On a quiet and deserted beach at the end of time, the Time Traveling Comedian walks alone.
A grandfather clock sits half-submerged in the sand, crooked and cracked. The glass is faded by the sun. The wood is peeling. Time leaks from it like wine at the bottom of the ocean, lazy and wistful.
Why don’t you tell me a joke? Her voice comes from nowhere and everywhere.
“Sorry sir, says the bartender. But we don’t serve time travelers in ‘ere.”
The sun is crimson and fiery, and scorches the remnants of all creation. Yet, a bitter cold engulfs what remains.
The Time Travelling Comedian strolls aimlessly, a crunch underfoot as he walks atop pebbles, shells and rocks, each one a civilisation or great city that fell, or a government and dictator turned to fossil, as they all do, crumbled into dust, and with every step he—
He dances and performs for old Kings and bitter Queens, a jester by title and a fool by nature. A joke at the expense of the surly Prince, and the jester flees spears and swords and guards and shouted profanities, taking sanctuary in an old grandfather clock and shutting the hatch behind him, and as the clock chimes he feels his skin retract and his eyes pop and suddenly he—
He entertains gladiators in Roman coliseums, their eyes bloodthirsty yet fearful, a hint of jealousy that this cajoling fool won’t see the horrors up close, and then later—
He juggles by the River Seine, adorned in bright colours and his face painted with garish make-up, using the coins thrown to his feet for delicacies and delights from Parisian bakeries, all the while—
Tell me a joke. Make me laugh like I used to.
The Time Traveling Comedian does stand-up for Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien, Johnny Carson, David Letterman, and every open-mic joint down the Strip. Each time a joke falls flat or he stumbles over his words, he steps back into the clock and goes back to do it again. His sets are world famous. They don’t know where he came from, but he rocks them everytime.
She tells him, through tears, that she doesn’t love him anymore. That he doesn’t make her happy like he used to. He will replay this moment over and over again, trying to say different things in different combinations, pleading and fighting to elicit a different outcome. But he can’t change the—
He’s known as the greatest entertainer in the world. From his mansion at the top of the hill, he sees fires and floods and drought and disease and a human race that hates itself and hates others. How much longer must he play the fool?
He meets her backstage one night. It’s the first time, and he’s never seen a beauty like her, not in a million cities across a thousand lifetimes. She stands in the shadows, her nervousness and excitement infectious, her smile enough to topple kingdoms. Later, in bed as they gaze upon each other, she tells him that nobody has ever made her this happy. He will live this moment time and time again.
Please. One last joke.
The Time Traveling Comedian looks out to a receding sea, watches waves crash and the dying sun begin its final descent, and he begins, “A time traveler walks into a bar.”