The Best Medicine Isn’t Laughter
A darkly funny short story about pain, pills, and peace — and a man who discovers bliss in the dumbest way possible.
Do you know what’s the greatest invention of all time?
It’s the painkiller.
And do you know which invention is the most underrated?
Also the painkiller.
Why do I say that?
Well, if you’re wondering, you’re one of those unlucky souls who still haven’t realised its true potential.
Be it your worst half (also known as your wife), your overly emotional parents, or your drama-loving in-laws — the painkiller can help you survive anyone.
I’ve also used it while dealing with my “gifted” child and my boss — who’s so useless, God fired him for being just alive.
And the result? Every single time — nothing short of magical.
Why not a simple aspirin, you ask?
Well, when you pop an aspirin, at first you stop reacting to your wife’s complaints about your parents. But the moment you go quiet, she’ll start kicking you in places you didn’t even know had pain sensors — like behind your ears or under your arms.
So eventually, you’ll still need a painkiller to deal with that.
Also, I’ve found that the painkiller numbs your body so beautifully that even if she kicks you out of the house in the middle of the night and a gang of street dogs comes charging at you, your body won’t feel a thing.
Not even when those dogs start tugging at your flesh like it’s the last piece of biryani at a wedding buffet.
So now you understand how I feel when I can’t find my painkillers.
***
It was early morning, right after breakfast, when my wife reminded me to have my daily dose of painkiller.
By “reminded,” I mean she started nagging about some shitty wet towel I had “accidentally” left on the bed.
As soon as she started talking, I checked my pocket for the painkiller. But it wasn’t there.
I stood up and shook my entire body like a wet dog trying to fling off every drop of guilt and fear. Partly to find the painkiller, partly because I knew what would happen if I didn’t.
When it didn’t fall out, I ran into my room and checked the drawer where I’d hidden the tablets. Gone. Completely gone.
That’s when the sweating began — not polite, human sweating, but the kind that makes you question if you’ve sprung a personal monsoon.
My phone rang. Seeing the number flashing on my screen, my hands started vibrating more than the phone itself.
“Hell… hello, Sir?”
“You haven’t sent the project report yet? Send it in ten minutes, or I’ll make sure you never work on any project again!” my boss barked before hanging up.
I wanted to scream back at my boss because I had already sent the report twice.
But for some reason, he didn’t remember seeing it in his mail. How is that even possible?
And that’s when the headache hit — sharp, sudden, like someone was trying to drill a hole through my skull to install better Wi-Fi.
I had always numbed this pain with my precious painkiller — the one that worked better than therapy and cheaper than divorce lawyers.
“Nick! Come down and have your breakfast! I’ll throw it in the dustbin if you’re not here in thirty seconds!” My wife’s yelling didn’t just reach my ears — it shot through my skull and set up a permanent echo chamber in my brain.
I clenched my fists and almost tore my hair out. Before she could start again, I began frantically searching for the painkiller.
I knew one thing for sure: if I didn’t find it soon, this would be the last day of my life.
When I still couldn’t find it, I bolted downstairs, grabbed a slice of bread, tossed it toward my lazy dog, and ran out of the house like a man fleeing both marriage and employment at the same time.
I had to get the painkiller from the chemist.
***
“Buddy, can I have the painkiller you gave me a few days ago?” I asked the chemist.
The chemist — an old, round man in his sixties with a moustache that looked permanently disappointed — didn’t look impressed. He peered at me from above his specs and said, “Are we of the same age?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling me your buddy?” His eyes narrowed like a judge who’d just caught me lying in court.
“I’m sorry, Uncle. Can you please give me the painkiller?” I slipped some money across the counter.
The chemist looked down at my hands, which had accidentally brushed his. He straightened up sharply, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Are we related?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling me uncle?”
He scolded me so loudly that I went temporarily deaf. The shop’s ceiling fan wobbled in sympathy while a few customers turned to watch.
When my hearing finally returned, my sanity packed its bags and left.
I almost slapped the old man — but he dodged like a trained ninja, and my hands landed squarely on his chest instead.
“This man is trying to molest me!” he screamed. “He touched my man-breast — I mean, chest!”
Within seconds, his voice echoed through the lane. People started pouring in from outside as if he’d announced a free sale.
I did the only logical thing — I ran for my life.
By the time I reached my car, I was boiling with rage. I hit the steering wheel hard — and it puffed up faster than my blood pressure. The pain in my hand now competed fiercely with the headache that had been auditioning for a permanent role since morning.
I desperately needed the painkiller. But I couldn’t risk another chemist. For one, the “uncle” might’ve already alerted his brotherhood of pharmacists, and two, I’d left my prescription at home — along with my dignity.
***
My phone buzzed again. It was my boss.
“I haven’t got the report yet. Send it now, or this will be your last day.”
“Sir, I’ve sent the report three times. How hard is it to check your mail?” I ground out, clenching my teeth so hard I could feel tiny cracks filing in my jaw.
“What did you say? Say that again.”
I breathed hard, trying to calm down, but the headache had already numbed my patience. “Are you deaf and blind? Can you not read or hear?” I snapped.
A long, heavy silence followed. I could hear his breath on the phone, and I’m sure he could hear mine — two idiots locked in a quiet war of oxygen.
Then came his final blow: “Come to the office and report in, or you’ll be fired.”
Click.
When I finally stopped shaking, I realised I needed the painkiller more than ever. The rational option: borrow from my parents next door.
***
Instead of entering through the front door, I sneaked into my parents’ house next door — the kind of stealth that would make even a thief proud.
“Dad, can I have the painkiller you borrowed?”
“It’s all over,” he whispered, glancing around as if my mother could materialize out of thin air. “I was going to borrow from you today.”
“You finished the entire strip in one day?” My eyes widened in disbelief.
“You underestimate your mom, son,” he said with a weary smile, gave my arm a sympathetic tap, and quickly shut the door before Mom could catch us plotting against her.
As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed again. This time it was my wife.
***
“Did you go to your parents’ house? I saw your car in their driveway.”
I nearly slapped my forehead. “Actually… I needed something.”
Silence. I could hear her breathing on the other end — slow, suspicious.
Then she said, “You could’ve gone to my parents if you wanted money. Why ask yours for money?”
“No, no, I don’t want money,” I blurted out. “I needed something else.”
“What do you want that my parents can’t give? Except sex, they can give you anything you want.”
Her tone was part sarcasm, part challenge — and one hundred percent terrifying.
I had no answer. Who could explain that even if her parents were offering sex, I still wouldn’t be interested in that charitable donation?
“Okay, fine. I’ll go to your parents,” I muttered and hung up.
I got in my car and drove to her parents’ house, just a few blocks away — a journey that felt less like a visit and more like walking voluntarily into enemy territory.
***
Before I could knock, my mother-in-law opened the door and smiled, her gold bangles jingling like a warning bell.
“Hey, Nick. Finally, you want something from us! Tell me, what can I do for you?”
I wanted nothing from my in-laws. Ever again.
What they’d already given me was more than enough — and entirely problematic.
If possible, I’d have returned their daughter along with an invoice for the years lost and the money wasted on painkillers.
I clenched my jaw but forced a polite smile. “Do you have a painkiller?”
She frowned and gave me a head-to-toe inspection, the kind tailors give before quoting an insult disguised as a measurement.
Before I could show her my swollen fingers, a deep voice rumbled from behind.
“Real men don’t cry. They don’t feel pain.”
My father-in-law stood in the doorway, puffing his chest like he was auditioning for a soap commercial.
At that moment, I wanted to die — mainly so I could ask God one small question: Why did He give men brains if they were only going to use them to invent nonsense like real men don’t cry or men don’t feel pain or men deserve to rule everyone, including women?
I took a deep breath, plastered on my best fake smile, and said,
“Yes, you’re right. But I’d rather not be a ‘real man’ if that means listening to this kind of nonsense. Personally, I think men should feel pain — especially when their in-laws start giving lectures on masculinity. In fact, our minds should start bleeding the moment we hear it.”
Before they could react, I turned and walked away.
My in-laws stood frozen, mouths open, phones already in hand — ready to complain to their daughter, a.k.a. my worst half.
***
My phone buzzed again.
It was my wife. I hung up.
It rang again — this time, my boss.
Perfect. Death by double murder.
First my wife would kill me, then my boss would cremate whatever was left.
I had to think of something.
But before that, I had to find the painkiller.
***
As I stepped into the house compound, my eyes landed on the slice of bread I’d thrown to my always-hungry dog that morning. Strangely, he hadn’t eaten it. He just lay there, belly up, soaking in the sun like some retired philosopher who’d finally stopped caring about the world.
I knew that feeling. I used to be that philosopher — right after taking the painkiller. My body would go numb, my brain would go quiet, and my wife’s voice would turn into pleasant background music for a tragic movie.
But today, the philosopher in me was suffering from a migraine.
Then I saw my wife marching toward me — hands on hips, eyebrows forming a perfect arch of doom. That’s when it hit me.
I knew where the painkiller was.
I crouched beside the dog and started searching — under his paws, around his neck, inside the kennel. Nothing.
She was only a few steps away now. The air was heavy with danger and dog smell.
Desperation gave me divine inspiration. I lunged forward and tried to open the dog’s mouth. The rascal clenched it shut, shaking his head like a toddler refusing medicine.
Sweat rolled down my forehead. My wife’s footsteps pounded behind me.
I grabbed the dog’s snout with both hands and pulled.
A miracle happened — the painkiller popped out of his mouth and glistened in my palm, covered in holy dog saliva.
At that moment, I believed in God again. He had given me strength, courage, and apparently no sense of hygiene.
My wife screamed my name as I looked at the slimy tablet, shining in sunlight like salvation.
Before she could reach me, I tossed it into my mouth.
My dog growled. So did my wife.
Then she started yelling — faster, louder, a one-woman orchestra of doom. Strangely, it didn’t bother me at first. But then something felt… off.
I spat the tablet into my hand. The print on the foil was still visible — DogCalm: Anti-Mating Formula.
It wasn’t a painkiller. It was my dog’s anti-sex medicine.
Apparently, it calms him down, stops him from chasing things he shouldn’t, and makes him blissfully uninterested in people, dogs, or romance.
A few minutes later, the tablet began to work.
***
When my wife kicked me out of the house and my boss fired me over the phone, I didn’t care. I was floating — calm, detached, and oddly happy.
You know why?
Because I had found something better than the painkiller — at half the cost.
Double benefits, half the price:
One, it numbs all emotional pain.
Two, it kills any trace of sexual desire — so thankfully I never have to perform my marital duties again.
Bless you, my lazy dog.
So, I stand corrected. The best invention ever isn’t the painkiller.
It’s dog’s anti-sex medicine.
Just chew it, and you’ll never feel anything again.
But there’s a small caveat — you might start sniffing people in places you definitely shouldn’t.
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