So Many Laughs

“But will it be funny?”

No one answered immediately. A producer named Alvin Smollet had asked the question. He was tallish even while seated. He was thirty-two.

A woman in her early twenties leaned in.

“It will. The writers will make a scenario where the gist will be the irony of the figure of the Prophet Mohammad receiving a pig heart valve to save his life. It’ll be hilarious!”

The woman wore a white blouse and blue jeans, with red pumps. Born in Iran, she moved to the United States when she was four. Her given name was Azadeh Ahmadi. Now, she simply went by the stage mononym AZA (pronounced ahh-zaah). In heels, she stood 5’9”. With olive skin and green eyes that looked as intoxicating as absinthe, she moved deftly. She had been living in Wilmington, Delaware working as an actress in an improv troupe.

The troupe performed at the Mercier Theater. The group of producers and actors were holding a meeting to discuss the latest sketch.

“People are obviously going to be offended,” executive producer Lionel Mentzer replied. At age forty-eight, he was the field general of the troupe. He had a clean shaven face and salt and pepper at the temples.

“The goal will be to get the laugh. Once they understand that Mo’ is going to die unless he gets his pig valve, there should be uproarious laughter,” Dolph Fender said. He was twenty-five with boyish features and a devastating smile.

“C’mon!” His smile broadened.

“Bring in the writers…well the writer,” Mentzer sighed.

Blanchard Hazleton, head writer, walked into the room. “I think this will be a profound departure from what we are used to. The cameras will capture this all and it will be different from all the other shows we’ve written. With that said, I think we should go forth with this.”

His face looked like rosewood. His short Afro seemed well-picked. He was twenty-seven.

AZA raised her hands in approval, like a cheerleader celebrating her team’s touchdown.

“What we can do,” Co-producer Mira Jacobson said, “is not warn the audience. Just have the cold open, and show the operating room scene. The players will then discuss how Mohammad originally opted to die instead of receiving the organ pieces.”

Hazleton grinned wide again. “But he wants to live long enough to fight in a jihad, thus deepening the irony. In the next scene, he is shown with a suicide vest. A U.S. Marine sniper picks him off from a distance of 1,500 yards. Mohammad will be far from any one and and he’ll explode from the round striking the vest. It’ll be spectacular.”

“I don’t think we’re going to make it to the stage with this. We’re going to get a lot of messages on this one,” Mentzer said.

“Lionel, this is going to launch us. Never mind who gets ‘offended.’ Mysticism would bother me, but I don’t let it. Why would anyone let mockery of the unknown and unknowable rankle them?” AZA asked.

Mentzer stood up. The rest who were sitting stood up as well.

“Okay. This is what happens. We’re going to do this bit and let it be our calling card. Our intentions will be for so much laughter to rise up, we’ll drown out the cries of ‘offensive.’ This is about how we express our freedom of speech. We will have a reason to do this. We will be in the Daily Delaware and every news station in the state. Maybe the country. The world. Social media will be ablaze. As long as the newspapers and stations don’t block out the images, this should be unprecedented: a recorded comedy sketch about the prophet in a theater, performed live in front of an audience.

“AZA?”

“Yes, Lionel?” she asked.

“I want you to get a co-writer credit on this one. Outstanding job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The room had an air of uniformity and confidence. The team exuded proper knowledge of what they were doing. With everyone on board, the troupe and its leader prepared for the day when the sketch would be live.