The Joke's on You

A story from The Twisted Realm

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

And now, let us enter a world of shadows, deceit, and illusion: Stanley's story awaits...

*****

Stanley undid his top button. The white-hot stage lights sizzled his sweat-soaked face as the crowd stared back at him. Their bored faces seemed to say, Either make us laugh or fuck off.

Come on, he told himself. Say something. “Is… is everyone having a good time?”

Their silence was their answer.

Think, you fucking loser, think!

“Okay,” he said, mopping his brow with his sleeve. “A bear walks into a bar. And he says, ‘Can I have a beer and… some peanuts?’ And the bartender says, ‘Hey, why did you take a big pause?’”

He stopped. Fuck.

“No, sorry — he says, ‘Why’ve you got such big paws?’”

FUCK! “Wait, no, uhm—”

“Alright!” The host burst onto the stage, fake-laughing and clapping with practiced enthusiasm. “Give it up, everyone, for Stanley McGill!”

No one clapped, save for one person — a lady with buck teeth and a wild perm, slamming her hands together like he was the best comedian she’d ever seen. Stanley squinted at her; was she mocking him, or just a weirdo?

With his head down, he marched off stage, the host’s voice filling the room. “Everyone get ready, because it’s almost time for the man himself. Prepare to be thrilled by The Amazing Dante!”

*****

Stanley slumped at the bar, jaw clenched as the crowd smacked their thighs and banged their tables in hysterics. One guy laughed so hard he fell out of his chair.

The last time he’d seen a crowd laugh this much was at his last gig. No, not during his routine — afterwards, when fucking Dante came on.

Fucking prick. He swirled his whiskey, glaring into the glass. How the hell does he have them eating out of his hand? Just a swish of his big black cloak and a flick of his stupid curly moustache, and they lose it.

The only person not laughing was that buck-toothed woman, still smiling over at him. She caught his eye and gave a double thumbs-up. He sighed and looked away. It’s always the ugly ones.

After an infuriatingly long standing ovation, complete with whoops and whistles, the giddy, half-drunk crowd poured out, chuckling and quoting Dante’s not-even-funny jokes.

Stanley couldn’t deny Dante had flare. The way he sauntered about the stage like he owned the place, playing to the crowd like they were all in on the joke. And that assistant of his, with her dazzling white teeth and legs that seemed to go on for days. But the jokes were crude and predictable, and his magic tricks — well, that’s all they were. Tricks. And yet the people ate it up.

“Another whiskey,” he barked at the bartender.

“Allow me.”

Stanley looked up to see Dante standing there, smirking down at him with his usual smug look — the one that said he knew something everyone else didn’t and was really, really pleased about it.

“I’ll get my own, thanks.”

“Please,” said Dante, patting him on the back with a little too much enthusiasm. “I owe you for warming up the crowd so well.”

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Not at all, friend!” Dante’s words sounded genuine, but that smirk suggested otherwise. “I thought you were… good. But audiences — they can be cruel. They smell nerves a mile off.”

Dante leaned in, hand gripping Stanley’s shoulder. “If you ever need help, I’d be happy to give you some pointers.”

Stanley shrugged him off. “My act is just fine, thanks.”

“Of course.” Dante straightened up, smile never faltering. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” And with a slight bow, he turned and disappeared through the exit.

Stanley huffed. Condescending prick. Then something caught his eye on the bar.

It was a book. Ornate, yet tattered, the front cover embossed with faded gold lettering:

Dante’s Magnificent Book of Jokes.

Stanley was about to call after Dante — then paused, another thought flickering through his mind.

Dante’s jokes weren’t funny, but somehow people loved them… and they hated his. He wouldn’t steal, just borrow the book for a while. It’d help him tweak his own act, give him ideas and inspiration. Maybe Dante had even left it on purpose, like some twisted kind of encouragement.

The bartender was busy polishing glasses. The place was empty.

Stanley glanced over his shoulder, heart racing. He grabbed the book and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

*****

Meet Stanley McGill, a man so desperate for success, that he’s willing to steal for it. Our friend Stanley’s about to learn that, in this world, there is a cost for everything, and by stealing a simple joke book, he just bought a one-way ticket to… The Twisted Realm.

*****

The crowd settled quickly, with only a few bothering to applaud in the first place. The microphone squeaked as Stanley adjusted it. “H—hi. How’s everybody doing?”

No one answered, but that didn’t phase him. They’d be laughing soon enough.

He pulled the book from his inside pocket. Last night, he’d folded all the pages of the jokes he liked best, the ones that were sure to crack them up. But when he opened the book at the first page, his excitement disappeared.

The page was blank.

Stanley frowned. Impossible.

He turned to the next page: Blank.

A knot formed in his stomach, his hand shaking as he thumbed through the pages.

Blank.

Blank.

All fucking blank.

Sweat soaked through his jacket. His lip trembled as he looked up at the expectant crowd, their sighs drowning out his thoughts.

Come on, Stanley. He’d told a hundred jokes on stage — surely he could remember one?

But all he could think of was fucking Dante. That sly bastard had done this on purpose to embarrass him, left him a trick book, one with vanishing ink or something — he wasn’t sure. Next time I see him, I’m gonna kill—

“Hurry up, buddy!” some asshole from the crowd shouted, sniggering with his friends. “We haven’t got all night!”

The predatory eyes of the audience were suffocating. That prick Dante was right; they could smell nerves. I’m such a fucking loser. He thought, lowering his head, hoping to vanish into the floor.

Suddenly, the page was no longer blank. Letters began to form, as if written by an invisible hand:

That wasn’t very nice of him, was it?

Stanley’s heart thudded in his chest. He blinked, shook his head. Surely this was some trick of the light, maybe a leftover from Dante’s sleight of hand. He rubbed his eyes, but the words didn’t disappear. If anything, they sharpened, like they were daring him to read further.

Why don’t you ask him his name?

His mouth went dry as he stared at the page, feeling an urge to throw the book away, to distance himself from this bizarre reality.

Do it. Let’s see how he likes all eyes on him.

The crowd’s restless murmurs swirled around him like a hungry storm. He looked up to see the man still sniggering, heavy jowls quaking as he leaned back in his chair.

“Wh—what’s your name?” Stanley blurted out, surprising even himself.

The spotlight dropped on the big man, lighting him up for the whole room to see. “Paul.” he said, his hands clasped across his belly, a smirk plastered on his face.

“N—nice to meet you, Paul.” Stanley said, glancing at the book, heart racing.

Well done, that was great! Now… make fun of him.

Stanley hesitated. He’d watched other comedians tear audience members apart, but it had never been his style. It always seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Go on. They’ll love it.

He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Okay. Here goes.

“Say, Paul… why are you in such a hurry for me to get started? Does McDonald’s close early tonight?”

The crowd went wild. The sound of their laughter rang in Stanley’s ears — he’d never heard anything like it. They do love it.

He turned back to the man, whose round face was now bright red. His “friends” were howling, pinching his love handles. But Stanley wasn’t done.

“Or are you just worried that your chair will collapse before the end of the show?”

The laughter was deafening. The applause rolled in like thunder, and for the first time in his life, he felt powerful.

Amazing! You’re a natural. Now, ask them if they wanna hear some jokes.

Suddenly, Stanley felt ten feet tall. He puffed out his chest as he grabbed the mic. “Now… whose ready for some jokes?”

The crowd cheered like they were at a sports game, their excitement feeding his newfound confidence.

Three Years Later

Stanley twitched as the makeup brush grazed his nose. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost,” the young makeup artist said — he hadn’t bothered to learn her name — as she ran the brush down his cheek.

“This better not be the same shit you used last time,” he grumbled, glancing at her in the mirror. “I had a rash for a week.”

“It’s a milder powder this time. Promise.” She dabbed his forehead lightly with a sponge before stepping back. “There. All done, sir.”

He waved her off with a curt nod as she left the room. “Finally.” Pulling the paper napkin from his collar, he turned back to the mirror and let his gaze linger, a grin stretching across his face. Success had polished away years of late-night gigs, hecklers, and doubts. Now, he looked like he belonged here.

“Funny and handsome.” he murmured, savoring the reflection, wondering if the old him would even recognize himself now.

“Funny and handsome, huh?”

He glanced up to see his wife standing in the doorway, and he had to pinch himself again. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d landed someone so far out of his league. When had it even started between them? Their first date was… what, a year ago? A year and change? He couldn’t quite remember, but with a wife like her, who cared?

She crossed the room and straddled him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Stanley took a deep breath, taking in her fruity perfume, the one he’d bought her on their honeymoon in Paris.

“I am so proud of you,” she whispered, grazing her lips over his ear as her silk dress rode up her thighs.

Stanley let out a soft sigh, his hands running down the perfect curves of her waist. She knew exactly how to drive him wild.

“Think we’ve got time?” she murmured, her fingers tracing along his belt buckle.

A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. “Two minutes, Mr. McGill,” his assistant called.

Stanley raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Two minutes? Plenty of time.”

She laughed and stroked his chest before standing up. “You shouldn’t keep your fans waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stanley’s grin faded a little. “You’re not staying for the show?”

She shook her head, smoothing her dress. “Sorry, baby. Early photoshoot tomorrow. But how about I make it up to you tomorrow night? I’ll cook your favorite meal, and then… maybe we do a little photoshoot of our own?”

Stanley’s grin returned. “I like the sound of that.”

She leaned down to kiss him, leaving a faint smudge of lipstick on his cheek. “Good luck tonight, baby. Knock ’em dead.”

*****

The crowd wouldn’t give up, hundreds of voices chanting in unison: “One more joke! One more joke!” The rhythm echoed, almost hypnotic, until it started to feel as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Stanley raised his hands, flashing a grin that hid the nerves bubbling inside. “Alright, alright! Just one more teeny, tiny joke.”

They cheered as if he’d announced he was paying off their mortgages. He pulled the book from his pocket, flipping to the next blank page. He’d learned by now that they didn’t stay blank for long.

One more, Stanley? Alright — how about a classic?

He chuckled, rolling his eyes as he saw the joke appear. “Come on,” he muttered, barely moving his lips. “Give me a real joke.”

That is a real joke! the words appeared, teasing him. Trust me — they’ll go nuts.

He hesitated, feeling the crowd’s expectant silence pressing down on him. They’ll go nuts? He shrugged. What harm could it do?

He lifted the mic. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

The tension was thick; the crowd leaned in, breath held, waiting for his punchline.

“To get to the other side!”

The laughter exploded like he’d never heard before. It roared up from every corner of the room, a cacophony so loud and sudden it made Stanley flinch. And still, it grew. It was unsettling — frantic, even. Some were doubled over, clutching their sides as if the joke was ripping through them.

Stanley forced a laugh himself, watching one man in the front row collapse onto his knees, tears streaming down his face. Then, he saw something glint in the stage light — a trickle of red on the man’s chin. Stanley’s laugh died in his throat.

He froze. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing to the man. “Somebody help him!”

But no one reacted. The crowd was still clapping, cheering, their faces frozen in rapture as the man slumped forward, blood spilling from his mouth.

Stanley stumbled off the stage, dropping to his knees beside him. “Hey, buddy — are you okay?” He rolled the man over, his breath hitching as he looked into empty, staring eyes.

The man was dead.

*****

It happened again the next night, and then every single night after that.

The final joke was always the same — a different punchline each night, yet just as awful as the last. And still, the audience ate it up, laughing like they couldn’t help it. But there was always one who laughed too hard. One who didn’t make it home.

Stanley knew it was coming, felt it rise up like a compulsion he couldn’t control. The punchline slid out, word for word, before he even knew he was saying it. And every time, another poor bastard dropped dead.

That damn book. It had given him everything — his career, his new life — and now it was holding him hostage. He’d thought of throwing it away. But then what? He’d be back to square one, a nobody in a world that had already moved on.

Not tonight. Tonight will be different, he promised himself, his hands trembling just out of sight as he stood at the edge of the stage. When the moment comes, he’ll resist, no matter how much that cursed book tries to pull him in. I can do this.

“Are you ready, Mr. McGill?” his assistant asked, but he barely heard it. The only sound was the pounding of his own heart.

“Out of my way,” he snapped, brushing past him and stepping onto the stage before his name was even announced.

*****

Stanley wiped his brow, forcing a smile as he waved to the cheering crowd. “You’ve been a terrific audience,” he said, gripping the mic so tight his knuckles turned white. “Thank you, and good night.” He turned to march offstage, desperate to escape before the inevitable.

“One more joke, one more joke!” The chant started with a few voices, then spread through the crowd like wildfire.

His heart thudded as he quickened his pace. Just ignore them, he told himself, but their chants grew louder, stabbing into his thoughts. They weren’t just asking for another joke; they were demanding it, their faces twisted with a fierce, almost manic expectation, hands clapping and feet stamping in unison. They looked less like fans and more like an unruly mob, ready to riot.

“One more joke, one more joke!”

He clapped his hands over his ears, breaking into a near-run toward the exit.

Then he froze. A red-hot sensation seared through his chest. He gasped, clutching at his coat pocket. The book. It felt like it was branding him, burning through the fabric and straight into his skin. Trembling, he yanked it out, holding it in both hands like a bomb he couldn’t throw away.

The book lay cool and calm against his palms, already open to the next blank page. Words began to form:

Ready for one last joke, Stanley?

“One more joke, one more joke!”

Stanley’s stomach lurched as he tried to whisper, “No, please…not again.” His voice was a ragged plea, barely audible over the pounding crowd.

Relax, the book wrote in a mocking script. We don’t have to do a final joke tonight, not if you don’t want to.

Relief washed over him, so potent he almost laughed. “Thank you,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Thank you…”

The book’s next line was written in a cool, steady hand.

Instead, how about you point to someone in the crowd, and tell them to kill themselves?

The chant surged again, louder than ever. “One more joke! One more joke!”

Stanley’s hand began to shake uncontrollably. “No…no, please!” He could feel his own voice splintering as he tried to resist. “Don’t make me do this!”

Do it. Now.

Stanley’s index finger started to twitch, almost of its own accord, like a puppet on a string. He tried to will it back down, but it was stuck in place, rigid and unmoving. Slowly, his arm began to rise, moving against his will. With a desperate cry, he brought his other arm across, trying to force it down while still clinging to the book, but his muscles strained helplessly.

His arm jerked forward, extending over the audience, his finger pointing at someone in the third row. “You,” he heard himself say, his voice hollow and robotic.

A young woman in the crowd gasped, her face lighting up. She grinned, her cheeks flushed as she looked around, realizing he’d chosen her. Her husband gave her a playful nudge, laughing with excitement, oblivious to the real horror unfolding.

“Who, me?” she giggled, blushing.

The crowd fell silent.

Stanley bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood, but it didn’t stop the words that crawled out from his throat. “K-Kill…”

He forced a scream, wrenching his arm back with all his might. He had to stop this.

In a frenzy, he took the book in both hands and began ripping pages from it, scattering them across the stage. He tore and tore until the stage was littered with paper fragments, dropping the empty spine to the floor, panting as if he’d run a marathon.

The audience stared at him, wide-eyed, gasping and whispering among themselves. This wasn’t what they had come for. His career was likely ruined, but he didn’t care. At least no one else had to die tonight.

One last page drifted down and landed at his feet. As he stared down at it, words began to bleed across the paper in deep, inky strokes.

Someone has to die, Stanley.

The audience began to laugh again. At first, just a few sniggers echoed in the dark, quickly swelling into chuckles, and then a rapturous, howling roar.

Stanley looked up. The front row had risen from their seats, their bodies stiff as they climbed onto the stage. Knives gleamed in their hands, and their eyes shone with a manic light.

Stanley staggered back, trembling as he watched the knife-wielding crowd approach, their twisted smiles growing wider with each step, their blades aimed directly at him. His heart thundered. “N-no. No!” He tried to retreat, but his heel caught on a torn-out page, and he slipped, landing hard on his back.

“Please, no!” He raised a shaking hand in a feeble attempt to shield himself, his vision spinning as shadows blocked out the stage lights. The circle of the bloodthirsty crowd closed in around him. They raised their knives in unison, faces contorted with glee.

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut. “Nooo—!”

The laughter grew distorted, loud, almost echoing inside his skull. Then, piercing through the chaos, came a familiar voice, sharp and mocking: “Three, two, one… you’re back in the room.”

Stanley’s eyes flew open. He was back on stage, standing, the terrifying scene vanished. A smaller audience sat before him, laughing and clapping in a slow, sarcastic rhythm. Blinking, disoriented, he looked around, struggling to make sense of it all.

Then he saw her, standing on the stage with him, just a few feet away. His beautiful, radiant wife, laughing and applauding him with a look that seemed just a bit… mocking.

He stumbled toward her, reaching out. “Darling, what the hell is—”

But as he drew closer, her features started to shift, as if peeling away. His breath caught as the illusion dissolved. Where his wife had been, now stood a woman who looked just like her — same perfect curves, same luscious lips, same smoky eyes. Only it wasn’t his wife.

It was Dante’s assistant. It had been her all along.

A cold chill seeped into his bones. Every smile, every laugh, every precious moment together. It had all been a joke; a cheap façade with a sniggering stranger.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, firm and possessive. “Stanley, you’ve been a fantastic sport,” Dante’s voice purred beside him, smug and gleeful.

Stanley turned, his heart sinking. No way.

The prick was sneering at him, clearly savoring Stanley’s confusion. “Everybody, give a big round of applause for Stanley!” he called, gesturing to the crowd. “Go back to your seat, friend. Enjoy the rest of the show with your lovely wife.”

Stanley stared at him, disoriented. “My… wife?”

He looked out at the audience and saw a single empty chair… right beside the buck-toothed woman with the wild perm.

No.

The woman wore a hideous grin, and was waving him over like an old friend. Is that really my wife?

In a daze, he walked off the stage. He sank into the seat, feeling as if he were falling, the room spinning as the woman gripped his thigh. “Oh honey, that was the funniest thing I ever saw!”

*****

Stanley leaned on the counter and filled his glass with another whiskey, his so-called wife’s stupid voice echoing from the other room. “Oh, you should have seen him!” she said, guffawing down the phone to her friend. “Waltzing around the stage, telling shitty jokes like he was the star of the show.”

He drained his glass and immediately filled it again. Does she ever shut the fuck up?

“He even tried it on with Dante’s gorgeous assistant. Ha! Like he’d ever have a chance with her.”

Stanley’s jaw clenched, tears filling his eyes. Up until an hour ago, he believed that gorgeous assistant was his wife. His beautiful, perfect wife. He believed he was a star, rich and famous, with an extravagant mansion and a fleet of luxury cars.

He believed he had it all.

But now, reality had sunk in. He lived in a smelly, mold-infested apartment with his mutant of a wife. He was a nobody. A loser.

His wife wrapped up her call and came into the kitchen. “Oh, I needed that tonight.” she said, still fucking giggling as she shuffled over to the fridge.

“Glad you enjoyed yourself.” he muttered.

She turned and tilted her head. “Aww, sweetie! Did you not like being made fun of?” she said in a mocking baby voice. As if her regular voice wasn’t irritating enough. She grabbed a beer from the fridge, opened it with her teeth, and took a big, wet slurp.

Stanley’s nose twitched in disgust. Was he really so much of a loser that he’d settled for this — for her? He closed his eyes, trying to picture his supermodel wife, but the image was already fading like a dream slipping away.

She rummaged in the cupboard and pulled out an already-opened bag of pork rinds, stuffing a fistful into her mouth. She grinned, exposing those awful teeth as she crunched and chewed, crumbs scattering onto her chin. With another slurp of beer, she belched, waving the smell toward him like an insult. Stanley shook his head, feeling sick. What a disgusting creature she is.

“I’m sorry for laughing so much… but you should have seen it!”

Stanley’s vision blurred, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “Shut up.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she said, her laughter finally subsiding. “I’ll stop. I promise. But can I ask you something?”

“What?”

A smirk twitched at her mouth, and for a second, he saw nothing but goofy teeth and mocking eyes. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

She exploded into laughter again, bending over, choking on crumbs, spraying bits of beer-infused pork rind across the floor. Her laugh was shrill and piercing, a grating noise that filled every inch of the tiny, foul-smelling kitchen. Stanley’s blood pounded in his ears. Enough was enough.

“I said SHUT UP!” His hand whipped out, slapping the bag of pork rinds from her grip, scattering them everywhere. Before he knew it, both hands were at her throat, squeezing, fingers digging in.

Her eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish, those buck teeth catching the light. She fought, kicking and clawing at him, trying to reach the beer bottle to smash it over his head, but he was stronger, rage surging through his veins as he slammed her head against the wall. “You… stupid… fucking… ugly… bitch!”

The fight drained from her limbs, her eyes going dull, distant.

He let her crumple to the floor. Then he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the counter and slumped beside her, taking a long swig, hoping to wash away every memory of the night. He wanted to forget everything — every laugh, every whisper, every damn moment. It was all just a sick joke.

*****

Red and blue lights pulsed against the dirty walls as officers led Stanley out in handcuffs. He squinted, wincing against the flashing lights, whiskey muddling his thoughts. He remembered calling them but couldn’t recall what he’d said. It didn’t matter now.

They pushed him into the back of the squad car, his head bumping against the roof as he struggled to sit up. The door slammed, and a shadow appeared outside the window. An officer leaned down, knocking on the glass.

Stanley’s stomach twisted. It was Dante.

Gone was the sleek black suit and signature cloak. Now he wore a police uniform, but his smirk and mocking eyes were unmistakable.

Stanley froze, his breath hitching as some of the pieces fell haphazardly into place. None of it had been real. Or maybe all of it had?

"You!" he shouted, banging his head against the glass. "You fucking bastard, what have you done to me?" He screamed and thrashed, his wrists biting against the cuffs, blood pounding in his temples.

Dante gave a lazy wave, fingers wriggling as if to say goodbye, as the squad car pulled away.

*****

There is no shortcut to the top, and jealousy can drive you to madness if you let it. Our friend Stanley crossed the road, and must now face his punishment; a life sentence in The Twisted Realm.