Much looked at the stage, then smirked back at Merlin. "You're on," he said, rolling his shoulders back and grabbing his cider to take with him.
Much approached the stage the same way he approached job interviews - these were people he was going to make friends with, and the best way to do that was to be open, and ridiculous, and a little bit charming, and thoroughly un-perturbed. Comic audience could smell fear.
"Y'know I bet the guy who named sperm whales probably wasn't allowed to name stuff after that," was Much's opening line.
He didn't look at Merlin as he spoke, he didn't want to see if he was laughing or not, because he'd forgotten just how much he liked being up in front of an audience with a microphone. Much could talk. Much had years of experience spinning a tale to keep people amused, and he'd had years of experience getting into scrapes that made perfect stories (especially with some colourful elaboration, which he was pretty good at as well.) His whole body got into it, illustrating his story with animated gestures and facial expressions, as he told the story of the time he fed the Merry Met rat stew (changing the context a little till they were a group of scouts (him, Rob, Will and Alan) and their unsuspecting troop leaders (Tuck and Stutely) but keeping enough of the details so Merlin would know exactly who he was imitating when he gagged and, furiously, chased his imaginary self across the stage.
It made him completely forget about his encounter with Luna, and almost entirely forget about the Sheriff Problem. He was making himself laugh, and his genuine enthusiasm was dragging several members of the audience in with him. Much launched into another story involving That One Time in Florida and Jelly Shots and The Florida State Police and A Terribly Timed Erection, and bowed (comically stiffly) when his time was up. For a hot minute, he didn't even care about the prophecy. Maybe he needed to come to more open mic nights.