Tag: bourbonnais

MoronicArts Classics: A Steaming Pile of Love

~ Jen ~ 4 Comments

“I know! I know! — Damien

Bourbonnais narcissist, neckbeard and pool-toy enthusiast Damien Hurlbutt, working the concession stand at Cinema-13, tries to sell a customer some “Non-Parallels”

“Do you mean nonpareils?”

“Oh, these are non-parallels.”

“I will just get some popcorn with butter then.” 

In walks a rather foul-smelling couple. 

Bernadette Cacca’s Turd-Eating Grin

“Hey, can I speak to the manager?” Manteno communal narcissist, Optimal Club accordion-player and port-o-dump partner Bernadette Moran Cacca asks Damien.

“OK Karen. He’s busy,” Damien says in his usual monotone voice, not even looking at Bern, too concerned with filling popcorn and listening to the copier in the back office create a pile of ticket facsimiles so he can hopefully woo women with them.

“We have a meeting at 2 to discuss advertising our porto potty business with a Mr. Konrad…Teeerant?”

“I know, I know. It’s Teirant. Rhymes with ‘tyrant.’ Walk over to that door and knock.” The bulbous neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt points to the door simply marked “Manager” getting a glimpse of Bernadette Cacca’s behind as she and her husband Peppi make their way toward Konrad’s office. An evil grin fills Damien Hurlbutt’s face, with bedroom eyes to match.

Image: black-and-white cartoon set in an office. A man and a woman wearing crowns face a man sitting down on a chair with the text: "Teirant Cinemas."
The Caccas submit a proposal to do their business.

After the meeting, Bern, Peppi and Konrad emerge. Bern beelines toward the washroom, pinches a massive loaf, and stares at it in awe. She is so proud of her creation, almost afraid to flush it down. Since she has nowhere to burn it at the multiplex, she reluctantly pushes the handle and washes her hands in the sink. At least she did that. Damien ogles Bern’s round bum as she and her beau Peppi exit the theater.

“Fill up those popcorn bags!” Konrad commands his clerk Damien. “Friday I expect to make big bags at the release of the new rom-com. We partnered with our advertisers to increase the bottom-line. This one’s gonna be a game-changer. Make me a sign.”

“Yep.” Damien heads to the back office to draw and make more color copies of movie tickets on the company’s budget. 

While working on the sign, Damien’s brother Robbie calls his flip phone. Thinking it’s one of the many OKStupid ladies he messaged, he answers.

“Hey honey!”

“Damien, it’s Robbie, you dork.”

“Sorry.”

“Can you get me a job at the theater? Wally’s cuttin’ back my hours again.”

“Maybe. Hey, there’s this cute chick coming in Friday for the new premiere.”

“Groovy. Can I meet her?”

Image: a black-and-white cartoon of an Elvis impersonator's face, wearing a devilish grin.
Swarthy Elvis impersonator Robbie Hurlbutt

“She’s married. But I have first dibs.”

“Riiiight.”

“Hey, I got a free ticket if you wanna come down.”

“Do you think your boss will let me work with you? If you really love your brother you will ask your manager. It’s really selfish of you not.”

“Come down and see the film. Friday night.”

“Later.” Damien and Robbie disconnect…for now.

Peppi and Bern Cacca are loafing away inside their run-down shack in Manteno.

“These maxi pad commercials always come on when I am watching TV. This is Star Trek. Men watch this show,” Peppi whinges.

“Hey Pep. I got this handy-dandy new laundry basket. Would you like to come with me to the laundromat?”

“Why? Bern, I try to help and you won’t let me.”

“Oh come along for the company. You’re fragile. I can do it all. Maybe you can hold doors for me while I haul all our laundry in.”

“So I can watch? Yeah, no. I am busy.”

Peppi walks into his bedroom to get away from his wife, lights up the skunkiest joint he’s got and guzzles moonshine.

It’s showtime. In walks Bern Cacca wearing her accordion over her Peppi’s Portopotties shirt, bearing the caption “King & Queen of the Throne.”

“Hey, Bern. We have changed our mind about your advertising strategy. We think playing accordion while Peppi raps about portopotties is not a good idea,” Cinema-13 owner Konrad Teirant tells Bernadette Cacca.

“Oh, Peppi stayed home. I wanna belt some crappy show-tunes instead.”

“It does not take a genius to figure out that we both need to make money. Sing at home, preferably with the windows shut. We designed a new ad, and we think you’ll like it. It will play halfway through the movie. A new rom-com premieres tonight, “Steamy Love.” We expect a big bag from a big turnout. Your seat is on me.

Image: a black-and-white cartoon of a neckbeard behind a cinema counter. Text: "Cinema-13" and "Peppi's Portapotties."

“Hey M’lady. Would you like some popcorn?” theater clerk and neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt calls out to Bern Cacca.

“I’m good, thanks. What a lovely theater you have!”

“Aww, shucks. Hey M’lady, Madame. What is this lovely lady doing when the film lets out? I can get you free tickets if you meet me at the Gaslight Bar.”

“I’m busy.”

Bern heads to her seat, excited to see all the theater patrons, and tries to make friends with as many as possible, hugging, shaking hands, and calling them “darling”. Bern thinks she’s everybody’s friend, and reminds the crowd of all the favors she does for charity and her enablers.

The film begins to roll.

At intermission, the new ad for Peppi’s Portopotties plays, interrupting a scene depicting two people kissing, and a prominent plot point. Will the lady choose her secret lover or go back to her husband?

Image: a full-colour cartoon of dancing porto potties, parodying "Let's All Go To The Lobby."

“Let’s all go to the washroom

Let’s all go to the washroom.

Let’s all go to the washroom,

And take ourselves a dump.”

The patrons run to the restrooms, but not to crap or whizz.

They barf up the popcorn, candy and pop, for which they overpaid at the concession stand.

Too nauseous to stay for the ending, the crowd of moviegoers leaves Teirant Cinema-13 in droves.

An angry Bern Cacca leaves the multiplex, worrying about her squeaky-clean image as a singing fool who raises money for the Manteno Optimal Club, and gives rides to friends because she loves to look good.

Image: a color cartoon of a heavy-set, middle-aged woman angrily walking past a concessions stand. A heavyset middle-aged man with an orange beard, wearing a black fedora is standing behind the counter, with the look of love in his eyes.

“Hey honey puddin’ — what are you doing right now?” the bulbous concessions clerk Damien Hurlbutt asks Bern Cacca as she passes the ticket counter.

“I have a date. I’m leaving you guys.”

“With me, my dainty queen?”

“No, you moron.”

“How about me?” pops up Damien’s brother Robbie Hurlbutt, emerging from seemingly nowhere.

“No, with JB, the Turd Burglar.”

Frowns fill the faces of the Hurlbutts, while a devilish grin fills that of Bern Cacca as she embraces the neighborhood Turd Burglar, who has been waiting for her in the parking lot.

Konrad Teirant counts his ticket sales, all smiles because he does not plan to offer refunds. He had made his big bag and takes it home to lie in it, spreading the cash all over his bed, rolling around in it and over it like a dog.

Dale Holds His Pants…

~ Jen ~ Leave a comment

Poor Dale. They closed the men’s washrooms at Cinema-13 in Bourbonnais, and he has to go realllly badly after drinking all that overpriced pop. After 20 minutes waiting outside the only family stall, he begins to grumble: “What did they do, fall in?”

Tiny twin sister act The Favorites continue talking amongst themselves, flushing repeatedly to make it sound like they need to use the facilities for something other than wasting the time of the pained folks waiting outside in line, Dale’s pants dropping from his legs wiggling. Those little turds.

MoronicArts Classics: Come Fry With Me

~ Jen ~ 1 Comment

Bourbonnais neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt sent out rambling smear letters after he went off the deep end, years ago when his former wife Lori left him to escape his psychological abuse.

MoronicArts Classics: Damien Goes Postal

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“It’s hotter than a boiled owl!” Bourbonnais cinema clerk, neckbeard and communal narcissist Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt thinks aloud, as he heads down the stairs to get his mail. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I got my postcards off CBay. I bought over 200 from this guy, one at a time. What a great seller! I can’t wait to impress my friends with these! All these favors I do, oh boy, oh boy, they will get a SURPRISE!”

A lady across the way gives Damien the side eye.

Damien logs onto his personal computer, setting atop a wooden folding table. He tries to log onto his alternate Fakebook account, purposely created to stalk his ex-wife Lori and her friends, who divorced him because he abused her.

“Oh man, I cannot get on. What is this about getting reported again for violating the terms of service? I did nothing wrong. I am just a nice guy who has no rights. What about us men?” Damien types into the box in response to Fakebook’s “How did we do?” questionnare.

A few minutes pass. “Ding!”

Damien awakes from a deep sleep, all his loud snoring ceases.

Damien jumps up to log onto his computer.

“Hehhhhhhhh…” Damien sighs.

“We have permanently disabled this account due to multiple third-party complaints. Do not attempt to log in again.

— The Fakebook Team.”

“Now this account is crumped. I know! I will just make a new one! That will show them. Hmpf.”

Damien clears his browser’s history, cookies, cache and then reboots his machine. He reloads Fakebook and tries to create a new account under a diffent name so he can continue to harass his ex-wife, because he clearly has nothing better to do with his time.

“We are sorry, Damien. Maybe you should go out sometime and get a life. Do something productive. Get off the internet. We are closing both your accounts due to impersonation.

— The Fakebook Team”

“Those damnedable Fakebook people! They really put poop in my soup! Both my accounts are clunked over! I wish I could zogg over there and give that clump of people a piece of my mind!”

Damien goes into the bathroom, takes a huge crap, does not wipe and heads straight for the shower. He does not believe in wiping. After he gets out, he runs out the bathroom door, leaving a lake of water on the floor in his wake to get a towel.

As Damien dries himself, he shakes off like a dog, getting water all over the living room carpet. He gets an idea.

Damien dries his hair and then his manhood with the blowdryer.

Damien gets out his box of 200 postcards and sits down, looking a lot like Homer Simpson in his tighty-whities. He scrawls away into the night.

Weeks go by and Damien wonders why he has not heard back. Damien turns on the television, as he has not been able to log onto Fakebook:

“Breaking news: Alabama lawmakers stalked by a mysterious Bourbonnais man. Over 200 postcards containing crude drawings were sent to Alabama politicians opposed to women’s reproductive rights. According to reports, some of the content contained references to so-called ‘MRAs’ or ‘Men’s Rights Activists’, a reactionary group known for their anti-feminist views. Some of the content could not be shown on TV. We will print his address for our viewers’ protection. Back to you.”

Damien gasps, gulping down six antacids to purposely constipate himself because he does not like pooping around people. He craps his pants anyway.

MoronicArts Classics: Sybil Sells Snake Oil on the Side?

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Sybil will do anything to make a buck. Spotting an ad for an MLM company, she gives it a go. “If the girls at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) can sell essential oils, I can do it too, only better!” Sybil tells herself. “There is a sucker born every minute.”

Wanting to outdo the competition, Sybil creates her own oil to sell. “Essential Snake Oil” Sybil dubs her new concoction, and she labels it “made from real snakes.”


What Sybil does not tell plan to tell her potential customers, is that her product contains no snake content at all. It is made from 100% Canola oil.


“I cannot wait to rip people off! With all the money I make, I can buy lots of dog food for dinner! Yum!” Sybil plots in her head.


The following day, Sybil heads to the cheapest grocery store in Bourbonnais to get canola oil. Customers looking for the best deal from nearby Manteno and Sybil’s hometown Kankakee look puzzled as a conniving Sybil fills her cart with gallons and gallons of canola.


As Sybil approaches the cashier with her cart, she can barely move, it is so heavy.


Sybil loads her stash onto the conveyor belt, and the clerk immediately gives Sybil the stinkeye. “You are sure buying a lot of oil there, girl! Are you frying up a bunch of fish?” The clerk giggles, unaware of the scheme Sybil is trying to cook up.

“Okay, ma’am, that will be $413.83.”


Sybil gets out her Wally Green’s credit card.


A few uncomfortable seconds pass, which seem like hours in Sybil’s mind.


“What is the matter?” gasps Sybil.


“Declined.”


Sybil’s heart sinks.


“This cannot be. Run it again!” Sybil snips.


The clerk ran the card two more times.


“Declined.”


“Get me your manager!” Sybil screams.


“I am the store manager and owner.”


“Why was my card declined?” Sybil asks defensively.


“NSF – Insufficient Funds. Pretty bad for a bill collector like you. There was a time I was down and out and you called my house relentlessly, usually at dinner time. I could not afford to make my payments because you doubled the amount you would accept. Now you are broke. What did you need all that oil for any way? Are you you going to oil a snake or something?”


Sybil backs away with her head down and slowly heads out the door, and to her home alone, in Kankakee.

MoronicArts Classics: Meet the Hurlbutts.

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Meet Kankakee bill-collector Sybil Kibble’s favorite neighbor and her wacky sons, The Hurlbutts.

On the right is Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt of Bourbonnais, IL. He is the 46 year old neckbeard son of Pearl Hurlbutt.

Communal narcissist Damien is divorced because he verbally abused his ex-wife Lori, to whom he only refers as “Grimace”. A shopping addict and hoarder, he would rather sleep on the floor and on top of his boxes than furniture, because he spends all his wages on impressing co-workers and single ladies when not buying useless crap he does not need. He mops up the lake he creates every time he showers with his moldy socks. Prone to outbursts and wearing socks with his $125.00 sandals, Damien thinks he is a hit with the ladies…yeah, no.

Damien works as a clerk at the local multiplex’s ticket counter. He offers free movie tickets to local and online young ladies in his feeble attempts to woo them. He snores incredibly loud due to his innattention to his diagnosed sleep apnea. He blocks his sleep doctor’s telephone calls on his flip phone so he can avoid dealing with it.

He loves to sleep and wishes he could sleep more, however he spends too much time lying awake thinking up new ways to emotionally swindle people. Damien was last seen outside Area 51.

In the middle stands Kankakee’s very own Pearl Josephine “PJ” Hurlbutt. She wears the same muu-muu inside and outside the house, every day of the week. She even had worn it into her call center job at CRASS, before she retired. Sybil Kibble thinks PJ is “just swell” and considers PJ her best friend.

On the left you see Robbie Roy Gary Hurlbutt of Kankakee, IL His mother PJ likes to brag about that time in Gary, Indiana when Robbie was conceived.

He is the 43 year old son of Pearl Hurlbutt and brother to Damien.

Robbie is a ladies’ man, Elvis-obsessed and is as big a hoarder as his brother Damien. He has a room in his apartment just for his record collection. He is 42 and never married; covert narcissist Robbie would rather “make love to the audience” at the Kankakee County karaoke bars because the women with whom he has been in relationships eventually have figured out his con game. When he is not committing love-fraud, petty criminal Robbie pals around sociopath Pat Splatt cooking up ways to rip off innocent people for fun and profit; ideas inspired by his father N. Ron Hurlbutt.

He is thoroughly convinced he is the reincarnation of Elvis and has an intense fear of being locked in a bathroom.

This Is A Buckstars

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“Where is the jungle gym?” Chanel Teirant asks the busy Bourbonnais café staff, while her sister * dances and brother Bratley joins her pirouette. Mother and Dumpster Clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant Cheers them on.

“Ma’am, this is a Buckstars.”

Fan Art – Damien Hurlbutt

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(Submitted by a fan who requested anonymity)

Over toward the right…that you Damien? Yup, somebody lurks in the shadows.

Thank you for painting the Bourbonnais MRA Club president, neckbeard and communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt into the background of your horror art!

Did I Rain on Your Parade, Madwoman?

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After her influencer application got rejected for PooPourri, Manteno entertainer, communal narcadoodle and Queen of the Porcelain Throne Bernadette Cacca contemplates her next idea, hoping to pitch it to the Buckstars baristas who pretend to care, but of course, don’t. Bernadette is on a campaign to promote irregularity.

Bernadette’s favorite coffee mug.

Bernadette Cacca nearly runs over JoAnn Kibble in the coffee line at the Bourbonnais Buckstars. She really needs to go number two but can’t.  Bern and her enabler extraordinaire, fellow Turdologist and zombie Greg Schneissder, wait by the rubbish sacks. She cannot wait to burn her poopies again.

Mrs. Kibble walks over to the garbage pails to toss away her old cup. “Excuse my reach” she says as she reaches in front of the self-proclaimed Queen of the Porcelain Throne.

“Same,” the entitled brat Bernadette snarks as undead Greg stands by her side, both practically on the receptacle containing the garbage sacks.

Konrad Teirant takes a break from cooking the CRASS books to drink down a drink that’s brown, taking along his wife Madeline Topolla-Teirant to the Buckstars, who had left work early at her job mismanaging Kankakee’s Best Low Budget Apartments.

Bored out of his skull, Kon looks to his right and starts chatting up two college students who recently moved to Kankakee from the Middle East. Visions of converting these young, impressionable minds to Flat-Earthers fill the other-wise empty head of the fool that is Mr. Teirant.

“Where are you from?”

“Iraq,” the young lady replies.

“I moved here from Iran,” the Kon-Man bold-faced lies, hoping to gain rapport with the potential converts, using his foolish assumption that all Middle Eastern countries are the same. 

“Aren’t you from Aroma Park?” the college student asks.

“Anyway, I own a multiplex here in Bourbonnais. I have traveled all over the world, went down to South America during the pandemic. They let me go despite the travel restrictions…” the grandiose narcissist Konrad continues spinning his played-out yarns, spouse Madeline by his side, staring off into the distance hoping her hubby shuts up.

“And Australia. I would go there, but it’s not a real place. Just a fantasy made up by the globe-heads.”

The two 20-somethings roll their collective eyes.

“The world is flat you see. Take a brochure from me, and get a dollar off a matinee at Cinema-13 if you join The Flat Earth Society.”

The two ladies grab their coffees and go, leaving behind the Kon-man, his wife and the leaflet.

“What is up with that one tenant who never comes our of her apartment? Tamika? She is a mystery. I bet she holds parties in there, has gold bars in her closet and keeps all sorts of gentleman suitors!” the nosey Madeline Topolla-Teirant asks her husband Konrad.

The neighbor:

“This is the biggest zit I ever popped! Look at all that fatty oil stuff! Thar she blows!”

“Guys it’s time to partteeeeee!” Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments Owner, sociopath and dumpster clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant commands as she fakes a smile.

Madeline want to get this party started quickly

Our first act is The Chickenheads! Rappers Ty-Fowl and D-Fail from 601B and 706B! 

A slow clap emerges out of the awkward silence.

“We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score.

We’re poor, we’re poor and we don’t score.

Every hoop we shoot is a whiff!

Every shot we make is a miss…”

“Why won’t this go down? Darn it. I forgot this FussPot only takes four sheets of half-ply toilet paper and I used five!” 

Tamika Euforia calls her landlord. Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments’ answering machine picks up. Tamika calls twice more. Sadly, Tamika again goes to voicemail jail.

Meanwhile, her toilet overflows and rains down on the party below.

The crowd screams and disperses. Madeline runs upstairs.

“Oh good, glad you came.”

“What did you put down your toilet?”

“Umm, poop and pee.“

“We were having a party down there and I had to come all the way up one flight of stairs to fix YOUR toilet!” the dumpster-clown huffs, puffs.

“Did I rain on your parade?” Tamika giggles as she leaves her unit, heading up to Chicago to have fun for a change.

Moronic Crime Rings and Things

~ Jen ~ 6 Comments

Multiplex clerk, fedora-sporting neckbeard and Communal narcadoodle Damien Hurlbutt desperately wants to impress his new girlfriend, Rachel Shelley, into coming back to visit him in Bourbonnais, Illinois from Detroit. However, he is as broke as a joke from his toy hoarding.

He comes up with a plan. Damien dials up his vulnerable narcissist brother Robbie and asks if he can steal some identities. He offers some of his duplicate record albums as payment.

“I can part with my poorer copies of ‘Broken’ by The Favorites, my extra Walter Egans and all my Jewel records. I can throw in some Katy Scarys if you want, too…” Damien explains to Robbie, a Kankakee Elvis impersonator and pharmacy clerk.

Robbie jumps at the opportunity to add to his own hoard.

Robbie gets busy calling local con man Pat Splatt and the two devise a way to break into local sweetheart, single lady Kitty Bee’s computer to steal her identity. Feeling dejected from having been rejected in 1993 after Pat had made a pass at her, Pat decides Kitty is a perfect target for moronic revenge.

Robbie successfully steals Kitty’s credit card information and buys 18 bottles of dehydrated water and six tubs full of fat-free oil from Wally Green’s online mall. Damien thought these new inventions would impress Rachel in her fruitless efforts to lose weight, and who else to mansplain but Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt? “Throw in some cubic zirconia rings. She’ll never know they’re fake,” a bulbous Damien commands his brother Robbie.

Robbie Hurlbutt: Kankakee’s Number One Elvis Impersonator

“You got it.” Robbie smirks, a crooked grin fills half his face, almost touching one of his blue-black mutton chops.

Damien tips his black fedora, the one with which he hatfished Rachel. After all, how would the public — whom he works so hard to impress — know his “medium” bald spot takes up his entire head? He enters the washroom and sits on the potty.

“Oh kids!”

“What kids?” A quizzical Robbie asks Damien.

“Oh kids. Ohhh kids!”

A loud splash is heard from the washroom.

Damien is so proud of his poopies

“Pheeeew!” Damien cries and waves his hand by his bum.

He emerges and sprinkles his newly washed hands all over Robbie and roommate Andy’s living-room carpet, using it as a bathmat, and at Robbie as well.

“I just left a huge stinker in your toity. Would you like to see it?” a proud Damien boasts.

“Just leave the door open and don’t close it if I am in there.” Robbie says.

“You’re not Elvis, just an impersonator.”

Two days later, the stolen goods arrive at Damien’s Bourbonnais apartment. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Damien exclaims as his next-door neighbor gives him the stinkeye.

Damien wraps the stolen, useless crap into prank boxes, boxes inside larger, nested boxes, and oddly shaped packaging, taping each package with hard-to-open packing tape to extend his desired cliffhanging effect on Rachel Shelley.

“I can’t wait to videotape Rachel, the expression on her face when she opens all those gifts from ME!” Damien says to himself, wearing a huge grin.

Damien Hurlbutt basks in the glory of his own narc-capades

Damien finishes up his hours of taping, wrapping and more taping. He tests out his camcorder and memory card. He is all set for his catch.

Rachel walks in the next day, much later than Damien anticipates. Damien tips his fedora. “Hello, M’lady, Madame.”

“Yup. Hey.”

“Good to see you, do I get a hug?”

“Sure.”

The two embrace.

“Turn around and close your eyes. I am going to take your hand, honey puddin”.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“But I say it because I love you. You’re so little and dainty.”

“Grrrr.” Rachel emits.

“Now take my hand. I have a little surprise for my honey puddin.”

Damien begins secretly rolling tape and then takes Rachel’s hand, leading her into his cluttered kitchen.

“Now open your eyes, M’lady.”

Rcahel opens her eyes, displaying her typical blank expression.

“I bought all these gifts for YOU!”

Rachel cracks half a grin.

“Now I want you to open this one first.”

Rachel opens the huge, nested box.

“Dehydrated water? Ohhh-kayyyy…”

“Yeah. I thought you might like it. I bought it at Wally Green’s. It was buy one get one half off. Now open this one.”

Damien shoves another large box over to Rachel. She opens box after box, finally revealing its contents.

“Fat free oil?”

“Yeah. You could use it to cook. After all, you need to lose weight and I want to help!”

Rachel begins to scowl.

“Oh, now you will really love this. Women love small boxes.”

Damien hands Rachel another box, which she also struggles to open.

“Why do you use so much tape? Packing tape too? Did you run out of regular tape?”

“Oh this is regular tape.” Damien snickers. Rachel finally gets the package open. “I got you a sparkly!” Damien exclaims. “Not only one but 17 of them!”

Rachel tips the box on its side and reads the label. “Cubic…zirconia.”

Damien’s face turns cherry red.

Music is heard from the other room.

“That’s my phone.”

Rachel gathers the boxes and walks away. Damien checks the tape. Rachel walks back in and Damien jumps, startled, and hides what he was doing.

“Hi honey.”

“Oh hey, I gotta go. Thanks for the stuff.”

“Yeah honey puddin. Where you going?”

“Out.” Rachel declares and heads out with the stuff Damien gave her.

Damien is all alone. Sirens are now wailing from the distance, getting louder as the seconds pass. Damien is shaking but trying not to show it. A knock is heard at his door. It is just what he fears.

Rachel arrives at her lover Leon Peeone’s apartment.

“Hey Leon, I got some crap to sell so we can get some more hard stuff.” The two laugh but not for long. Neither one of them are too bright.