seymoure

Real Damn Funny

“There are four kinds of Homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.”

-Ambrose Bierce

Few things are as noteworthy as the change of going from freedom to captivity. We walked from the slightly chill fresh air into the warm recycled air of the laboratory, from the night sky to the flickering indoor light. But most striking was the sound. There were crickets sounding outside, not a lot of them, but a few. Now the main sounds were our echoing footsteps. When we stopped, we could hear the breathing of the mob, and the auditory flickering and buzzing of the lights.

We were brought into the big lab.

Simonson waved the converging bunch away. Three gunmen were stationed pointing rifles at the five of us.

He paced leisurely before us.

He had the look of a man who was on the verge of chuckling in victory.

There was a certain aspect of Napoleon to him. Not a Hitler; there was no obvious aspect of hate to him. If one didn’t know he was what he was, it would be hard not to be drawn to him. He had charisma oozing out of every pore.

That was just what makes citizens like him so devilishly dangerous. He can covert so many of John Q. Public into his personal lemmings, and step aside as he points them to the edge of the cliff. It has happened so many times before and will repeat more times than rinsing shampoo.

I asked for a chair and he personally retrieved one and handed it to me.

“Train your guns at this one,” Simonson told his gunmen while pointing at me, “And let his men get their own chairs. If they make a single false move….kill him.”

Len and Harry were already sitting on the floor, with their backs against the walls. Chester leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. Max and Hugo had already stretched out and picked up the folding chairs that were within reach (and looked to be put to the test to hold their bulk) and opened them and put them on the floor. They sat down quickly.

Hugo even casually crossed his legs.

“Well,” I ventured, “what’s next?”

Then Simonson made a move calculated to destroy any confidence we might have.

He began to laugh. Loudly. Raucously. Without restraint. He threw his head back and hilarity boomed out of his chest.

He turned without saying a word. He walked directly three steps and then stopped.

Stopped laughing and walking.

He looked sternly at us, leaning toward us like a military officer about to dress down his troops for some infraction that he should never allow.

He took a major sized breath and held it in.

You could hear the breath of the guards. They were expecting the order to fire, and they were hungry for it.

The long second passed.

Then he smiled. The smile of the wolf who just ate the cat who had just eaten the canary. My stomach was affected by that smile.

Then the laugh started again. Small at first, but growing to the maximum we had heard before. It erupted like Vesuvius about to bury Pompeii.

Once again he turned and marched out of the room, laughing unceasingly. The laughter did not stop at the doors, or down the hall. It went on for a good minute until it faded in the distance.

We looked at each other. Had he unnerved us? Would we give in to him?

I began to silently snicker. Hugo chortled, Harry slapped his thigh and laughed. Without a moment’s thought, we were all laughing at the insanity of it all.

We laughed so hard that it unnerved our guards. They looked at each other, wondering if we had lost it completely.

Our laughs were more than just a ploy. They were the voice of the doomed. Doomed men who have not given into despair.

We who are about to die guffaw at you.

It was actually funny.

Yeah.

Real damn funny.

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Continue on to Chapter 43