Last Laugh

They run. Three friends, one behind the other. The killer closes in. They can feel his hot breath on their skin. A final jump, and they’re inside the brick building. Together, they slam the door shut. Solid steel. The tallest one throws the deadbolt. Secure.

For now.

They all slump on their backsides, catching their breath, trading frightened looks. A sudden pounding on the door shocks their hearts and makes them squeal.

“Open the door!” the voice on the outside bellows. Harsh. Grating. Unforgiving.

The Wolf. An assassin with an appetite for blood.

“Little pig,” he says, voice shifting to a guttural growl. “Little pig... Let me in!”

Hampton, the tall one, says, “Quick. Call for air support.”

“We’re okay,” says Bacon. “He can’t get in here.”

“That’s what you said about the last house,” Cunningham says, his voice frantic.

Bacon throws up his cloven hooves. “She won’t do anything. She never does.”

“We have to try,” says Hampton, his tone desperate.

Another round of pounding on the door jolts Bacon from his haunches, and he scurries to the radio.

“Three Little Pigs to Mother Goose. Come in, Mother Goose.”

Static. Then... “Go for Mother Goose.”

“We need extraction, gunships, a QRF... Anything. The Wolf is at the door!”

A pause. “Stand by.”

The pounding stops. Now, they hear the Wolf prowling around the outside of the safehouse, sniffing, snarling, fangs gnashing.

The radio squawks. “Negative, Pigs. The LZ is too hot. What’s your status?”

Bacon shakes his head, fluttering his jowls in disgust. “Our status is... We’re trapped in a house made of bricks, and the Wolf is at the fucking door!”

“Copy that. Have you tried feeding him?”

“He wants to eat US! Can’t you send all the King’s men?”

“Negative, Pigs. I say again... The LZ is too hot. Suggest you contact the Woodsman. Mother Goose, out.”

Bacon turns to his friends. “See. I told you.”

Cunningham snorts and stomps his hoof. “The Woodsman. He’s the reason we’re in this mess in the first place... Always sniffing around Little Red Riding Hood instead of killing that damned wolf. Hey, what about Jack Horner? He’s a good guy.”

“Have you seen him lately?” Hampton says. “Gained fifty pounds since last Christmas. Can barely get out of the corner.”

Bacon scoffs. “And they call us pigs. What about Georgie Porgie?”

“Nah, he got canned by HR. Sexual harassment.”

“Jesus.”

Cunningham trots over to the radio. “Don’t Jack and Jill live around here somewhere? Let’s call them.”

“Not anymore. Jill caught Jack playing with Little Miss Muffet’s tuffet, and she kicked him out. Last I heard, he was crashing with the Muffin Man.”

“The Muffin Man?”

“The Muffin Man... Who lives on—”

“Hey, wait,” Bacon says. “I have an idea. We need to cross genres.”

“What?”

“We have to cross genres.” Bacon opens a cupboard and retrieves a large, timeworn, leather-bound book with the words, “The Big Magic Book of Genres,” on the cover. He carries it to the fireplace and opens it.

“This book will let us open a portal to one of the other genres, and we can summon a character to help us.”

“Whoa!” says Cunningham. “That’s cool. But... Why don’t we just leave through the portal?”

Hampton snorts, “You wanna get stuck in Lit RPG?”

“Or Romantacy?” says Bacon.

“Good point. So, who do we get?”

Bacon flips a few pages. “How about this guy?”

Hampton and Cunningham both nod. “He’s a good one,” Hampton says. “Okay, how does it work?”

“I just have to read this incantation. Stand back.” The two pigs move away as Bacon takes a deep breath and reads the ancient text aloud.

“Oh, Great Librarian. Listen and take heed. Open up your genre hole. Bring us the hero that we need.”

The thick, leathery book tilts toward the fireplace, emitting a bright light that grows into a glowing doorway. A mysterious figure, like an apparition, steps out. The book slams shut like a thunderclap, and the portal closes. Their hero stands before them.

“Uh... That’s not a magic wand,” says Hampton, “And that’s not Harry Potter.”

“Who is it?” asks Bacon.

The man speaks. “Methinks Elsinore hath forsaken me.”

“I think it’s Hamlet.”

“Whoa!” Cunningham says. “How far back does this book go?”

“Dost thou be witches?” Hamlet asks.

“No. We’re pigs.”

Hamlet draws his sword. “Release your spell, wretched swine, lest mine blade be your judgement.”

“Why is he talking like that?” Cunningham says.

“Not until you kill the Big Bad Wolf for us,” says Bacon.

“Ah, murder. I know it well. Yet, for blood, I thirst not. If death is to come, be it not by mine own hand. If it be by mine own hand, it will come. Alas, my soul hath—”

“Aww, shut up!” Bacon yells. “I should have picked a western. I’m sending you back... Oh, Great Librarian. Heed these calls. Replace this hero... With one who has balls!”

WHOOSH!

Their hero is replaced, and Cunningham’s face turns a paler shade of pink. “Wh-wh-what is that?”

“You, dumbass!” Hampton squeals. “You didn’t just cross genres... You crossed mediums!”

“Well, well, well,” says the clown with green hair and a purple three-piece suit. “Who do we have here? Three little piggies. Which one of you porkers wants to go to market with me, hmm?”

Outside, the wolf howls. The pigs cower and quiver together in the corner like sizzling sausages.

“Oh, I get it. You’re afraid of the big bad wolf. You know... He’s not so bad. Just a little too... SERIOUS!”

The clown slaps the deadbolt open and grabs the doorknob. “I think we should invite him in for a snack, hmm? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And here... we... go.”

BIO: Ron Clyburn is a writer of crime, thrillers, and humor from Dayton, OH. In college, he tried his hand at journalism, but the editor kept cutting out his jokes. Ron has published short stories for the Literary Garage, Starlite Pulp, Thriller Magazine, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Crimeucopia - A Coterie of Dicks, and the Joe Cooper, P.I. series on Substack. Find out more here - www.ronclyburn.substack.com

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