Gasoline. Sugar.

“None of this is real. … the people … Me.”

— Moon Knight, vol. 8, no. 1 (2016)

He told himself five minutes on stage wouldn’t kill him. Just five minutes without thinking of her.

Laughter hit him before the lights did. A low roll from the front row, half polite, half real.

Colin Merritt gripped the mic stand, sweat slick on his knuckles, the metal warm under the old lighting rigs from ‘82.

“I told my therapist I finally feel seen,” he said. “She said, ‘That’s because you won’t leave my office.’”

The crowd laughed again — louder, more comfortable now. He exhaled slow, trying to ride the rhythm.

But his chest stayed tight, like his ribs had forgotten how to open.

“If laughter’s the best medicine, I’m basically self-medicating up here,” he said. He smiled like it might be funny. “Stopped the prescribed stuff two days ago.”

More laughter. A whistle. A clink of glass near the bar.

He smiled, or tried to. The heat pressed into his back; the lights hummed like bees in a jar.

“I used to be afraid of dying on stage,” he said. “Now I just hope someone notices when I do.”

The laugh caught mid-breath and broke apart. A cough, a chair scrape, then nothing—just the faint hum of the lights.

It lasted a heartbeat too long. Long enough for him to wonder if the silence was listening.

He took a sip of water that didn’t help, the coolness barely skimming his throat. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The gleam off the stool kept him standing, and the stage manager had been signaling for him to keep going—twenty-seven minutes ago. Still, there was something about this place, these people. Tonight felt different, like he might finally get through the set without flinching at her memory.

“Any new parents in the audience tonight?” he asked, lifting the mic.

A few hands went up, followed by scattered cheers that landed somewhere between pride and exhaustion.

“The tired applause,” Colin said, half to himself. “That’s not joy, people without kids—that’s just muscle memory.”

Laughter rippled through the room, warm and easy. Shoulders sagging, he mimicked their slow clap, eyelids half-shut. “Keep clapping,” he said. “It’ll all be worth it someday.”

The warmth of it lingered, rising from the crowd like breath. A single laugh from the rear drew him upright, rhythm snapping back into his shoulders and voice. The room felt closer now, the air thick beneath the lights, pressing against his back like a hand that wouldn’t move.

“Don’t get me wrong.” He leaned toward the mic. “I love sleep deprivation as much as the next comedian—”

The line died in his throat. Near the front, an older woman watched him, alone. Something in her posture tugged at a memory he couldn’t place.

He waved. “Oh, hi, Mom,” he called. Laughter rippled through the crowd, easy and bright, unsuspecting.

“I’m kidding.” His grin flickered. “She’s not my mom. That’s just what she wants me to call her.”

The woman winked, shoulders shifting in a teasing rhythm. Colin threw up a hand, laughing. “Wait,” he said, squinting toward her. “Are you my mom?”

Laughter swelled, echoing off the low ceiling. For a moment, it sounded layered, like the same laugh repeating from different corners of the room.

Colin cleared his throat. The laugh caught at the edge, sharper than he meant. He brushed it off with a grin.

“So… anybody else in therapy?”

A few cheers rose.

“One, two—yeah, that whole side of the room,” he said, pointing toward the laughter. “My therapist says I’m making progress, mostly when I’m not talking.”

His thumb traced the mic’s grille. “What hasn’t my girlfriend yelled at me about in public yet?”

A pause, a glance toward the side stage. “What do you mean we’re out of time?”

More laughter. He waved it off. “Sorry—got off topic. Parents. Right.”

A softer ripple of laughs.

“I love my parents,” he said. “I do. They made sure everyone knew how they felt about me pursuing comedy. Which is great, because all comedians come from healthy homes, right?”

The audience laughed knowingly. Someone whistled.

“My sisters and I still keep in touch,” he continued. “They’ve got kids—makes me the cool uncle. I like holidays with them. It keeps that feeling alive, you know? That thing you had as a kid, when Christmas still smelled like hope.”

The laughter softened. A few people clapped in agreement.

“I don’t have kids. Shocking, I know. But I do have a group chat with six friends from five different agencies.”

A slow nod, as if it somehow made sense. “Or maybe it’s five friends from six agencies.” He patted his pocket and glanced down, pretending to check a message. “Oh, hold on.” The phone came out a beat later, screen glaring up at him. “Oh look—launch codes. Fun.”

Laughter cracked through the room, sharp and bright. He tucked the phone away.

“Anyway, that’s why I don’t have kids. I’m already raising anxiety.”

A wave of laughter rolled through. “Thanks, social media,” he said, riding it.

Applause followed, a beat late, half a second off, like an echo from the back wall. He blinked against the glare. The lights buzzed. One above him flickered like it was ready to burn out.

He managed a crooked smile. “Guess the wiring’s as old as the comedy.”

Laughter again. Same pitch, same timing.

For a moment it sounded like playback, the pause between laughs stretching thin, the silence creeping back in like a leak.

Swallowing against the dryness, he steadied the mic. “Okay,” he said. “That’s… odd. Who’s got the laugh track?”

No answer came. The crowd shimmered in the haze, everyone smiling—too evenly, the rows aligned like teeth.

The bottle rose again, water sliding down his throat. Plastic crinkled loud in the hush, sharp enough to make him flinch.

“Alright,” he said, voice softening. “My dad did his part. Sent the check each month. My mom cashed it whenever we went to the corner store. Said sweetness could cover almost anything.”

A few chuckles drifted through the haze.

“She said that right before…” He raised the bottle, pretending to need a sip. “Never mind.”

The mic cracked, sharp as glass, and the laughter returned, identical.

He coughed, a dry snap in the mic. Heat climbed his neck. “Before what? You’re asking that, right?” His smile stretched too wide. “See, that’s why therapy’s great. You get to talk about your trauma…” He blinked at the shifting lights. “…and someone buys a ticket for it.”

Another wave of laughter. Same length, same beat.

Fingers locked around the mic. “Seriously, who’s looping the sound?”

Eyes shifted toward the booth. The stage manager was gone. The signal light still blinked red.

Colin wiped sweat from his forehead. “Guess it’s you and me, Mom.” He smiled weakly at the woman in the front row.

The woman stayed still, unmoving in the wash of light.

He forced a smile and tried again. “I said, guess it’s just you and me.”

Her smile widened, frozen and glossy in the light. Candy wrappers glittered in her lap.

A sharp crack burst from the speakers, high and brittle. He flinched; it wasn’t feedback but glass breaking.

Pressure gathered in his chest. A memory flickered: fluorescent lights, a store aisle, a song on the radio, his mother singing along.

For a moment, the crowd swayed one way, then another, echoing his mind.

Glass bursting. Metal screaming. Gasoline. Sugar.

He stepped back, the mic wobbling in his grip. The crowd laughed again, perfectly in sync. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not funny.” The laughter didn’t stop.

Behind the smiles, faces blurred. Rows melted together. The old woman in front leaned forward, her jaw unhinging, as if she were about to speak—or sing.

The mic hummed, a deep note vibrating up his arm. It wasn’t feedback anymore. It was breath.

“Mom?” he said.

The laughter broke, a sound between a gasp and a sob. It twisted, high and metallic, like tires skidding.

A downward glance caught the faint glow in the floorboards. He shifted back; wrappers crinkled wet beneath his shoe.

“Please,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t—”

The spotlights flared white.

For a heartbeat, he was twelve again, standing at the end of the aisle.

His mother had just turned the corner, humming to the song overhead. “I want can— All this candy’s gonna make me boogie,” she sang, shoulders shifting in a teasing rhythm just like the woman in the front row.

Then the glass exploded. Metal screamed through shelves of chips and candy, cabinets collapsing in waves. The old sedan didn’t stop. It tore through the glass like it had forgotten how to brake. Headlights caught her mid-laugh—his father’s headlights—gone.

When it stopped, wrappers floated through the air like confetti. He stood there, frozen, watching them fall.

The mic slipped from his grip. The crash came a half second later.

When the lights dimmed, the club was silent.

A toppled stool rested on its side, the water bottle rolling toward the edge of the stage.

Rows of faces sat frozen, smiles fixed, eyes catching what little light remained.

The mic hissed, a slow exhale through blown speakers.

Then the sound cut out.

The lights dimmed.

Silence filled the room like water fills a lung.

Colin stood frozen, eyes on the woman in the front row. Her smile didn’t fade. Nothing moved. Not a breath, not a blink.

The stillness pressed against him until it felt alive.

He opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out.

The shadow behind her shifted once—tall, still, and too familiar.

The silence swallowed the laugh before it could begin.