#'everything's not on fire? oh this'll be a pinch!'

[generic-sonic-fan]

If you knew you were going to be lost in the wilderness and you have to pick one guy to help you survive, your first pick would be Knuckles but your second pick would be Silver. In this essay I will-

[positivelybeastly]

"So, my friend Jacob has a problem."

Tess doesn't so much as wait for Hank to reply, easing down into a seat across from him. The fire in the fireplace gives a merry little pop! as she stretches out her long legs.

"He's had it for a long time." Each word is delivered with the utmost earnestness, and she searches his face as she speaks, as if working up the nerve to ask for his wisdom. "It was starting to worry him to death. The good news is, he decided to do something about it and went to see Dr. Goldberg. He's off in Midtown, but--" she rolls her shoulder in a shrug. "I'm getting lost in the details."

She laces her fingers together, resting her hands on one thigh. "'Oy, doctor. Have I got a problem. Every night, when I get into bed, I think there's a supervillain under my bed ready to take me hostage. I'm going meshugga with fear. Please help me.'"

A slow, measured breath as she gathers her thoughts. "Well, the doctor promised to cure his phobia, but said it'd take time--and what's time with a therapist? You guessed it." One corner of her mouth turns down. "The cost of the sessions."

Another pop from the fireplace as a log collapses into a flurry of smoldering sparks. She turns her attention to the bright specks of firelight, watches them instead of Hank. "And they see each other months later at the bodega. The doctor asks Jacob, 'why didn't you decide to come back? Why didn't you let me help you?'"

Her lips thin. She gives a little grimace, regards Hank askance before her eyes skim back to the fireplace. "'Well, Dr. Goldberg, your fees are too high, and so were every other shrink I talked to.'"

It's true. Psychiatric help is prohibitively expensive. "'You know, my rabbit gave me the cure for nothing. I was so happy at saving all that money, I went to see my sister in Detroit'!"

A moment of silence. She raises one hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And of course, Dr. Goldberg asked, 'how did your rabbi cure you?'"

Now, there's a hint of lightness in her deep voice--just a hint that this might not turn out to be such a terrible story after all.

"'Easy'," my friend Jacob tells him, "'he told me to cut the legs off my bed. It's so low now, only Mr. Fantastic or Ant-Man can get under it."

Pop pop pop. Boy, that's a happy little fire!

Hank twigs that this is an extended joke set-up from almost moment one. No-one ever has a friend called Jacob. And no-one ever sits down and talks to people about their friend's problems. Occasionally, you might get an, 'so I have this friend that's very much not me,' but Hank's been a teacher long enough that he can tell when those are coming.

Still, he has faith in Tess' comedic ability, so he sits and makes the noises and the sounds and the facial twitches she desires. He has faith this'll be a good one.

Oh, supervillains? That's good, that's a decent remix, he thinks. He's going to have to go through his generic monster/nightmare/sleep paralysis demon material and see if he can apply that to older jokes he doesn't get to tell as often.

Are Kitty and Tess friends? He feels as though they should be. He's certain Kitty's told him a few jokes like this, though certainly not this one. He knows he's heard about this mysterious Dr. Goldberg enough to know he has a subpar waiting office and that, despite being a medical doctor, he often has to deal with patients treating him like a psychologist. Poor Dr. Goldberg.

He chuckles. It's a pretty decent joke. He could be a pedant and point out that you wouldn't want most versions of Yellowjacket or Black Ant under your bed, but that would very much ruin the cozy atmosphere they've got going. They have a happy little fireplace and everything.

How best to repay the joke?

Oh, he's got one.

He turns to face her, as erudite as you please, pince-nez perched at the end of his feline nose. Pinching it, even. Appropriate name for a style of glasses.

"You know, every now and then, I have to fill in for Logan when he's teaching World History, and when it comes time to teach about the early 20th century, I like to tell them this story. I think you'll like it."

"It concerns a political recruiter from the Italian Fascist Party arguing with a rural socialist that he should join the Fascist Party instead. “How can I,” said the potential recruit, “join your party? My father was a socialist. My grandfather was a socialist. I really cannot join the Fascist Party.”

He quirks a brow at Tess. A fairly reasonable, if traditionalist argument. Is this a joke about rural socialists? Hank might qualify, he's not exactly right wing and he grew up on a farm, though this isn't exactly a joke about chickens unionising, is it? Where's this going?

“What kind of an argument is this?” says the Fascist recruiter, reasonably enough - for a fascist." Hank is quick to clarify that fact. Reasonable for a fascist. "“What would you have done,” he asks the rural socialist, “if your father had been a murderer and your grandfather had also been a murderer? What would you have done then?”"

Hank leans back, astute, confident that he's won the argument. This is surely unassailable logic.

“Ah, then,” says the potential recruit, “then, of course, I would have joined the Fascist Party.”

Rimshot.