Laugh or Die.

(P.S. This is the promised sequel to Speak of The Devil’s Daughter)

‘Hey! I find your daughter and you put me in here?’ I shouted and rattled the bars of my cell. Nobody paid me any attention.

As you folks following my huge embarrassment of a life may have recalled, my day was hijacked a few days ago by an ice-cream stealing daughter of the Devil. And after she had left, her devilish father had appeared in all his bell-bottomed glory, giving me his name card and making me promise to call him as soon as I spotted the ice-cream thief again.

I mean, could you refuse Satan anything? He’d probably reduce me to a grease spot on the floor, only to have my mother spray Mold-Away on me.

And true to my words, once I spotted Satan’s daughter again, I had phoned the Bell-Bottomed One, whose number bore an uncanny resemblance to the Fibonacci Sequence and pi. (How’d you even get Wi-Fi in Hell?) It worked though, and in a few minutes a SWAT team (That stands for Satan’s Wicked And Tortured) arrived post-haste, only to arrest me and Satan’s daughter.

Five minutes later, I found myself in a prison in Hell. What can I say about Hell? It was hot. And depicted very gory scenes, which is probably why children don’t go to Hell. It’s probably NC-34 over there.

And since I hadn’t gotten a permit to leave Hell (which can be obtained in Heaven, I learned from the SWAT team), I was to be stuck there for a long, long time.

If only I hadn’t bought ice-cream a few days ago.

Luckily for me, a fat dude popped up next to the six SWAT members, who were guarding my cell. (Honestly, do I need that much guards? Am I such a threat?) The SWAT team shouted in alarm and raised their pitchforks, but Fat Dude snapped his fingers. As if on cue, all the guards went crazy. One grabbed the dude next to him and began to waltz with him. The third guard began to breakdance wildly in perfect synchronicity with the fourth guard, who was doing ballet. The fifth and six guards burst into tribal dance moves.

In all, it was pure chaos.

Fat Dude turned to me. He had curly black hair, small beady eyes and a potbelly the size of a watermelon. He was wearing a garish purple shirt and shorts, which was so short they were practically boxer shorts. Without a word, he tapped the lock and the door swung open.

‘It won’t be long before the guards revert back to normal,’ Fat Dude warned.

‘Father doesn’t like me doing permanent damage. I’ll have to write a report to the Board of Ethics.’

I was still confused. Who was this fat man, whose dad permitted him to run around causing jailbreaks and temporary madness? Before I could ask anything, Fat Dude snapped his fingers and the world spun.

I found myself in the ruins of an ancient Greek theatre with no memory of landing. The Theatre of Dionysus. I’d seen it in photographs. Fat Dude stood next to me, holding a goblet of wine.

‘Have some?’ he offered. Another goblet shimmered into existence in his other hand and filled itself with red wine.

‘I’m underage,’ I muttered. I had no desire to drink wine or beer after I hit the drinking age though. They taste horrible. I have no idea why grown-ups enjoy them so much.

He shrugged and the second goblet disappeared. ‘Well, don’t you have anything to say to me, boy?’

Firstly, I’m not a boy. I’m sixteen. Boys refer to males under the age of 12. Or that’s how I like to think.

I wondered if that was what he wanted me to say.

‘Um . . . thank you?’ I briefly asked myself if grovelling was needed. I restrained myself to.

‘Well, words aren’t enough. And my help comes with a price. Do you know who I am, boy?’ he questioned, already on his third glass of wine.

I racked my brain. Wine . . . madness . . .

What happened next, I owe it to Rick Riordan.

‘Dionysus! You’re Dionysus!’ I blurted. (Reading those Percy Jackson books really paid off.)

He smirked. ‘Finally, it comes to your small mortal mind. Yes, I am Dionysus, god of wine and madness, though I much prefer Lord Dionysus.’

And what happened next, I owe it to Steve Rogers.

‘There’s only one God, and I’m sure He doesn’t dress like that,’ I mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m not actually a god. That’s a misnomer. I belong to a race of superpowerful immortal beings who call themselves Olympians.’

So . . . a superpowerful fat dude who could make wine from air and drive people insane? Why not? My mind just expanded to fit all the weirdness in.

‘I recalled saying that my help comes with a price, yes?’

‘Um, yes.’ I didn’t like how he said price.

‘Well, you can make me laugh!’ he declared.

‘And . . . what if I can’t make you laugh?’ I ventured.

Dionysus’s bright smile lost some of its wattage. ‘Well, then I’ll have to kill you for disappointing me.’

‘I’ll do it!’ I said immediately.

‘Excellent! I’ll give you an hour to prepare. See you later!’

He vanished in thin air, leaving the smell of grapes.

While Dionysus did whatever Olympians did in their free time, I paced the ancient theatre, trying to think of something entertaining. Humor isn’t exactly my strong point.

That was when the second Olympian appeared. In fact, I had already gotten used to beings popping out of nowhere, so I was able to sufficiently control my heart rate. Lean, tall and muscled, he had tousled hair the color of rust, large blue eyes and wore a postman’s uniform, which accentuated his wiry frame. Tucked beneath an arm was a postman’s cap with two little dove wings. I also noticed his black boots had two wings each too. He held a parcel in his hands.

This was obvious. ‘Hermes,’ I tried to sound reverent.

He nodded. ‘Parcel for you,’ he said as he thrust the package into my hands. As I fumbled with it, he produced a signature pad. ‘Sign here, please.’

My mom had told me not to accept things from strangers, but I got the feeling that if superpowerful beings wanted to give me things, I had better accept.

After I picked up the pen (which had two metal snakes coiled around the pen’s barrel) and signed, Hermes disappeared in a flash of golden light.

I ripped open the parcel a little too hastily. In there was a carefully wrapped bottle of something and some small parts of equipment. The label on the bottle read N₂O.

Nitrous oxide. Laughing gas.

There was even a manual on how to assemble a portable laughing gas system.

I set to work.

An hour later, Dionysus arrived. ‘Well, hello there!’ he beamed at me.

Easy for him to smile. He wasn’t facing execution.

‘Ah . . . hi to you too.’ I connected the last two tubes. Hopefully I hadn’t misread the manual. If I had, things would go really wrong.

‘Well, I trust that you have something planned out?’ he enquired.

‘Well, yes, I do.’ Then I pulled the oldest trick since God created the universe. ‘Look over there!’

Despite being immortal, Dionysus apparently had little experience. He waddled around, doing a full 180-degree turn. I took that chance to lunge at him and strap the mask on, before hitting the release button. As the laughing gas entered his Olympian constitution, I began to tickle him in all the sensitive spots known to man. (My mother taught me all the best areas for tickles.)

Dionysus began to shudder at first. Then he began to giggle a little.

Then it blew into a belly laugh.

‘HAHAHAHA! Stop! Stop!’ he chortled. I relented as he stooped, catching his breath and pulling off the mask.

‘So, do I win?’ I offered.

‘Why, yes you do. The Olympians favor you, boy,’ he chuckled. He snapped his fingers and I was in my room, back at home. The only difference was a small card in my hand.

It read,

We’ll meet again. For there is a price for Olympian help.

Emblazoned on the card was a caduceus staff, the symbol of Hermes.

I groaned.