JAKE SHELDON LIVED for laughs and would get triggered when people didn’t appreciate his off-color sense of humor. He tried to keep his anger under control, but lately it was becoming harder than ever. Why couldn’t people recognize his genius? he thought to himself.
As he performed his routine, a man shook his head like he had just heard the worst comic ever. “Not funny,” he said for all to hear.
Jake fumed inside. After the set was over, he left the club. In the parking lot, he saw the offending man get in his car. He followed him. Ten minutes later the man parked and opened the front door to an apartment building. Jake snuck in before the door closed and tapped him on the shoulder.
“So, you didn’t like my act?”
The man was startled to say the least.
“You followed me here?”
“No, I fell out of a plane.”
“I suggest you get a mental health checkup,”
“What did you say?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Jake removed the Glock 19 from his jacket and shot him twice in the chest. The man dropped dead on the spot. There were no witnesses.
J
The next night he was back on stage, and opened with, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I’m here to entertain you, so laugh or I’ll kill you.” There was an awkward silence and nervous laughter.
As he continued his set, he noticed a man standing by the exit in a gray suit, writing something down in a small black book. Jake got a weird feeling, but figured it wasn’t worth worrying about—he knew there was nothing linking him to the crime.
Jake finished his set and went to the men’s room to do a few lines of coke. He ended up at the bar and ordered several shots of vodka, making sure to flirt with the hot young waitress. As the night drew to a close, he opened his wallet to pay the tab and noticed his driver’s license was missing.
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