Diggory Dunn was any normal guy when you saw him walking down the street or sitting in a bar. He appeared normal, as everyone does, and had virtually the same, basic, American tastes. He didn’t care for fancy imports from France and Italy. He didn’t much favor British tea-time or Spanish bullfights. He was an all around normal person, but with a great fondness for a good beer and humorous friends. That was, I suppose, before he had his little incident. It’s hard to say…can you be the same way when you’re dead?

Of course, it was really any other day: lunch at the bar with a game or two raging across the screen. It was rainy out, and I much preferred the rain. Sometimes the sun becomes too cheery or bright. It can be almost depressing. But there we all were, Diggory Dunn, a fellow from Finklestein Law Offices, a burly man who claimed he was the best hunter in the world and that he wrestled the lions of Africa, and a small, twiggy fellow who worked at the local lingerie store downtown. There was of course me, but I was sitting in the corner, where the table was up against the wall. We were all playing poker.

Diggory and the burly man had quite a pile. The twiggy man was moderate, but I could tell he was saving up for a big win. Me and that Finklestein fellow were nearly empty when the burly man threw down his hand. Diggory smiled slyly as the big man declared ‘Full House!’.

“Royal Flush! Ha, take that you, Darius!” Diggory yelled.

Darius grumbled, and shoved his pieces to Diggory. Diggory cackled a bit, and clawed for his wealth.

“Well, what from you, Stallone?”

The twiggy man looked up from his hand, and blinked behind his dainty spectacles.

“Well, what?” he said.

“C’mon, lay out your cards.”

“Well, I don’t think I can offer much,” he squeaked

Diggory just grinned, and beckoned again. Stallone looked perplexed, and blinked his eyes down his hooked nose. Stallone is the kind of man who reminds you of those butlers in murder movies. They seem to be completely harmless, but there’s always a hidden vengeance. Stallone scratched his nose lightly, and smoothed his hair back a bit.

“Well, alright, Diggory, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Stallone laid out his hand, and came out with five aces. Diggory looked completely appalled, and he began to blink like Stallone. He was awful quiet a moment as he was staring at those five cards. Then he began to laugh hysterically. Stallone jumped, and Darius just rolled his eyes.

Diggory had his mouth opened up to the ceiling. He looked like one of those hinge-jawed cartoons, and I swear, you could see his tonsils shaking in the back of his mouth. It made you shiver to look at something like that, but Diggory just guffawed and snorted, thinking the aces a joke. If it was a joke, it was supposedly very funny. Diggory slapped the table, slapped his hand right onto the aces, and just giggled and cackled.

I wasn’t sure what to think, but I sat there, me and Finklestein in a corner, and zipped my lips tightly. I couldn’t say or do anything but sit there and be silent. Darius snickered, and scratched his big chest. Stallone had his lips drawn together tightly, staring down his vulture-beak nose. I suppose he wasn’t playing a trick.

Diggory began to calm down a bit, and took a sip of beer, but he looked down at the aces while doing so, and beer came spewing out his nose. I think that that was the only time I ever saw beer coming out of anything other than a bottle. Darius munched on a few crackers, and wiped the table with his napkin. From beside me, I began to hear Finklestein…snore? By golly, how long had that bastard been asleep? I roused him with a hard kick, and he started awake.

Diggory tilted his head at that weird angle again, and I could just see those round little tonsils shaking in the back of his mouth. He must have been laughing so hard. By now, the bartender had stopped cleaning a shot glass with his towel. He stared, bewildered, at Diggory. Diggory Dunn, the laughing bastard. Stallone just sat, his mouth puckered tightly, and flared his nostrils. Finklestein, half-asleep, got up to use the bathroom while poor old Diggory had his little fit. The poor bastard was laughing so hard now.

Then, it happened. Diggory suddenly gagged as he tilted his head back again. He spluttered and coughed, his tongue hanging out in a spray of saliva. Darius stood up, and grabbed the poor chap by his waist, thrusting his fists into Diggory’s stomach. Diggory only spluttered, spraying the whole table with his efforts.

“C’mon now, Dunn. Spit the little bugger out,” Darius groaned.

“But…I…c-an’t,” Diggory gasped.

Darius thrust harder now, but poor old Digory’s face began to turn purple, and he grew faint and limp. Darius clenched his great, square jaw as he was determined to thrust out whatever it was Diggory had swallowed. Diggory’s eyes bugged, and he slid between Darius’ fists. He lay on his side, most probably dead, and something small, round and fleshy rolled out of his mouth.

“What the Hell?!” Stallone uttered.

Finklestein came wallowing back in his deranged state. He stopped short as the little fleshy thing rolled up to the toe of his shoe like a stray olive. He picked it up, and looked it over quite carefully, feeling it as it dripped. He sniffed it, and, this is a gruesome detail, he rolled his tongue over it. He smacked his lips, and shivered.

“Oh…the p-poor bug-g-ger sWALLOWed ‘is dear little t-tunsole,” he said. I realized that he was actually quite drunk.

Darius snorted and said, “His what?”

“’Is tunsole… Yew know…tha’ little roundish pair of b-balls in the backa yer mouf.”

“Oh my…poor old Diggory swallowed his own balls. What a chap!” exclaimed Stallone.

“WHAT?!” Darius cried.

Stallone glanced at Darius, and squeaked, “The man’s swallowed his tonsils!”

And that is the story of the laughing tonsils. I never knew a man could do that, but I suppose that too much laughter is the wrong medicine. Diggory Dunn got famous just for that, but fame had been one of his goals in life, and he got it. I don’t know if he was quite happy with that or not, but he had his own little humorous death, which is what he would have wanted. And a small, gruesome note of the story: as we left the bar with our little black umbrellas, I thought of what old Finklestein had done with that tonsil. As he walked past me, I noted a wry little crooked smile on his face. By golly, the poor bugger!