He said it was, for him, the equivalent of a junkie's first heroin rush.
The laughter, the real laughter, the kind you not only heard but could actually feel, like a sonic wave almost knocking you off the stage.
That's what he had been after ever since the very first time he had killed an entire room. Men, women, old & young, laughing uncontrollably, grabbing their sides, falling off their chairs, clutching at the sides of the tables.
It had happened probably at least five times that first year, then at least once a month thereafter.
And each time it happened he was hit with that same rush. That same intense feeling of really reaching people, making them smile, making them enjoy being alive - intensely enjoy being alive, even if for only a few minutes.
Weird thing is, it was never with the same joke. He could hit with a joke in front of a small crowd on a slow Thursday night and then retell the joke to a larger crowd on a Saturday night and just die.
Being a comedian was all he had ever wanted to be, it was what made him feel alive and worthwhile, and valuable.
And that was it. That was why he did it.
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