"So they say you gotta starve a cold, right? And feed a fever? Well what if you catch the flu, huh? Well, thats kinda like a fever and a cold at the same time. So, like, do you starve, or what? Well I'll tell you what you do, you feed as if you hadn't ate in years. Yeah, heh heh."
Silence befell the audience.
"Tough crowd. Sheesh. Well, how about the worlds worst pick-up lines? I caught a few 'dese myself while down by the interstate." He cleared his throat intently. "Did you just come from the can? 'Cause you're an eight! Haha, yah, get it?"
Still, not a murmur heard. He pressed on.
"How about this one? Are you a saint? Cause you's ain't half bad lookin'! Yeah, thats a classic, heard it from a guy named Gus."
You could almost hear the dust settle.
"Seriously? Geez, this is more awkward than the time I found out my brother was my dad. I mean come on!"
Frustrated, the comic walked past the spotlight's glow, taking a better survey of what he was dealing with. He stared fixedly at a man sitting at a table with three others, front row left.
"How about you buddy? What's your gig? You from round here?"
The mans blank expression and silent poise was almost as riveting as the current entertainment. The comedian balled a fist and planted into his jaw.
"Ya lousy scrub, I outta sock you again for being so coy."
The painfully enthralled patron's head rolled on the floor six feet from his body. The comedian watched as it tumbled towards the jukebox and rested his eyes there for a moment. After a moment, he lifted his eyes and pointed them outwards, surveying the rest of the brew'n stop.
"Geez buddy, I was just letting out some steam, ya didn't have to lose your head over it."
He raised his arms upward in a deliberate fashion, hoping to stir an arousing round of giddish laughter from the boring attendants. Not a single motion was felt; the comedian was not impressed. He ripped his festive floral pattern button-up off and revealed a rather stock set of ammunition belts strapped over his shoulders, and followed this notion with a swift kick to a large case he had sitting by the stage. Like lightning, he whipped out his automatic and cocked in a new clip menacingly.
"My patience has been slightly tried, and I must make my leave. Who wants to be the next funny guy?!"
Hot lead pumped through the still crowd and pierced their flesh and cartilage; but dust, not blood, flew from their wounds.
"Antonio!" A voice cried. A burly man busted through the bar entrance. "Stop fucking around, this place is bone dry, these ones have already been harvested, same with the ones outside. Someone got here before us."
The crazed comic touched the scalding end of the rifle to the headless patrons neck, cooling it off.
"Psch, fine." He threw his AR-15 back into the junk-trunk. "Didja check for wallets too?"
"Petty change in comparison to what we came here for. There's someone hitting this area hard and I don't like making meaningless trips. If you want to fire off like a twelve-year old with a penthouse, save it for the fucker who's been picking at my fields."
Antonio just grunted and hurled his gun-box over his right shoulder.
They left for the next deserted pisshole - Antonio all the while wondering if their competition has a good sense of humour.