knock knock

[ashkente]

Out in the garden, there's a barefoot seven-foot-tall skeleton in a black robe getting cozy on a bench, scythe in one hand and jokebook in the other. Really. He's flipping through it slowly with one skinless thumb, taking his time.

He feels like he has a better grasp of humanity than he ever has (but then he's always telling himself now he's finally gotten it and he's always wrong), except for humor. It just doesn't make any sense. Hard as he tries to tell jokes to those he meets, usually while on the job, nobody laughs. If he could get it right, surely it'd go a long way towards comforting those poor souls! It's for a good cause.

Which is why he'll memorize every joke written in the book or else. That's one benefit to having a perfect endless memory.



((I blame work for the way I've neglected this poor guy. Have some boney warm fuzzies.))