A faceless voice speaks from the other side of the bathroom stall.

"You wanna hear a joke?"  The voice sounds quivery, almost as if its owner is struggling not to break into uncontrollable cackles.

I shrug, standing over the toilet.  Not too strange a question in a club full of drunks.  "Why not?"

"Are you sure?  It’s a little sick; I made it up myself."

That is strange, creepy even, but I nod, not terribly shaken.  "Go ahead."

"Okay, what’s the difference between a Ferrari and 300 dead whores?"

I immediately don’t care for this joke.  But I shrug, eager to let the guy tell his punch line and exit my life.  "I don’t know, what’s the difference?"

"There’s not a Ferrari in my garage."

The bathroom door opens and as I turn my head to see the man leaving, the boom of a heavy baseline thumps from the speakers outside.  The sound vibrates through the stall, rattling the toilet, buzzing though the floor and humming into my skull.  I see the back of a red baseball cap with the ends of dark hair sticking out.  The guy is of average height and build, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a brown suede jacket.  Then he’s gone, lost behind the closed bathroom door.

I zip up and wash, feeling creeped out.  I hear the man repeating his joke in my head as I exit the bathroom.  I look in all directions but don’t spot him among the masses of wall-to-door people.  I see several people dressed in jeans and sneakers, maybe a few in brown jackets—hard to tell in the dim and pulsing dance lights—but I see no one in a red baseball cap; no one in a hat of any kind.  Then I remember: hats are prohibited here.

There’s not a Ferrari in my garage.

I look left, the direction the voice seems to come from and see only masses of people, pressing in, drinking, chatting, and ignoring me.  I curse my buddy Jack for leaving me and wish I’d left when he did.

There’s no loyalty in Jack.  The minute he gets a chance for tail, he vanishes.  What should I expect?  This is the biggest meat market on the west side.  That was the reason we’d come.  I suppose I stayed hoping to get lucky myself.

Looking around, that hope renews itself; girls are everywhere.  Pretty, shapely young women in varying states of intoxication; sweaty, heavenly bodies swaying and undulating to the music.

That’s why he came here, I think and shiver.  I don’t know why I think such a thing but I know who I’m thinking of.

"The Giggle Man," I whisper and move toward the bar, deciding I need a strong drink.

A serial killer from the 70’s, Bryan Keel stalked the city for two years, preying on pretty coeds.  Young and attractive himself, he earned his nickname for his twisted sense of humor; he told jokes.  If his victims laughed, he might not torture them as severely.  He’d forced them to tell jokes too and had even let a few go when they made him laugh.

But he was executed years ago, I think, moving toward the bar. 

I can’t help noticing all the beautiful girls as I trudge forward, moving through the masses as if lumbering through chest-high swamp mud.

There’s not a Ferrari in my garage.

I laugh.  I don’t even have a garage, only an old storage shed in back of the house I rent.  Couldn’t fit 300 whores in there.

Even if I chopped them up.

And I certainly don’t drive a Ferrari, only a beat-up Honda Accord.  I laugh again.  The guy’s joke is starting to make sense as I sidle to the bar.

The bartender steps up.  A smoky, transparent image, like a smiling face, appears over his features and then rises up like a thread of cold vapor expanding from a piece of frozen meat before disappearing into the bar.

"You wanna hear a joke?"

I blink.  "What?"

"I said, you want something?"  His dark eyes are intense, impatient.

I nod dreamily.  "Yeah, gin and tonic, double please."

I sit there sipping my drink, still listening to that twisted joke play in my head, weaving a peculiar rhythm between the dance beats.  A slight grin forms on my face but no one notices.  In those shifting, glowing lights, everyone looks the same.  I concentrate on the joke harder.  I can appreciate its humor now, but it seems incomplete.  It’s missing something.  I can make it better.

But how?

Then, as I notice the pretty young blond moving up beside me, the answer comes like an epiphany.  What’s funnier than 300 dead whores?

301 dead whores of course.

I know this girl.  Andrea.  She dated a friend of a friend or some damn thing and she accepts my offer to buy her a drink.

We chat a bit, sipping our drinks and shouting in each other’s ears.  All the while, I’m planning the end of the evening, thinking of the fun when we get back to my place and finally, she agrees to leave with me.

We walk out to my car.

There’s not a Ferrari in my garage.

Out to my beat-up old Honda Accord.

I laugh as we get in and lock the doors.

"What’s so funny?" she giggles.  Her blue eyes dance and sparkle.  God, I realize suddenly, she’s beautiful.

A huge, dangerous grin spreads across my face.  My skin feels close to cracking.  Then I shift into a serious, almost conspiratorial expression.  My voice is a gleeful, husky whisper.

"You wanna hear a joke?"