"He was so black that he left his fingerprints on charcoal. Haha… ha.. ha.. h."
No laugh? Alright, tough crowd. Let's try again.
"So I went for a swim the other day. Deep ocean. Big waves. Peaceful vibes. And suddenly, I saw this island floating. I swam toward it. And guess what?"
Pause. Lock eyes with one bold, bearded audience member.
"It wasn't an island. It was your mom."
Huh? Why's he frowning? That was solid.
Is his mom really that… floaty?
Alright, let's move on.
I lock eyes with the dude next to him. Looks friendlier. Maybe this one's my savior.
Alright, here goes :
"I've got a laptop. Five terabytes of storage. Top tier. NASA level stuff. Wanna know what filled it instantly?"
Pause. Wink. Point.
"One JPEG of your mom."
Yep. Now he's glaring. Man's jaw clenched like he's holding in a whole anime villain monologue. Wait… are these two guys related? What is with these people and their moms?
Sigh. This audience is actual trash. Like, recyclable if you're feeling generous. They laugh at tire sounds and flex engine roars but can't take a yo mama joke?
This place sucks. This club sucks. These bikers probably think "stand-up" means standing after a bike crash. I'm doing this for free, mind you. Not because I'm generous—but because literally no decent venue wants me unless I'm famous or at least funny. And right now, I'm 0 for 2.
Not that I haven't tried. I've performed in high-end venues before. Sometimes even got five minutes before they threw me out like expired tacos. If I'm lucky, I leave with just a bruised ego. If not… Well, ever been beaten by a guy in a Gucci belt?
Eventually, I accepted the truth: my comedy isn't for the rich—it's for the reckless.
So I came here. To this hellhole.
The Biker's Sanctuary. Where the beer flows and the testosterone levels could lift trucks. A place where the only thing louder than the engines is the ego. Tattoos, leather jackets, chain wallets—basically a GTA loading screen. You'd think they'd love violent jokes, right? Wrong. These guys drink like it's a religion and glare like it's a sport.
The regulars? All inked-up bikers and professional riders. Men who look like their hobbies include arm wrestling crocodiles.
Friendly, right?
Oh, and I live in Mexico. If that explains anything.
Anyway, I've been doing this six nights straight. The first five days were brutal. Same audience, same dead eyes, same beer bottles being clenched like grenades.
Not a single laugh. Not even a fake chuckle. Not even from the drunk guy in the corner. They listened, yeah. But with the same face you make when the waiter describes an overpriced dish.
Day one was the worst. One of the guys threw a beer bottle at me.
I caught it mid-air—like a boss—then realized I was broke and couldn't afford beer. So, like a humble legend, I gave it back.
…The dude didn't catch it.
Bottle smashed against his forehead like a Final Destination scene.
Then? CHAOS.
The entire club turned into a bar fight DLC. I had to escape from the back door like a magician fleeing unpaid volunteers.
Later, I found out the guy didn't offer me the bottle…
He was trying to bash my skull in with it.
Jealousy. That's what it was.
Pure, unfiltered envy for my majestic stage presence. Clearly.
After day one, the beer bottles kept flying—But I didn't catch them anymore.
I dodged.
I ducked.
I told my jokes like a war correspondent under sniper fire.
Surely, one would land. Just one laugh...
And finally—
One landed.
Not the joke.
A bottle. On my skull.
Blood sprayed. My head was ringing like a bell at a boxing match.
And for the first time… I saw it.
They were laughing.
Victory?
Nope.
They were laughing at me, not with me.
Literal clowns get more respect. I went home that night with a cracked skull and a cherry popped ego.
By day three, I leveled up.
No bottles hit me. I dodged like I was in a Dark Souls boss fight.
I held the stage for twenty straight minutes.
That's all the time I had—any longer and the club owner said he'd screw my grandmother.
Bold threat, but my grandma's dead.
…Still, judging by his face?
He wouldn't mind defiling ashes. Everyone has their kinks.
Day four, no blood.
Day five, no injuries.
And now, Day Six.
Still no laughs.
But today's different.
No bottles.
No thrown chairs.
Just… glares.
Full-on laser-eye glares from every corner of the club.
But hey—at least I've got their attention. That's new.
This is it. My moment.
They're watching. Time to make it count.
I scan the crowd…
And there she is.
A woman. Dressed in a tight black jacket.
Sitting on two chairs like she was trying to colonize IKEA.
Why two?
Let's just say if she sat on one, that chair would file a complaint against the furniture supreme court and would need crutches and trauma therapy.
But was she a biker too?
What does she ride? A delivery truck?
But hey, she's here. She's in the splash zone now. Don't chicken out now, Racis. They're bikers. They've got tough skin. Especially this woman.
Let's go.
"What's your name, lady?" I ask, leaning forward.
Audience interaction = pro move.
She glares. Like everyone else. No change.
Then she growls:
"My name is Optimus Prime."
…That voice. It wasn't human. It was pure machinery.
I found the joke.
"Optimus Prime?" I blink. "Damn. Do you eat mixer grinders while they're still plugged in?"
I force a laugh. Sometimes, you gotta show 'em how it's done.
The crowd doesn't laugh. Their glares now feel... personal.
Optimus Prime shifts like she's trying to stand. I say trying because gravity ain't letting go that easy.
But it's fine. I've got time to run before she gains verticality.
Then suddenly—
"You think that's funny?" A guy stands up.
Rider. Tattooed. Mohawk so sharp it could slice bread. And black.
"Is it not?" I ask, acting clueless. Rookie mistake.
"Hell no. And what's with your name? You sound like a walking hate crime."
Oh right. My name.
"I'm Racis T. There's a space after Racis." (As if that makes it better.)
"I don't care! Forget your name! How dare you insult my baby girl?!"
Huh?
"Sorry, who?"
"My baby girl RIGHT HERE."
He points at Optimus Prime.
"She's your baby girl? Your girlfriend?"
"Yes!"
"Bro... it's been five years since Corona ended. Your taste should have returned by now."
The Mohawk's eyes bulged like a frog caught watching hentai.
"How dare you?!"
"I'm just saying. Most people sleep on beds… you chose to sleep with one."
I was pissed too, okay? Even she had a partner.
Meanwhile, me?
Twenty years old, zero girlfriends, zero kisses, and the only action I ever got was with a woman whose last customer left her one star because she coughed mid-blowjob.
I had to use my grandma's entire life savings to afford that hooker.
And it still sucked.
Not the way I wanted.
Didn't try again after that.
Not because I grew wise, but because I had negative $4 in my bank account and a moral hangover the size of Texas.
Anyway, forget that.
The Mohawk looked ready to set me on fire.
The crowd too. Glaring like I just insulted both their bike and their biker gang mommas.
But I needed just one joke.
One good hit.
Come on, Mohawk. Fight me more. Feed me setup lines.
"Apologize to her right now. Or I'll kill you," he snarled.
Meanwhile, Optimus Prime was still loading.
No progress bar. Just the sound of joints trying to remember how knees work.
"Why are you fighting for her?" I asked, smirking.
"Can't she stand up for herself?"
Total silence.
Mouths clenched. Eyes twitching.
Come on, people. That was solid.
That was at least worth a nose exhale.
"Enough! You crossed all limits, clown. I'll choke you to death!"
Thanks for the setup.
"Speaking of choking… when she says 'Choke me, daddy,' how do you even find her neck? Do you use Google Maps?"
If I were in the crowd, I'd be on the damn floor howling.
But these bikers? Stone cold.
Turns out they weren't rebels.
They were just emotionally constipated.
And the Mohawk?
Boiling.
"THAT'S IT! YOU'RE DEAD!"
He yanked up his shirt—revealing a gun tucked in his waistband.
Fake? Real?
BANG.
Real.
Right between my eyebrows.
No dramatic pause. No tension music.
Just lead in my head and instant death.
My soul left my body like steam from a pressure cooker.
I watched the scene unfold from above, floating like a tiny lingerie of a wife that was last worn ten years ago.
The audience?
They all jumped up—except Optimus Prime. She was still booting.
They looked at my corpse.
Then turned to Mohawk.
Yes. YES. Beat him up. Call the cops. DEFEND ME!
But…
They grinned.
They LAUGHED.
"Well done!"
"I would've shot him myself if you took a second longer."
"Nice aim, bro!"
They LIFTED Mohawk up like he'd just ended world hunger.
They celebrated my death like I was the final boss in their depression. Like I was an old billionaire leaving behind a hot wife.
I came to make them laugh.
And I succeeded.
They laughed. Not with me, but at me.
I had nothing in life anyway.
Mom died of cancer the day I was born.
Dad died in a car crash the same day.
Like life was trying to speedrun my trauma.
Only my grandma raised me. She was sweet. Warm. Dead.
After college, she passed away.
Not because I spent her life savings on a hooker—I waited till after her funeral for that.
She only had 500 pesos, okay? It was a budget sin.
It was her dream to be a comedian.
She passed it to me like a family wig.
And I followed it with pride.
I wanted to build a career out of comedy.
But it is what it is.
They finally laughed.
And as my soul drifted toward whatever afterlife awaits broke comedians—
I glanced back one last time.
Optimus Prime was STILL trying to stand.
I shook my head, and with my final ghost breath, I whispered:
Just sit down, bitch.