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Demonic Laughter
By Kirsten Anderson
One day, the demon Moluthar forgot how to laugh.
The change in his condition alarmed him. Moluthar was famous for his terrible laughter that emanated from hell to spread across earth like a foul cloud of pestilence, tearing sheep apart, causing children to flunk their hearing tests at school, and driving poets into madness. And his talent had earned him the adoration of his fellow fiends along with a flattering article and photo spread in the last issue of Demonic People magazine.
In a panic, he tried to re-awaken his killing-joke bone. If he didn't resume his power, the other demons would disown him, exiling him to live on earth as some nerd of a human. All day long, he made faces at himself in his obsidian mirror, read highlighted selections from his favorite pamphlets, "101 Ways to Terrify Mortals," "Not Only Are You Not OK, You're Also Stupid, You Wretched Human," and "Hey, You've Been Shredded," and then taught his monster cats to howl in the six tone scale of the outlaw bards.
But mirth eluded him. And the overdue bill for the repairs of his private jet pushed him over the edge. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed help.
That night, Moluthar traveled to the ancient, hidden city of Lulea to seek counsel from the twelve scholars who resided in the Institute of Leisure, as the Great Library was closed due to bookworm blight. Inside, the scholars loafed in the recreation room, playing ping-pong and arguing over Foosball, looking self-important in their designer robes.
Grabbing the neck of the scholar at the pool table nearest to him, Moluthar yelled, "I am ill and need a diagnosis. No longer do I find the pain and suffering of mortals to be the utmost of hilarity." A frown creased his large, scabby forehead. "Don't tell me I'm going through demon menopause or I'll drown you in the lake of fire."
The man struggled to pry the thick, leathery paws off his neck. Moluthar released him with reluctance. After a bout of coughing, the scholar gasped, "Don't worry, you're still young in demon years. You don't look a day over two hundred."
"Damn right," roared Moluthar. "I have plenty of good years left. But I don't want to spend the rest of those days as a," he shuddered, "human."
The man cringed and stepped back. "You're just burned out. May I suggest a long vacation on a faraway tropical island that would require the sipping of novelty drinks and the eating of exotic beasts?"
"Nonsense, human psychobabble. Demons don't get burned out," Moluthar growled. "I love destruction as much as ever. You should see my production numbers from last month." He unsheathed his claws and advanced on the scholar.
In his haste to escape Moluthar's wrath, the man turned to flee. But he tripped on his robe and fell down the stairs into a basement filled with old badminton racquets and roller skates.
Moluthar peered down at the man's twisted body. His five eyes blinked. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
His laughter froze the starlight into icicles. The other scholars fainted, billiard cues and playing cards still in their hands. On earth, sheep exploded, children glared at their teachers and cranked up the death metal, and somewhere, a poet put down his pen with a sigh and signed up for a retail management class.
Exultant, Moluthar began to leave, but concern for his public image made him pause amongst the strewn bodies. He looked over his shoulder.
"Thanks for your help," he shouted down into the basement in case someone was listening. "Couldn't have made my comeback without you. You're what it's all about."
He left the Institute and boarded his jet, making a note to contact his PR flak for another article in Demonic People. A careful, staged photo of him laughing over the dead scholar while holding his cape aloft at the right dramatic angle would make him the perfect cover demon for the magazine's "100 Hottest Fiends" issue.
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