The Lunatic Fringe.

“You know when you have to suck your dad's cock?” The kid started, confident, smiling broadly, trying too hard yet not trying hard enough. The audience were as young as he and liked the opening. He was getting laughs.

McKenzie was not surprised but he'd seen enough. 30 seconds and twenty quid down the drain. This was not what he was looking for. The whole festival had been disappointing, from the desperate mid-life crisis fathers doing their “greatest hits” revival tours to the fresh-faced newbies with their mortgaged haircuts being taken for a ride by the business. He'd seen nothing worth remarking on. Even his favourite sweating alcoholic misanthrope seemed to be struggling with his craft. He didn't know why he kept coming to Edinburgh. The cliché was that it was all becoming too commercial but the cliché was true. Comedians sponsored by corporate interests were merely entertainers, they did not belong to the line of Fools, of Bards and Shaman.

McKenzie believed true comedy was something transgressive and transformative, something that so tore apart your conceptions that it made you laugh at your own and humanity's absurd nature. A true comedian could, with the right phrases and timing, destroy a person, a belief, even a tradition. To McKenzie a true comic was the only person who had the talent to utterly destroy an idea; to deride it and mock it until it became an obvious embarrassment even to those who held it. In former times that had been a much easier task before moral relativism and the erosion of any coherent cultural values and identity.

Comedians still might be a danger to the monoliths of Islam or China's Communist Oligarchy but in the West it had become an expectation for comedians to be shocking. Not transgressive, no-one really particularly valued social taboos so any attempt to shatter them had little impact. Nothing was sacred, everything was fair game and despite the occasional brouhaha from the red-top retard rags, comedians were practically impotent. They'd become part of the establishment rather than being the outsiders. This had lead to the festival being little more than a trade event, where spoilt wannabes straight out of college plied their words in the vain hope of getting their own T.V. show or at least a regular seat on a topical panel show.

He missed the kid's punchline, it didn't matter. McKenzie left the theatre, lit a cigarette and walked to the “artists only” beer garden at the bottom of the hill. He spotted his friend Paul Monk fucking about on his phone and went and sat down beside him. “Alright Paul, how's it been?”

“Total shit mate, played to fifteen people last night.” Monk complained.

“Damn, sorry to hear that.” McKenzie winced, while trying to spot a passing waiter.

“I wouldn't mind as much but that fuck Dickie Dixon's sold out every show. I swear this is my last year.” Paul said. He looked tired, no, disappointed. The sort of look when one realised one is wasting too much time and money. Paul was popular though, he was sure to break even, at the very least.

McKenzie nodded. It had become a mantra for Monk and for many others but hardly anyone every actually did it. Monk would be back the following year, pissing money down the drain on the gamble that he might get some good reviews and perhaps even be able to make good cash on a subsequent nationwide tour. Video at Christmas. He was doing alright was Paul. McKenzie didn't say any of that though, instead he joined in with the growl against Dickie Dixon. “Dixon, jeezus that guy is a right fucking hack. How the fuck did he ever get so popular?”

“He appeals to the mentality of eight year olds, so as you can imagine the press love the cunt.” Monk said before parodying Dixon's well worn catchphrase. “I'm not sayin' it's right, but it's trooo!”

It was a good impersonation and a few people from other tables caught it and laughed. This cheered Monk up slightly and he asked “So where were you?”

“Oh I just nipped in to see Chas Russell.” McKenzie said, dismay apparent.

“Shit then?” Monk laughed.

“Yeah, he's trying too hard to be edgy, his timing is woeful and if he didn't have that stupid haircut and big white teeth he'd be playing to a mirror.”

“I hear that. Were we that bad when we started?”

McKenzie knew the answer. “Christ Paul, we were a lot worse.” He admitted.

Monk nodded, “Yeah but at least we were trying something new, these kids are playing it too safe.”

McKenzie shrugged. “Ah good luck to them, it's where the money is eh?”

“Sure. Christ, we're bitter old fuckers eh?”

“Perhaps, perhaps we're just jaded. I do long to see something funny, something different though, y'know?”

“Indeed I do. Remember that guy who did that great bit about the book of Genesis being a bad attempt at writing a porn movie? What was he called?”

“Martin Ronson. He had promise that one.”

“Aye, what happened to him?”

“He's acting in a soap opera, has been for nearly a decade now. Good money.”

“Poor bastard.” Paul Monk sighed. “Ten years eh? That long?”

“Aye, noo it's aw, same old same old.” McKenzie nodded.

“Somebody will come along and shake everything up, it always happens.” Monk said, his sudden positivity seemed more like a way to end the conversation given Monk was now craning his neck to get a better look over McKenzie's shoulder.

There was some hubbub coming from other tables and McKenzie noticed a lot of people looking in the direction of the bar. He followed the communal gaze and locked on to David Steiner, a stalwart of the scene who was one of the few whose acts left that the professionals all admired. Steiner was, or had been a true comedian. He considered himself the outsider's outsider, and his act was usually caustic and scathing. He was in his fifties now and wasn't recognised by the public at large, after having deterring most of the casual audiences back in the nineties with his routine about the merits of concentration camps. He'd been banned from the BBC after one performance on comic relief where he did a bit about Michael Grade dining on starving African Children, while in black-face.

That had been nearly twenty years previously and people still remembered it. Steiner didn't care about success, he cared about the art. Unlike Monk and McKenzie though, he could still pull in a crowd. Mostly this was other comedians like Monk and McKenzie, the few critics who were actually interested in comedy as an art-form and his large, devoted following.

Steiner scanned the beer-garden and spotted McKenzie and nodded. McKenzie waved and Steiner grabbed his plastic pint and marched over to join them. He could practically feel the jealousy of the other comics in the place. “Hey guys.” He said in his broad bronx Jewish accent.

“Mr Steiner.” Paul said. “Good to see you, how's things?”

“I can't complain. Well I can, and probably will after I've had a few pots of this rancid dog piss inside me. How are you guys?” Steiner stated, rapidly.

Both made noises of dissatisfaction which made Steiner laugh, “Jesus you Brits are some miserable cocksuckers.”

“So you enjoying the festival so far Dave? Seen anything good?” McKenzie asked

“Fuck no, are you kidding me? The weather's shit, the booze watered down and everything is ridiculously expensive. It's becoming as bad as the JFL.”

McKenzie knew what he meant but having been to the Montreal festival a few times he knew the Fringe was not that bad, it was getting there, but not quite. “Come on, it's not that bad.”

“Fuck that noise.” Monk said. “So seen anyone you'd recommend?”

“Not a soul. Well, I saw your show the other night Paul. Not bad, I liked the joke about Tony Blair fucking more kids than that Savile guy.”

McKenzie snorted through his pint. “Haha. I didn't think you kept that in.”

Monk shrugged, clearly proud of himself and took a celebratory drink.

The three of them sat there discussing politics and the sorry state of comedy for about an hour before there was another disturbance. Stan Glenn barged in to the beer-garden and made a noisy bee-line towards them, trying to get their attention. Glenn was about a decade younger than the rest of them and was constantly fucked up on drugs, his comedy was natural and raw, which meant he could be hit or miss depending on the night you saw him. He wasn't well known on the circuit, but his podcast, which he was recording a live version of night after night, was a moderate success. He'd been evangelical about podcasting in recent years and made a living off it, but only barely.

“Guys, guys, holy shit am I glad I bumped into you.” he gibbered, twitching and blinking like he was trying to use them to communicate in Morse code. He was clearly excited.

“Chill Stan, what's up?” Paul Monk asked.

“Oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck, I... shit man I saw the best fucking show in my life last night, it was fucking unbelievable.”

Immediately all three older comedians were interested. “Seriously?” McKenzie asked.

“As serious as a tumour on your bell-end mate.” He slapped a flier on the table.

There were three words on it, in a large yellow font. Black background, no image. At the bottom was some blurb in a smaller white font.

“THE LUNATIC FRINGE.

sponsored by The Astra Sophia Foundation.”

McKenzie sighed and threw it aside. “Corporate Sponsors, a drug company at that, no thanks Stan.”

Glenn looked a bit confused. “No man, not corporate, not a drug company, seriously this is the most fucked up and hilarious shit ever, you've got to come.”

Steiner gave a broad smile. “Convince us.” He demanded.

Glenn shook his head. “Nope. I am telling you nothing, you either come or you miss out.”

Monk seemed even less impressed by that. “Yeah, I'm working tonight, sorry.”

Stan Glenn wasn't taking no for an answer. “Aw bollocks, it starts at midnight, you'll have plenty of time. Besides, the bar is free.”

Steiner nodded and laughed. “Free bar? Okay, I'm convinced.”

McKenzie also found that slice of evidence pretty compelling.

And so, the veteran comedians did their acts to varing levels of success. Afterwards they met up after at the Deacon Brodie where Glenn was waiting for them with a Taxi. He was pleased that all three had turned up. Steiner was already hammered, Monk was pissed off at himself, complaining he'd ruined his own show and McKenzie was still high after a particularly good busy night. All their moods levelled out as the taxi ride went on.

Soon they were outside the city proper and driving down a dark road where there was nothing but fields and hills or at least the dark shadows that implied them. McKenzie wondered where the hell he was, guessing the Pentlands somewhere, which was confirmed when he saw the sign for Wraithlin. The taxi turned off the A road and up a narrow stretch towards a large building miles from anywhere. It was an old Preparatory School. “Dunnoch Preparatory School For Young Men. Est 1748.” said a worn sign about a hundred yards from the building. On top of that had been placed a large card.

“The Astra Sophia Foundation presents: THE LUNATIC FRINGE.”

The taxi drove up to the parking area where there were about a dozen cars and about twice as many people milling about, smoking and talking, waiting for the show. McKenzie recognised some of them, fellow performers, some unknown, some international stars, hardly any members of the public.

After about fifteen minutes of mutual acknowledgements, greetings and back pattings, a small rotund man in a tuxedo and blank face mask walked out from the building and rang a bell. He gave some greeting in Gaelic and then in a voice that seemed to come from a different, fiercer person said, “The bar is open, Show starts in half an hour.” And then made an elaborate gesture beckoning the crowd outside to come in.

The main foyer was is a poor state. There was obscene and insane graffiti over the walls and hastily swept rubbish pressed up against them. A vague scent of urine permeated the room along with a fusty, moldy smell. The place had not been used in a long time. Most of the dim corridor had boarded up classrooms and the stairs up were blocked off and crumbling. The atmosphere did not seem conducive to a comedy show. The tiny man in the mask guided the audience into an old assembly hall where a makeshift bar had been constructed at one end, opposite the stage.

McKenzie had a quick look around the place as the others made a beeline for the bar. He noticed there were others dressed like the tiny man. They looked like bouncers and were wearing similar blank white masks as the little man who had escorted the audience in but they were almost invisible, hidden in the shadows. He was beginning to get concerned when Glenn barged into him brandishing a rolled up tenner and a culture dish half filled with white powder. “Hey Ryan, want a toot?”

McKenzie felt it would be rude to refuse and being quite partial to narcotics snorted a large quantity up his nose. The cold numbness hit his sinuses and he sniffed hard and felt the chemical mix with his pleghm which he swallowed. A couple of seconds later he felt euphoric. “Thanks man, that's good shit.”

“Yeah, plenty more, come on let's get you a drink.” Glenn said with a grin, swiping his long fringe from his eyes. McKenzie thought that was a great idea and went to join the others at the bar.

Steiner was holding court, telling a well worn and cultivated anecdote that McKenzie had heard a thousand times but he was on fire and made it sound like a totally new bit. Soon the place was in an uproar and someone passed McKenzie a pill, which he swallowed. He didn't even know who passed him it because as he went to say thanks he turned to look at Stewart Lawrence who was also swallowing a pill. He wasn't a fan of Lawrence's establishment curmudgeon act but liked the guy and gave him a wink. Lawrence made a gesture with his face and hands that said “what the fuck is all this?”

McKenzie shrugged just in time for Steiner to his the punchline of his story. “So then I says to the cunt, there's no tigers in Africa and he says, without a fucking pause, “yeah cause I shot them all, motherfucker.”

It wasn't the greatest ending but his timing and landing were perfect and the crowd were howling with laughter; even the ones not snorting drugs or popping pills or gulping down booze. Even for a crowd of comics the drug abuse seemed excessive. McKenzie was not complaining, especially when Kate Hanley-Waller handed him another pill and rubbed her scrawny witch-like hand across the front of his jeans, giving his cock a hard squeeze. She winked at him, licked her lips and then turned back to the three or four others she was with. McKenzie knew better than to go near her. It was generous to call her fucking nuts.

He fell into a conversation with a couple of others, all as baffled about the show as he was. No-one had any idea what was about to happen and both the people he was talking to told him that they'd been invited by Stan Glenn. McKenzie thought nothing of that, especially since the already dim lights dimmed further and two spotlights flicked on above the stage. McKenzie, like the others turned to face the stage, like moths to a flame.

The curtain pulled back and revealed an empty stage with several mic-stands on it. McKenzie felt his heart sink and whispered to no-one in particular, “this better not be some fuckin' improv.”

Two burly men in masks dragged a naked man onto the stage. He didn't protest just stood there looking bewildered, trying to shield his eyes from the glaring lights above. There was some nervous laughter from the audience as they recognised that the nude man was almost the spitting image of the fat little egotist, Rick Jarvis. The man on stage responded to this by making an outrageously loud howling, shrieking noise and then sitting down.

There were some nervous giggles then silence as the naked man started pulling his cock. He seemed pleased with himself. This made McKenzie uncomfortable but it only took a few seconds before that feeling changed. Another nude man sped onto the stage and booted the wanking man in the face. It was pure unadulterated slapstick and the audience found it hilarious. McKenzie wondered what was going to happen next.

As the two men fought and rolled around on the floor of the stage the small man in the mask walked out and took a microphone from one of the stands. “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Lunatic Fringe.” he said.

Several other naked people ran out onto the stage, all of them bearing more than a passing resemblance to famous comics of yesteryear. This made their clownish violent antics all the more funny, that was until one of them punched another in such a way as to be real, not coreographed, not slapstick. A single broken white tooth arced over the audience. There was a shocked gasp but the man with the now bleeding mouth just laughed and screamed his lookalike's famous catchphrase.

The place exploded with laughter. The man took pleasure from this and then said it again. There were a couple of whoops but McKenzie was looking at the three naked men at the back who seemed to be trying to fuck one of the women, despite her protestations. It seemed very, very dark and McKenzie had a queasy feeling in his stomach that he was about to witness a rape. He was relieved when she fought them off and ran to the front but only for the few seconds it took her to grab the microphone stand and start swinging it wildly. She ranted and muttered incoherently, seemingly oblivious until she discovered the microphone itself. She looked at it for a second as if trying to recall what it was and then having seemingly figured it out, unhooked it and started talking into it.

Behind her was chaos. One man was dancing, two others were sitting crying, another one ran off stage only to be propelled back on by some force from behind the curtain on the left.

“Where's the big ones?” she said. “Gimme the big ones.”

She then started vigorously rubbing the microphone between her legs, which McKenzie considered insane and very dangerous. A masked bouncer ran on and plucked it from her and she ran after him in a fury and vanished off stage. The din from the others on stage subsided as they all looked off in the direction she ran and then followed. Within a few moments the stage was once again empty. There was a smattering of very confused applause. McKenzie wondered what he'd just witnessed and looked over at Stan Glenn who grinned and gave two enthusiastic thumbs up. McKenzie was stunned, horrified and gave a look that tried to convey that.

The tiny man came back on again. As he did some people wandered amongst the crowd with buckets, each filled with water and small sponges, each the size of a tennis ball. The buckets were handed to various members of the crowd as the tiny man spoke once more. “They say laughter is the best medicine, tell that to cancer.”

No one laughed at that joke and McKenzie realised it was because it wasn't phrased in such a way as to be a joke. The drugs were kicking in though so he just wondered what was next for this freakshow. The little man left the stage and another array of naked people came onto the stage. They looked confused but most of them had smiles on their faces, some were even laughing. Before anyone had said or done anything a wet sponge was launched at the stage. This caused laughter from both the audience and performers, even the guy who'd been hit with it joined it. Another sponge whizzed through the air, and another. The people on stage started throwing them back and before long there were several sponges flying back and forth. One of the guys in the troupe grabbed on of the sponges and started smooshing it into the face of the fellow to the left of him. The guy kept protesting. “fuck off, fuck off!” laughing all the while. McKenzie thought he looked a lot like D.L Weasel, the absurd Australian comedian who had decided not to put on a show that year.

The audience and performers seemed to be enjoying the back and forth. Someone shouted “Allah Hu Akhbar!” and from the crowd a shoe flew, smacking one of the women, who looked like Claire Long, right in the face. The response was deafening hilarity, even McKenzie found himself laughing along. The woman grabbed the shoe and threw it back out and it slammed right into the face of Tim Higgins, one of the broadsheet critics. His nose exploded and he fell on his arse. Soon the place was a riot of howling laughter and other objects were added to the throwing war. Bottles at first, then batteries, McKenzie was handed a three pin plug by one of the guys in the masks. By this point it made total sense to throw it and he hoisted it as hard as he could, hitting one of the guys on his right tit. It bounced off.

A couple of the crazy performers jumped off the stage to join the audience and they started throwing whatever they could at the stage. McKenzie could see they were as drugged up as he was, as everyone was and soon the divide between audience and performers was dissolving. McKenzie didn't consider it sophisticated or edgy, but it was cathartic. Even when he was hit in the shoulder by a broken mobile phone he laughed as he yelped.

Amidst this chaos, some people in the crowd were taking off their clothes too, Liam O' Heretic ran onto the stage stark bollock naked and grabbed the mic but he was so fucked up as to be incoherent.

The division between audience and artist vanished utterly at that point and before long it was hard to tell who was who. McKenzie laughed at this.

A bell rang, so loud as to cause pause to the insane revelry taking place. Once again the tiny man came on stage. This time he said nothing, only produced a gleaming metal object which he brandished like he was showing it off as an auction, it wasn't until he unfolded it delicately, with his hands like a butterfly that McKenzie saw it was a straight razor.

He placed it at his feet and said “Molah Crieve Doo!” before bowing and leaving the stage. Several people rushed for it, including the now naked Paul Monk. There were screams and gasps as one woman managed to get it. She pirouetted with it, in celebration of something and slashed Monk across the face, totally severing his cheek. Blood was pouring from the wound but Monk rammed his fist into her face, still laughing. He was not alone. The place was a mayhem of laughter and screams; of blood and spit and swear; of naked bodies and raw violence. McKenzie laughed as he saw this raw madness, laughed as he stripped off to join in, laughed when his left arm snapped and laughed when the headliner was finally made manifest on stage beckoned by the sensory delights. Upon witnessing it, there was nothing else to do but laugh, or cry, or scream. McKenzie laughed.

And was still laughing the next night when the burly man in the mask shoved what was left of him, naked, onto the very same stage.