THE LAUGHING CROW: A CRYPTIC Anthology

Dad Jokes from Hell

Dave had always been bad. At three, he tore the wings off bumblebees and laughed as they met their slow, pathetic end. At ten, he told smaller kids on the playground there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny because the Boogeyman had killed them. At nineteen, he scratched up the side of a car with his keys after the toddler-toting woman who owned it took the parking spot he wanted. At twenty-five, he kicked an old man in the head during a mugging for the fun of it.

And these were just the things I can mention in pleasant company!

Luckily, whatever higher power had been watching over Dave's fate finally intervened. At thirty-three, Dave kicked the bucket. Bit the big one. Bought the farm. Gave up the ghost. Met his maker. Began pushing up daisies.

In other words: Dave died.

But to no one's surprise, it would soon turn out that it wasn't a higher power at play, after all. It was a lower – much, much lower – power guiding Dave all those years. And then suddenly, thanks to running a red light and crashing into an ill-placed semi-truck, Dave was finally where he truly belonged . . . for eternity.

Because when Dave arrived at the mouth of Hell (you didn't think it would be the Pearly Gates welcoming him, did you?), he saw a familiar face.

"Dad!" Dave exclaimed, as the fires of brimstone lapped at the laces of his Yeezies. "What the – uhm, this place – are you doing here?"

The older man with red-tinted skin, pointy, black horns, hipster goatee and a grin that could only be described as wicked, greeted him with a hug. "Funny story, actually." He stepped back and looked his son in the eye. "Surprise! I'm the Devil."

Dave frowned. "Is that why Mom left you when I was little?"

He shook his head. "She never knew, but you on the other hand were already quite the little psychopath by the time she bailed," the Devil said.

The young man scratched his temple. "Well, apparently my dad is Satan, so can you blame me?"

"Touché." His father slapped him on the back. "But enough chit-chat. Let me show you around."

With the help of a pitchfork poking him in the ribs, Dave jumped into the pit. It smelled of sulfur and the screams of the damned surrounded him from every side.

"Welcome home!" his dad exclaimed, spreading his arms to the desolate landscape. Glancing at Dave, he frowned. "You look sad, son. How about a joke?"

Dave waved him off, absent-mindedly following with his eyes a giant bird. Looking like a chickadee but a thousand times bigger, it swooped down from above and swallowed a naked man whole. Apparently, he was in a Hieronymous Bosch painting. "Nah, I'm good."

The Devil, however, either didn't hear him – Hell was kind of a noisy place with all the suffering and torment – or didn't care. "Two guys walk into a bar; the third one ducks," he said before bursting out laughing at the punch line. Puns were always his favorite.

Dave grimaced. "Yeah, just as expected."

His dad was undeterred. "Did you hear about the man who invented Lifesavers?" he asked as they continued to stroll, taking care not to step on the bones of the desolate.

"No, dad. I didn't." Dave rolled his eyes.

Satan could hardly hold back his laughter. "They say he made a mint." He slapped his knee and guffawed.

Dave sighed. "God, that's even more awful."

"Don't say His name here!" His dad exclaimed. "But that actually reminds me: do you know how they make holy water?"