Chapter 4
Achmed's Awkward Agreement
Achmed, usually focused on his own brand of humor, overhears Walter's complaints. He finds himself nodding along, a flicker of shared anxiety about relevance passing between the undead terrorist and the grumpy old man.
Achmed the Dead Terrorist, a creature of habit and meticulously crafted punchlines, found himself adrift in the backstage currents of the latest tour. His usual routine involved a quiet contemplation of his own mortality – a surprisingly frequent and, for him, rather mundane occurrence – interspersed with the occasional practice of his famously ill-advised material. But lately, the air had been thick with something other than stale theatrical dust and the faint aroma of Jeff’s questionable backstage snacks. It was the hum of discontent, a low thrum originating, he suspected, from the vicinity of Walter’s perpetually furrowed brow.
He’d been lingering near the makeshift dressing room, a cramped space overflowing with props and the ghosts of performances past, ostensibly to polish his scimitar (a process that involved more existential musing than actual buffing). But his auditory sensors, honed by years of listening for the tell-tale sounds of approaching danger, were picking up more than just the distant roar of the crowd. He heard Walter. And Walter, as usual, was complaining.
“It’s the same ol’ tired garbage, Jeff,” Walter’s gravelly voice rasped, a sound like rocks tumbling down a dry well. “You think people wanna hear about my bladder issues again? My grandkids are getting embarrassed, and frankly, so am I. I’m an icon, not a geriatric punchline.”
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