Randy Mulholland sifted through a bestseller he picked up recently from the bookstore a few blocks down the road. The title really caught his eye: "501 Ways To Die Of Laughter". But now that he examined it, the book was not at all what he expected.

He flipped through pictures of the Three Stooges, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, and people slipping on bananas. "I shouldnta wasted my money on this crap," he said out loud to himself.

Randy scooted over to his microwave, which he'd painted red. It didn't work as well as when he bought it, but he definitely liked the colour. It complemented the appliance very well.

He put the worthless book into the microwave and started her up. "Eat this, Kramer!" Randy watched anxiously as the book burned, and that old feeling inside him started to burn too. A queer, little giggle started emanating from the pasty-faced man.

In less time than it took for him to bat an eyelash, the microwave exploded, knocking him into his refrigerator, and essentially, unconscious.

Randy didn't know how long he'd been out, but when he finally woke up, he surveyed the disaster. And laughed. A nice, deep, nervous laugh that ricocheted all through the house. He just noticed the wonderful echo and couldn't help but laugh some more.

"Now that's what I call funny!"

Detective Rachel Sanguine just finished her rounds for the day, and thought she'd stop by Salvatore's Barber Shop to see what business was like for her friend. Sal always said to her, "I'm never gonna be out of a job, 'cause everybody always needs their hair cut." Sal quit the force right after Rachel completed her field training, and since then, he's taught her everything he knows about being a good cop.

Rachel pushed open the door to the shop, and a small bell jingled overhead. It let Sal know that a customer was coming in, so that he could continue his unending business. She walked into the building and was supposed to say "Hey, Sal," but only the "Hey" fell out of her mouth. She stopped dead in her tracks, so to speak.

Salvatore Cassina was literally scattered all over the floor, and most assuredly dead. What seemed to have started as a haircut turned into a dismemberment. Whatever hair was left on Sal's head could do nothing to hide the hideous lacerations. His ears were cut off, as well as his fingers, both of his hands, and his feet. To top it all off, a pair of barber's scissors stuck out of his heart.

Blood was everywhere. No specific pool of it collected; it covered practically the entire floor. On one of the mirrors, a crude happy face was painted with Sal's blood, with a tear coming down from the left eye. There was a message inscribed under the mockery of that happy face: A Little Off The Top. Bloody hedge clippers lay near the body.

Rachel was so completely disgusted that she couldn't even breathe. She started convulsing, and then fell to her knees and threw up all over the welcome mat.

Randy stood in his washroom, looking at himself in the mirror. "You never did like any of my jokes, did you Sally?" he said vehemently to the barber, whose body lay butchered, miles away from Randy's house. "You thought it was funny when you shaved off my sideburns, didn't you Sally? Yes, you did, didn't you?"

He turned on the tap and started to wash some of the blood from his hands. "Well, look who's laughing now, old man!" That evil laugh of his resurfaced, quietly at first, and then violently, reverberating off the walls around his bathtub, for the bathroom door was closed.

The comedic murderer laughed so hard that he pounded his fists into the mirror, over and over, shattering his reflection. Both large and small shards of glass slid quickly under some of the skin in his hands. Where he so recently saw his own image, Randy's cold blood splashed all over the broken mess. And he laughed.

Doctor Fitzhenry just finished working for the day. He sent the hygienists home and organized all the dental tools in their respective drawers, neatly labeled, of course. In all his years of practice, he made only one mistake on one of his patients, by performing dental surgery with the wrong tool. He couldn't remember the guy's name offhand - something like Mulville or Morreland.

So he found it ironic that that same guy should come walking into the room with a big smile on his face.

"Doctor Fitzhenry, I'm here for my appointment," said the recent intruder.

"I'm sorry, but we've closed for the day. There's no way you could've been booked after office hours."

A more mischievous smile crept onto the man's face. "Now...now, I know I've got an appointment with you, Doctor." The bandages on the man's hands were of little consequence to him, for he threw the dentist into the operating chair with ease. "I know you won't mind. No, I know you won't."

With that, Randy Mulholland picked up the sharply hooked, plaque-removing tool, and the doctor became the patient. The echo of Randy's laugh rebounded throughout the nearly empty room, and down into the doctor's mouthful of pearly whites.

"Car four-nine, four-nine, over," came the rugged voice over the CB.

Detective Sanguine was startled by the sudden message. It was about two in the morning and she almost sailed through a red light. "This is four-nine, dispatch, go ahead."

"Head over to the Fawcett Square office building on Roanoke. One of the janitors reported a murder in the dental office there."

"Roger that," verified Rachel. "I'm on my way."

Upon her arrival, she noticed what looked like a janitor pacing haphazardly around the parking lot with a plastic tube in his mouth. Rachel took the key out of the ignition, got out of her car, and walked up to the asthmatic man. "Were you the man who reported the murder?" she asked. The janitor nodded his head in response.

"Could you show me where the body is, sir?"

The man had trouble breathing. Evidently, the medication wasn't doing its job. He took a bizarre breath after each word he spoke. "I...can't...it's...it's...too...sickening..."

"Sir, I need you to calm down. You're not doing yourself any good by being agitated like that," assured the young police officer. "Can you at least tell me where to find the body?"

"That building...over there. Fourth floor."

Rachel took out her gun, as was standard procedure, and went into the office building. She took the elevator up to the fourth floor and saw an open door to a certain Doctor Fitzhenry's office. She burst in, surveying the waiting room with her gun outstretched. The detective strode into the nearest operating room and put her hand over her mouth. Laying there on the chair was who she could only guess was the dentist.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod," was all Rachel could muster, as a series of shudders shook her body.

He...it...was utter carnage. Fitzhenry's entire chest and stomach area were gutted, leaving an assortment of organs to figure themselves out as an unrestricted menagerie of blood, tubes, and sinew. The lower part of his jaw was ripped off and left to sit in his lap. The teeth that were supposed to be left in his mouth were plucked, possibly sawed out, with one of the dental tools.

A little note was stuck to the dentist's forehead. On it was the same happy face with a tear coming down from the left eye, finger-painted with blood. The message read: Route Canal.

"This is not good. No, no, no. This is definitely not good."

Randy paced up and down the hallway in his house, waiting impatiently. His doorbell rang. "Pizza!"

Randy yanked the door open and glared at the teenager. "Do you know how late you are? No, I'll bet you don't, do you?"

"Yeah, sorry, dude. Traffic was pretty lethal."

"That's alright, my boy. Come in, come in. It's quite cold outside, and by no means do I want you to freeze. Come into the kitchen. Something's in there that'll warm you right up. Yes, yes, I believe it will. No, I know it will." That giddy laugh of his developed and echoed in the oven he had just opened.

Detective Sanguine wasted no time and drove right over when she got the call.

A decrepit, burnt-to-a-crisp body lay next to a few full and smelly garbage bags at the foot of the driveway. Rachel never knew what charred skin smelled like until now, and she wished she never had the privilege. The youth's body was contorted into a box-like shape, covered with cheese and pepperoni. She reasoned he was stuffed into an oven and set to cook for god knows how long. This time, the message with the crying happy face read: Pizza, Well Done.

Rachel called in for backup, and fetched her rifle from the trunk of her police car. She ran over to the front door of the house, kicked it open, and went in.

A pale, repulsive looking man came out of nowhere and knocked both Rachel and the gun to the floor. "Don't you know breaking and entering is a criminal offense? You do, don't you? Yes...yes, you do. I hope you enjoyed all of my wonderful jokes. Did you laugh as hard as I did? Wasn't it marvelous?"

"You sick bastard!"

"I don't like being called that." Randy lashed out at the police officer's face. "No, I don't like being called that at all. I know what'll cheer you up. Here, let me borrow that billy club of yours."

With the skill of an assassin and a godforsaken laugh, Randy incessantly pummelled the young woman with her own weapon, until she didn't move. Rachel was as motionless as the three bodies she'd seen defiled in as many days.

Randy wondered what he could do for a joke this time. "Why don't I pick up your rifle and blow as many holes into your body as I can? Yes, that'll be a good laugh, won't it? Yes...I know it will." He approached her limp body until he was almost on top of the cop. Priming the rifle, he began a nice guttural laugh.

Before Randy could take aim with the shotgun or laugh any longer, Rachel rewarded him with a taser to the groin. He vaulted away from the young police officer and crashed into a nearby and very hard wall. Getting whatever satisfaction she could, Rachel knew that that man had only just been introduced to the wonder of electricity. He had no idea what he was in store for. And for that reason alone, she could do nothing but laugh.

"Mulholland, do you have any last words?"

Strapped into the electric chair, Randy remained speechless. The widest and scariest of smiles grew on his face. Detective Sanguine threw the switch, and Randy laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

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