The Zoetrope Joke

A time machine appears outside the blacksmith's shop in 1880 Portsmouth. The Blacksmith stops his work, resting his hammer on the anvil and watches as three people exit the time machine; a Doctor, a Lawyer, and an Indian Chief.

"Nice carriage, or whatever that contraption is," the blacksmith said. "Steam?"

"Excuse me?" the Doctor asked.

"Steam," the Blacksmith repeated. "Steam powered? Your fancy buggy there."

"Ah, yes!" the Lawyer replied. "Yes, of course. Horseless carriage. Steam powered. Exactly."

The Blacksmith nodded. "I knew it! First one I've actually seen in person but I knew it when I saw it. So, what brings you to Portsmouth?"

"Is there a bar nearby? We're here from, well, that's not important. What is important is that we stop a terrible joke from being told," the Doctor said.

"I see," the Blacksmith said. "Must be a really bad joke."

"The worst," the Lawyer said.

"The three of you?" the Blacksmith prompted.

"A doctor," the Doctor said.

"A lawyer," the Lawyer said.

"An Indian chief," the Indian Chief said.

The blacksmith nodded. "And you walk into a bar--"

"No!" the Doctor interrupted.

"We've been through this," the Lawyer said. "We are going to have to walk into the bar."

"But once the premise is established, the joke is inevitable!" the Doctor said.

"The bar?" the Indian Chief asked. "We're right parched from our long, dusty journey."

"Right," the Blacksmith said. "It's almost noon. I'll walk you down and take some well-earned refreshment myself. Right this way."

After taking just a few steps, the Blacksmith stopped and said, "I got it! A doctor, a lawyer, and an Indian chief walk into a bar, and the Bartender says, 'Sorry boys, but it looks like your reservation is just for one!'"

"Great," the Indian Chief said. "The joke isn't just terrible, it's racist, too. And I'm not even Native American. I'm from Mumbai and I'm only dressed as this cultural stereotype so we don't upset the locals and break the timeline, trapping us in the past to die alone, lynched by the drooling, toothless mob. Do either one of you know if there will be a lunar or solar eclipse in the next few days. Threatening to blot out the sun unless we're allowed to go free might be our only hope."

"Did you miss the day we had training on being discreet in both actions and words when traveling?" the Doctor asked.

"It's 1880. All the jokes are racist," the Lawyer said.

"Stereotype?" the Blacksmith asked. "Is that one of those moving picture machines like I saw down in Boston? Can't remember what it was called."

"A zoetrope," the Lawyer said.

"No," the Blacksmith said. "That's not it."

"Yes," the Lawyer said. "Yes, it is. A zoetrope."

"Well," the Blacksmith said, "I think I know what I saw cause I was there myself and that wasn't it."

Becoming a bit agitated, the Lawyer said, "Look, my sinewy, verbally- and math-challenged friend, I don't think you have the tools necessary to plumb the depths of your ignorance!"

The Doctor jumped in. "I'd like to apologize on behalf of my friend. He gets like this when he's traveling and can't eat or drink on a regular schedule. It has to do with his blood chemistry. I've been treating him for years but as you can see, I haven't made much progress."

The Blacksmith nodded. "Demons in the blood. I've heard of that."

They arrived at the front doors to Harpooners Saloon and stopped before going in.

"Why don't you go on in?" the Lawyer suggested to the Blacksmith. "We'll be right behind you."

The Blacksmith shrugged. "I am wicked thirsty," he said and entered the bar.

"Are we ready?" the Lawyer asked.

"What do you think the Bartender will say?" the Doctor asked.

They hear laughter coming from the crowd in the bar.

"Well, I think we need to add our friend's line about reservations to the list of potential one-liners," the Lawyer said. Pulling out his smartphone, scrolling with his thumb and reading, "The Bartender says, 'Which one of you is the Candlestick Maker?'"

"And then we dust him," the Doctor said.

"Right," the Lawyer said. Scrolling again, "The Bartender says--"

"Does it matter?" the Doctor asked. "We always dust him."

After scrolling and checking, the Lawyer said, "All right then. No matter what the Bartender says, we dust him. Unless he uses the Blacksmith's line. Then we dust the Blacksmith, too. Everyone who walks out of that bar has to be thinking the same thing: That was not funny."

"Look," the Indian Chief said, "I know we've had this discussion and you didn't want to hear me before but I just have to say this again. I'm really not comfortable with this outfit. I feel like whatever happens next, I'm going to get blamed for it and I'm really not looking forward to facing the 1880s justice system as a person of color. And okay, I can't think of a time or place I would be comfortable facing any justice system as a person of color, but I'm sure I don't want to do it in late 19th Century America dressed like this."

"The joke has to be stopped," the Doctor said.

"We knew we might not come back," the Lawyer said.

"Wait! What? Who said we might not come back?" the Doctor asked.

"Sorry. Nobody said that, it just seemed like the thing to say, you know, saving the future seems like the kind of thing that requires some sort of, you know, B-Movie-level sacrifice. Not the star of the movie but someone who's named in the opening credits right after the title," the Lawyer said.

"Right," said the Doctor. They both look at the Indian Chief.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" the Indian Chief said.

The Lawyer pulls off his wig, revealing long, auburn locks. "All right," she says. "Ditch the headdress." She pulls the Illudium Q-36 semi-automatic explosive space modulator pistol from her waistband. The Doctor and Indian Chief do the same. "Let's do this," she says.

A Doctor, a Lawyer, and an Indian Chief walk into a bar...