The Legacy of Laughter

Elara found herself in a peculiar predicament, as peculiar as a flamingo attempting to tap-dance on a greased watermelon. She was, by all accounts, a member of a secret society. Not a shadowy cabal bent on world domination, mind you, but a fellowship dedicated to… well, to something that involved a lot of humming, peculiar hats, and an astonishing amount of glitter. The Society of the Perpetual Chuckle, as she’d come to affectionately (and somewhat bewilderedly) call them, had welcomed her with open arms and a rather startling amount of confetti.

“So,” she’d asked the Society’s Representative, a being whose gender remained as fluid as a well-made custard, during their last, bewildering encounter, “this whole… tradition. It’s about preserving something?”

The Representative had blinked, a slow, deliberate movement that suggested centuries of thoughtful contemplation, or perhaps just a very dry eye. “Preservation is but a single facet, Elara, like a perfectly polished facet on a gem that also happens to be a rubber chicken.”