this impulse, all I have to do is remind myself how much money my daughter's orthodontist is costing me. Not cheap! Let me tell you. And college? Forget about it! I mean sometimes I honestly feel like I am a being held hostage by these people and their damn problems! Sometimes I am tempted to throw in the towel. This was true. The psychiatrist secretly fantasized about moving to Vermont to live on an organic farm and make goat's cheese.

Hearing all this, the psychiatrist's colleagues would nod their heads in sympathy because they had their own droning patients who had become marooned in dysfunctional behavioural patterns and in bad habits.

The psychiatrist had a number of patients on his books including a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a lawyer, a judge, a redneck, an orthodox Jew, a Catholic priest, a Mexican, an African-American, a Chinese guy, a Frenchman, a homosexual, a nun, an epileptic, a kleptomaniac, a prizefighter, a lion tamer, a midget, a cowboy, a rodeo clown, a stripper......etc. etc. Of course, these people all had complex, nuanced lives which extended far beyond the good, bad or neutral connotations these simple titles might call to mind. Lives which the psychiatrist only really got a second-hand glimpse of during their one-hour sessions. At times, it truly boggled the psychiatrist's mind when he tried to keep track of all these people and their intersecting lives that stretched out beyond the confines of his little office. Sometimes, after a session concluded, he was tempted to follow some of these people through the city, back to where they lived. Just to see if their stories checked out. There was also the additional impossibility of keeping track of all the primary and secondary relationships and the absurd situations in which his clients found themselves in. And in many cases, one title was simply not adequate. For example, one of his clients was Catholic American epileptic stripper. He also treated a blonde homosexual Mexican lion tamer who suffered from bulimia. And so on. In any case, there he sat, day after day, in his leather chair, an archetypal psychiatrist in both appearance and behaviour, waiting for them to turn up with all their ridiculous yet financially lucrative problems.

And these were his post glory days! At one time, not so long ago, the psychiatrist had many celebrities on his books. These clients included Gandhi, The Dalai llama, Elvis Presley, Richard Nixon, Margaret Thatcher, Jesus Christ, The crew of the space shuttle Challenger, The captain of the Exxon Valdez and the Titanic...just to name a few.

And while he had initially enjoyed the prestige of dealing with these high-profile clients, eventually he had decided to stay away from them. Sure, the money was good but the psychiatrist found that he was becoming desensitised to the problems of ordinary people. All he seemed to do with these celebs was listen to their endless, minor grievances about their chauffeurs and nannies. He'd gotten into the psychiatry game to help ordinary people but here he was, pandering to the rich and famous. So, one day he put an end to it. And the next time Madonna called him up for an emergency session, right in the middle of her Blonde Ambition tour, he told her that he was sorry but unfortunately he was unavailable. And he referred her on to a colleague.

Anyway, one day the psychiatrist was riding the subway back from the museum to his office and a man dressed in a filthy and vaguely sinister clown costume sat down next to him. Without any kind of preamble, the clown started telling the psychiatrist a joke.

So the joke goes like this, said the clown....a duck walks into a bar.

Once the bartender had finished dealing with some other patron, the bartender turned to the duck and said, buddy, I'm sorry but we don't serve your kind in here.

My good man, said the duck, I have no intention of drinking in this establishment. I am simply here to inquire if this is 385 South Broadway. Do I have the right address?

Feeling quite embarrassed, the bartender replied, oh man....I apologise.....I'm so sorry. It's been a long shift.....I'm tired. Anyway, to answer your question....you are correct. This is 385 South Broadway. What were you looking for?

Well...I'm looking for the Emporium of Lost Punchlines, said the duck.

The bartender shook his head. That doesn't ring a bell, he said apologetically.

No. Clearly, this is a bar.....said the duck, not the Emporium of Lost Punchlines. I guess I have the wrong place. Either that or the wrong address.

The bartender and the duck pulled out their respective smartphones. They both began an online search for the Emporium of Lost Punchlines.

Yeah....I'm not....getting anything under that name in this area, muttered the bartender, squinting down into his phone. What did you say it was called again? The Emporium of....

The Emporium of Lost Punchlines, said the duck.

Um....okay.....nope, nada, said the bartender looking up from his phone.

Me neither, said the duck.

I wish I could be of more help, said the bartender.

I don't understand.....It's supposed to right here....on this corner, the duck said. God! You just can't rely on Google Maps.

The bartender called out to the Irishman who was sitting with his companions near the jukebox.

Seamus? Have you heard of a place around here called the Emporium of Lost Punchlines?

Interrupted in the middle of his story about the farmer's ugly daughter, Seamus looked up from his pint and slowly shook his head.

Naw man, I've never heard of a place by that name. There used to be a place call....now what was it called?.....um......no. Come to think of it, that was something different.

If anyone around here would know, it would be Seamus, said the bartender. He's lived here his entire life. So......

Okay then, said the duck. Thanks for your help. I better shove off.

Hey listen, said the bartender slipping his phone back into his pocket, what I said before? About not serving you? That's not my decision.....you understand? That's the bar's policy. No offence intended.

Its fine, said the duck. No offence was taken.

Look some of my best friends are ducks, said the bartender. But then he stopped himself, smiled, shook his head and added, whoa....that didn't come out right.

Yeah, it kind of made things worse dude, said the duck.....Look, it's fine. Really. I have to go.

Okay, said the bartender, still looking sheepish. Good luck.

And the duck walked out of the bar.