The God of Comedy

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Aaron paced up and down behind the velvet curtain practicing his breathing exercises. He let the nerves wash through him and took a sip from his bottle of mead. He needn’t be worried he told himself, he was the best bard in the city. Everyone asked if he was on when they went to the Goose and Cuckoo on a Thursday eve. However, this wasn’t just another show. This was a performance for the King. He let that settle in his head I, Aaron son of Kaaron am about to perform for the King! He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long slow gulp, fetched his lute up to his ear and strummed slowly, fiddled with the pegs and tried again. Satisfied, he peered through the curtains. There was a low hum of expectation in the room. The Master of Ceremonies was warming up the crowd and doing a good job of it by all accounts. Aaron whispered his mantra to himself.      “I am Aaron, son of Kaaron. I know the four rules of punning. I invented the third humorous item technique. I am the best and they will love me. They will love me.”      The Master of Ceremonies shouted his name and the applause began. He strode out, a small wave to the right, a slight bow to the left and on to the centre of the stage. He fired out his first joke just as the applause settled. Nothing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. That was a good joke! On to the next. Again, nothing. He looked at the King, saw him frowning, drumming his fingers. He played a song, one of the best in his arsenal. One of the hard hitters. They hated it. The crowd slow clapped it at the end, he never got slow clapped! He changed tack, tried a pun. The audience groaned, but not a good groan, a bored groan. They wanted the Master of Ceremonies back. He felt himself slide out of his body and float around the room. Started noticing little things -- the condensation on the King’s flagon of ale -- the budding droplets of sweat forming on his own brow. He shook his head and returned to his senses. There was only one thing to do, appeal to the God of Comedy. He began chanting in the ancient tongue of his people. Glee'm'an -- I call to thee, plea to make the people see how the humour in mine heart translates to my pure spoken art. Glee'm'an I seek thine favour -- call upon my only saviour. Protect me from the fear of death, bring laughter to my every breath. If these things you will provide I offer you my soul, my pride. Name your price and set me free. Glee'm'an I call to thee.      The room dimmed and a shadowy form appeared in front of him. Black as black except for a small, round, red nose.      “You summoned me.” The gravelly voice echoed through Aarons mind.      “Glee’m’an? My Lord.” Aaron stuttered.      “You seem surprised.”      “Sorry Lord, I... I was expecting someone a little more...”      “A little more funny?” Glee’m’an’s voice rose to a roar “Comedy is a serious business little man. You want to beat this audience?”      “Yes.”      “Very well. But you must become a Jongleur thereafter.” Glee’m’an chuckled.      “My Lord. I am not ready. They’re fearless. They can tackle any crowd.” Aaron stuttered.      “You are ready if I say you are. Do you accept?”      “Yes my Lord.”      When Aaron came to, he was standing at the bar. A fat man with rosy cheeks was telling him how they were worried at the start of his performance but after the first song it all got much funnier. Then he told Aaron a joke and told him he could use it at his next gig. Aaron smiled and finished his mead. Sometimes you have to sell your soul to get ahead in this business he thought to himself as he picked up his payment on the way out sometimes you just pray the next gig will pay your rent.