Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble sighs. No matter how many times she turns the key in her car’s ignition, its engine would rather fart and shart than start..

“Stupid freaking LeBaron!”

Much to her chagrin, Sybil’s Chrysler Boxmobile doesn’t talk back to her this time.

“Oh man, I’d much rather talk to my car than to those stupid morons on the bus…I wish they would get better hobbies instead of bothering people. Read a book or something…”

A very tired Sybil waits at the nearest stop, pays her fare and sits down in a seat toward the middle of the city bus. She avoids looking at the other riders, and instead gawks at the bus’ console instead.

“I wonder if Ma has seen that new parking brake design. I haven’t seen it in her bus-parts collection” Sybil thinks to herself, bobbing her head to the mumble-country music playing through her headphones.

Sybil’s already tense heart races as she witnesses the unthinkable:

Pris Dixon, wife of Brandon Dixon who owns the local imbecile machine lot, uses her young daughter as a punching bag. “How dare you disrespect me!” Pris yells at the innocent child.

“What are you doing? What the heck are you doing?” Sybil yells to Pris as she intervenes to stop the violence. As grumpy as Sybil can get, she has enough of a conscience to at least help an innocent child who cannot defend herself, because duh!

“Mind ya own business!”

Pris calls Sybil every name in the book.


“It’s everybody’s business! It’s illegal to hit an adult, it’s illegal to hit a child!”

“Wanna go? I’mma gon’ kick yo’ butt!”


“Oh, grow up now.” Sybil shakes her head and waves away Pris.

“Stop it ladies!” the bus driver yells out, and Sybil flashes a thumbs-up. Sybil saves the video she had secretly recorded on her phone, pushes up her glasses and breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls the cord to get off the bus just in time for work.

Miss Kibble logs onto the Collect-o-Matic 2000 and makes her first phone call. Sybil can’t wait for the weekend after yet another long, stressful week during these strange times.

It’s now Sunday, April 31st at the Manteno Cantina and Optimal Club. This week’s live entertainment is ready to start.

“Hi! I’m Mr. JB, but you can call me Mister Beef! I’m your host today here at the Manteno Optimal Club! Get ready contestants, cuz we’re gonna play…What’s Your Beef? Now our fine contestants are going to all meet in the ring and answer one simple question. Whoever is still standing will win our grand prize of One Million Craptocoins, generously donated by the queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs Bernadette Cacca!”

A slow clap emanates from the audience.

“Now, contestants, hear me loud and clear. I will only ask you all this question once: Does whipped cream go on cake?”

“Ding ding ding!” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran rings the bell with her beak, then returns to her regularly scheduled preening.

“Now I’m getting hungry for some burritos, I’m gonna go in the back and find the beef!”

JB walks into the kitchen storage room and starts berating the staff. Loud arguing can be heard. Meanwhile, the contestants just stand there and look at each other.

“Whipped cream is not frosting, it’s whipped cream.”

“Yeah, why do people put that crap on cake? So boring.”

“Yeah…no, I would never put whipped cream on a cake. I want my cake and I’m gonna eat it too!”

The contestants share a laugh. Bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca yawns and rubs her eyes from the audience. Meanwhile, the cantina patrons watch the local news on the venue televisions. A reporter comes on the screen detailing a story about the Kankakee police looking for Pris Dixon, airing the evidence Sybil Kibble had secretly recorded and sent along with her report.

“Why does this JB, JBeef whateverhisface moron have such a big following on teh interwebs anyway?”

“Beats me.”

“Brainrot.”

“Yeah, anything for skibidi clicks I suppose…”

The contestants collectively shrug and look out at the bored audience, however this does not last long. Their boredom suddenly got jump-scared by a typical denizen of the Moroniverse: A loud thump shakes the cantina wall as a rather rotund, middle-aged woman comes busting through the door.

“Hey, I heard there’s some kind of Beefeater game?”

“Child abuser!” the crowd points at Pris, whom they recognize immediately after having seen her ugly mug on the TV news.

“Adult abuser!” the cooks point at Mr. Beef as he emerges from the kitchen after having chewed them out as if he were Gordon Ramsay or something.

“You want a piece of me?” Pris eggs on the crowd.

“Meet me in the ring, baby! JB smirks at the crowd with his giant set o’ choppers, his cold, soulless eyes stare into the abyss before the rage consumes him as he enters the ring. Both bumbling nitwits cannot wait for the attention and of course – social media cred.

Pris climbs up onto the stage and drops her ghetto blaster.

“Ow, ow, ow, my foot!”

She had wanted to crank up some tunes by the copyright-simps Metallica, but oh well — too bad, so sad.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Carla rings the bell with her steel talons.

JB blasts some butt-trumpet tunes in his opponent’s general direction.

Pris chucks a beer can at JB and of course misses, spilling that poor lager everywhere. Awww those poor hops, sacrificed for nothing..

JB dances around the ring, puts his hands to his ugly mug and flips the bird with not only one but both hands! Wow — what a move! So creative.

Pris charges at JB like the raging beast she is, slips on the beer she had spilled, and hits her head on the concrete floor of the ring.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Pris calls out to the crowd for help, but nobody cares.

Gothic Diana Ross, The Midnight Supremes and their boyfriends point and laugh at the mess.

“Ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead!” they gleefully sing as they head out the door to drive home in the black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.

The patrons and staff all begin to walk out, they’ve had enough.

JB and Bernadette round up all the craptocoins, close up the joint and drive to Manteno. Bernadette loads them back into her basement Turd Vault, arms the two Turd Machine Deluxes guarding it and runs up the washroom. Then she poops.

Five days later, Pris’ dead body is found by a restaurateur after some customers at a nearby joint complain about “that nasty barbecue sauce smell next door,” demanding a refund.