It began at precisely 7:46 AM—rush hour in Grinsberg City.

Skyscrapers glinted under the morning sun, traffic crawled like molasses through downtown, and caffeine-deprived commuters shuffled through their routines like zombies with deadlines.

Then, the sky cracked open.

Not with lightning. Not with warships.
But with an enormous blimp shaped like a rubber chicken.

The people of Grinsberg barely had time to raise their eyebrows before the loudspeakers blared:

"PEOPLE OF GRINSBERG! PREPARE TO GIGGLE. YOUR DOOM IS… AMUSINGLY NIGH!"

A hatch opened on the belly of the chicken-blimp, and clouds of pink gas hissed out like cotton candy fog, blanketing the streets.

“Funny Gas,” it was later called. Though its proper name, according to Professor Deathjoke’s personal lab notes, was “Laughogenic Hyperoxide Compound-7 (With Hints of Bubblegum).”

It took only seconds.

A man in a business suit paused mid-coffee sip and began snorting uncontrollably. A barista dropped her mug and fell to the floor, howling with laughter, tears streaming down her face. Children giggled until they collapsed into blissful unconsciousness.

Within minutes, the entire financial district was a pile of giggling bodies.

Atop a nearby building, Professor Deathjoke stood, arms akimbo, lab coat flapping in the wind. His goggles reflected the chaos below as he grinned wide enough to split atoms.

“THE CITY IS MINE!” he declared, then sipped from a neon-green soda through a twisty straw. “Well, technically, it’s unconscious. So I guess I just inherited a bunch of giggling real estate!”

Behind him stood a man in a yellow plaid suit and red Converse sneakers, holding a clipboard and a banana. His name was Smiley—not his real name, of course, but the only one anyone remembered. His perpetually grinning face had gotten him the nickname back in med school... which he never actually finished.

“Sir,” Smiley said between chews of chewing gum, “the gas is 99.9% effective. Except for one mime. Immune, apparently.”

Deathjoke sighed.

“Of course it had to be the mime. They laugh on the inside.”

Smiley chuckled.

“Honestly, boss, I thought today’s plan was gonna be the burrito cannon again.”

“Too spicy,” muttered Deathjoke. “I’m saving that for Taco Tuesday.”

Meanwhile, deep beneath the city in a fortified biotech bunker, red sirens spun and klaxons screamed. HYBRID opened her eyes.

She was Grinsberg’s last line of defense—a synthetic superhuman enhanced with spliced genes from over a hundred species. The more genetic material she bonded with, the stronger and more adaptive she became. Today, she was running on eagle vision, cheetah speed, electric eel skin, and a sprinkling of honey badger.

And now someone had declared a laughter apocalypse?

She smirked.

“Deathjoke again,” she muttered, rolling her neck. “Time to add ‘prank-busting’ to my résumé.”

Gene syringes hissed into her back as her body processed the latest batch: laughing hyena reflexes for chaos anticipation, octopus nerves for adaptability, and armadillo dermal plates for blunt force resistance.

Hybrid launched through the city streets like a silver blur, her boots sparking against the pavement. She leapt over unconscious civilians and dodged laughing gas pockets as she made her way toward the rubber chicken blimp.

But by the time she reached the rooftop where he’d broadcast his ridiculous speech...

Professor Deathjoke and Smiley were already gone.

Only a balloon animal of himself danced lazily in the wind, holding a sticky note that read:

"TOO LATE, GENE QUEEN! NEXT TIME, BRING A JOKE!"
— Love, Prof. D.

Hybrid clenched her fist, cracking the concrete below her.

“Next time, I’m gene-splicing you into a hamster.”

And as the giggling city began to stir and emergency teams pumped in antidote jazz and soda vapor, Hybrid’s eyes scanned the sky.

The next time Professor Deathjoke struck, she’d be ready—with new genes, new power...

And maybe, just maybe, a knockout punch lined with irony.