The Plot Calls #5 : "A Classic Punchline"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Ramona Quinn wasn’t famous. She was beloved.

At The Hollow—a dimly lit but venerated underground comedy club near the theater district—Ramona had earned a mythic status as The Closer. For nearly a decade, every Friday, she finished the night with tight, biting routines that danced between heartbreak and hilarity.

Her humor had rhythm. Her silences had weight. When she raised an eyebrow, the room bent toward her.

She didn’t crush crowds. She converted them.

Other comics whispered that she was magic. That she could turn sighs into laughter with a breath. That her voice felt like memory. That a Ramona Quinn set wasn’t just funny—it was true.

But magic has a shelf life.

First it was one dropped booking. A Thursday instead of a Friday. Then Tuesdays. Then radio silence.

Newer comics rose—brash, loud, chaotic. Their videos surged through TikTok and Reddit. Their jokes lacked craft but were designed to be clipped.

One of them, a wiry, charismatic twenty-something named Dash Rivers, exploded with viral crowdwork videos. He roasted hecklers. Wore designer sneakers. Talked fast. Moved faster.

He wasn’t better than Ramona. But he was now.

And now meant cash.

He filled seats—even if his punchlines were hollow and derivative. Even if he borrowed liberally from old comics who knew better. Even if he kind of, sort of, definitely stole her closer from 2009.

Ramona tried to adapt. Reworked classic sets. Injected topical references. Mimicked the brashness. She even copied pacing from newer comics—just enough to seem fresh.

Her old fans noticed the shift. The new fans didn’t laugh.

Then she bombed.

The silence was crushing. But worse followed.

Booing. Someone yelled, “You used to be funny!” Another: “Let Dash have the mic, Grandma!”

Someone recorded it. Uploaded it. Tagged her.

That night, the clip hit a quarter million views. Strangers from every timezone dissected her failure. Armchair comedians diagnosed her timing like it was a medical chart.

She read every comment. Every jeer. Every pixel of her own humiliation.

Backstage, Dash approached. Sheepish. Awkward.

“You’re a legend,” he said. “You inspired me. What happened?”

She nodded. Said nothing.

That night, alone in her apartment, Ramona poured herself whiskey. Played her old sets. Laughed once, sharply, like a cough. Then cried.

Her notebook sat in front of her—blank. She hadn’t written anything in weeks. Her voice felt distant. Like it belonged to someone else.

Then she heard it.

A whisper without sound. A breath behind her ear—dry, amused, ancient.

Ramona turned. The lamp flickered.

And there, in the far corner of her apartment—behind the record shelf, past the dusty posters, between two unopened fan mail boxes—was something new.

A six-foot patch of shimmering soil. Black as pitch. Pulsing with violet shimmer. The carpet curled upward around it, recoiling.

In the center, a porcelain hand reached out. Palm up. Waiting.

She didn’t question it. She was drunk—but lucid in a way she hadn’t been in years.

Some marrow-deep understanding filled her. Like the rules of gravity. Or fire.

She just knew.

The One Beneath gives.

Ramona retrieved her first joke book—the red one with the peeling stickers and coffee rings.

She knelt.

Placed it gently in the porcelain palm.

The hand closed. Sank.

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The next night, Ramona took the stage.

The crowd roared before she spoke. Every line hit. Every pause sparked eruption. Laughter shook the walls.

Her name trended again. Her manager sobbed in the wings.

Comics whispered that something had shifted.

“You’ve still got it,” her manager beamed. “You never lost it.”

And she believed him.

That night, she offered more: Her favorite mic cover. Her vintage blazer. A headshot from her first sold-out show.

The soil accepted it all.

And Ramona soared.

But slowly—quietly—the joy evaporated.

She stopped laughing at green room banter. Stopped noticing the audience.

Her routines became flawless, but empty. She delivered punchlines like incantations—perfect form, no soul.

Applause still came. Standing ovations. People lined up for autographs.

But Ramona stopped smiling. Stopped writing. Stopped sleeping.

She sat beside the plot each night, watching it shimmer. Her breath grew shallow. Her skin lost color. Her nails yellowed.

She offered her last item: a cracked copy of her first playbill.

The soil pulsed once. Then silence.

No call. No whisper. No laughter.

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Days passed.

Her manager, after three missed gigs and no returned texts, let himself into her apartment.

The smell hit first—faint but metallic.

What he found would never leave him.

A pale, robed figure sat cross-legged in front of the shimmering soil. Its head tilted slightly toward the plot. Its face—almost human. But not quite. Its skin: ashen. Its lips: thin and silent. Its presence: suffocating.

He knew, somehow, who it was.

Ramona Quinn.

He couldn’t explain how. But he knew.

He tried to speak—but the words choked in his throat. His knees buckled. Something ancient pressed against his heart.

Then he saw it: The porcelain hand, rising once more from the soil. Open. Empty.

And then… he whispered words he didn’t know he knew and uttered:

“God help me. The Plot Thickens.”

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