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A Great Sense of Humor

By Morgan K. Tanner

puppet on a stringIt’s what they’re all looking for, and it’s what I’m after too. In every ad I see, somewhere within those meagre lines that sum up a person and what would make them complete, are the letters GSOH.

After several years of this pastime I am still baffled by the number of people who state they want this yet never seem to own one themselves. I suppose it’s to be taken with the same seriousness as “attractive blonde” when in reality they would attract flies.

“A good sense of humor” is another lie.

It has been more than six months since I last met someone who shared my humor, or who thought they did. I am charming, able to make strangers believe during our initial meet that we have so many things in common. Over the years, I have perfected this. Tonight was another success.

Sarah, this one’s name was. She seemed somewhat enraptured by me. I broke the ice in the bar, demonstrating my skills as a ventriloquist. At first, she was confused and a little scared, which is what I enjoy most of all. After explaining my trick and that it was how I made my living, she warmed to me instantly.

The night had gone well so I invited her to my place for a night cap and a brief performance.

Sarah hadn’t been lying by calling herself an attractive brunette. She was a pretty young thing. It was due to her long hours in the office that she had little time for a social life, hence her desire to use the lonely hearts ads to find a partner. I spent the evening thinking how lucky I had been, and how lucky she was about to be.

I paid the taxi driver and threw my voice. “Keep the change.”

Sarah, a little tipsy, laughed and seemed excited to see what I had in store for her. With the front door shut, the lights on, and the brandy poured, we sat on the sofa and shared our first kiss.

Sarah said she couldn’t wait to see my ventriloquist act in action. I told her I kept all my dolls in the shed at the bottom of the garden.

We giggled as we walked down the garden path to the shed surrounded by tall trees. There was something in the atmosphere, a buzzing of warm excitement felt not only by me but also by the hoards of other theatre-goers, all anticipating a night of entertainment.

I delighted in the conversations as we made our way to the entrance. I gestured for Sarah to open the door and step inside, which she did. When she reached for the light, I forced a heavy iron bar down on the back of her head, knocking her to the ground without a chance to scream.

I removed her eyelids and sewed some twine to her bottom lip, attaching it to a foot pedal. Confident she would see the enjoyment on the faces of the crowd, I carved a chunk of flesh from her back for my hand. In half an hour, she was ready.

The curtain rose and the crowd cheered. Rows of rotting corpses sat in front of my make-shift stage, their joints rigged with twine attached to a chorus of pulleys and levers. The bodies came alive at the sight of my new act. The severed heads, some preserved in jars and some hanging from the ceiling, joined in the reverie as I asked Sarah how her day had been.

I wiggled Sarah’s spine and made her head nod, throwing my voice with her reply. The crowd’s applause, accompanied by laughter, drowned my voice.

Sarah and I talked. Joke followed joke followed anecdote. The tried and tested repertoire was working.

After what seemed like hours, I thought it time to end with a song. The band started to play. My foot pumped a pedal hard and Sarah mimed Sandie Shaw’s “Puppet on a String.” Her head bobbed side to side, bringing the audience to its feet.

The lights went out, the curtain fell, and a roar of applause accompanied a standing ovation. I whispered in Sarah’s ear. “Great job. Now take your place in the front row, dear, and wait for the next show.”

She smiled and thanked me for a wonderful evening.

Morgan K Tanner is a writer, drummer and golfer currently residing in the English countryside. The quiet surroundings make it an ideal place to write, drum, and hide the bodies. The sound of the typewriter is perfect to drown out the hum of the torture equipment. His works of fiction and threats have appeared in the mailboxes of many a celebrity who then sell their stories to the tabloids, claiming that they are being ‘terrorized.’

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