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— Sybil Kibble, Kankakee
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Ever want to know where wannabe ladies’ man, covert narcadoodle, and Kankakee’s Number One Elvis impersonator Robert Roy Gary Hurlbutt was conceived?
Neither does he. Robbie’s mother PJ Hurlbutt loves to remind her son where she got one of his two middle names in front of his boss, customers and potential girlfriends the groovy time she and his father N. Ron had one night in early 1978.
Wally Green’s word-salad adapter for the Turd Machine Deluxe.
Twelve turd machines left. Someone stole eight of them!” Bernadette growls angrily and proceeds to mount not one but four turd machines, including one she aims out her kitchen window directly at Gothic Diana Ross’ slate Victorian house.
The next day, Gothic Diana Ross briefly steps outdoors to check her mail.
“Bang bang, you’re dead, fifty bullets in the head” Bernadette sings as she cranks the turd machine, firing at Diana and missing every shot. Diana makes it inside, unscathed but angry.
FULL STORY:
Business is crappy at Peppi’s Portapotties and there has been a brownout at the spectacle known as the Manteno Optimal Club. Despite offering “free tickets” to Robbie Hurlbutt, Madeline Topolla-Teirant, Konrad Teriant, Judi Avelli, her mother Carla and the Cheshire Cat, nobody’s falling for the “two drink minimum” scam anymore.
Needing take make extra dough, bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca applies for a job at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), the company at which nearly all of Kankakee County has worked at one time. She is so good at annoying people that Clio Bersola hires her right on the spot.
“Would you like take a survey?” Bernadette asks her first caller. “You have been specially selected because your opinion matters!”
“Would you like take a survey?”
“Would you like take a survey?”
“You have been specially selected.”
“Your opinion matters!”
Instead of hounding people for money or craptocoin tips, the wrestler once known as The Manteno Wonder haunts CRASS debtors and creditors with survey spam.
The calls go on and on.
“Is she that weird lady who works down at that Manteno port-o-dump facility?” Dale asks Polly.
“Oh yeah, I see her on TV all the time. Those ads drive me crazy!”
“Just another day in Kank!”
The collectors share a chuckle.
“Good job, keep it up. You’re the only person who applied for this job, so we hired you. What’s your name again?” Sybil says.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the show-tune cover queen and portapotty empress Bernie asks her boss.
“Um…no. That’s why I asked you.”
“I do the charity gigs at the Manteno Optimal Club! I sing showtunes, play piano and blow vuvuzela horn.”
“Well don’t blow this job.”
Sybil goes to Schmucks a few days later to stock up on her Alpo meals. Not finding good deals on her favorite food, she walks across the street to the Wally Green’s and gets one can at regular price and another for half-off (but never free). While browsing the Sleevies, StrangleTangles and Turd Machine Deluxes, her new employee runs up to her as if to hug her, unfortunately.
“Hi there, my fabulous boss!”
“I’m busy.”
“Let me drive you home.”
“No thanks, my car is a block away from here.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have to drive in the rain.”
Not wanting to isolate her new hire, Sybil reluctantly wheels her doggie bags to the trunk of Bernie’s poopmobile and gets in front. Before she has a chance to close the car door, let alone don her seat belt, Bernadette peels out of the Wally Green’s parking lot.
“Slow down there…Nelly.”
“My name’s not Nelly.”
“OK, just drop me off at Schmucks. I took the preggers parking spot. Nobody’s gonna look inside my womb to verify.”
Bernadette loads the heavy cans into Sybil’s car.
“Call me if you need anything, pal!”
“Yeah sure, thanks!”
Sybil drives her white Chrysler LeBaron home, makes sure the oil is not low, and carries her suppers inside. While munching on some milk bones, Sybil checks her voicemail.
“This is a reminder call for: Sybil Kibble. You have a colonoscopy scheduled in three weeks. Please call us back to confirm your appointment. Be sure to have a driver because you cannot legally drive the day of your procedure.”
“Oh crap. I forgot about that.”
Trying to find someone to bring you to a procedure is as bad as finding people to help you move.
Sybil calls down to her mother and asks if she can bring her.
“No, I’m playing Bingo with the girls that day,” JK yells up to her daughter from her basement apartment’s air vent.
She reluctantly calls Dale Davis, even though she’s the object of his unwanted affection.
“No boss, I have to work that day. You scheduled me, remember?”
Out of options, The Kibbler texts The Manteno Wonder.
“Oh yeah, I will take the day off just for you.” Bernadette replies, then she poops.
Bernadette repeatedly texts Sybil daily to ask if she needs any supplies, toilet paper or liquids. However, Sybil says no thanks to the offers, except for the dog food one.
“My two favorite words, free food!” Sybil tells Mrs. Cacca.
“You’re the best!”
Something does not feel right about her newly found friend (not to be confused with Newly Formed Turds). “How can someone be so fond of me, so quickly?” Sybil writes in her diary. “I walk away from her with a funny taste in my mouth but I cannot quite put my finger on it.”
The weather has cooled off a bit in the two-and-a-half weeks which have passed. It’s Friday night after a long, stressful week at work, and Sybil is happy to be back at her Kankakee home.
“Can you come over and check to see if I locked my door?” Bernadette texts, asking about her shack up in Manteno.
Sybil plays The Crushing Candy Game for an hour and then texts Bernie back, “yeah, it’s locked” before going back to her phone, then watches some Unsolved Mysteries.
Sybil texts Bernie to ask for some toilet paper, however she gets no reply.
She shoots another text: “I’ll give you a ten.”
Another hour passes, so she sends out her ma to get the TP instead.
It’s the Sunday before her procedure. Between potty runs, Sybil texts Bernadette to confirm the time tomorrow. An hour passes, no answer. She calls Bernie, who answers after the third try.
“What do you want?” Bernadette snarks.
“I’m just calling to confirm the time you’re come getting me.”
“Just have them call me when you’re ready. I’m not going in.”
“You ARE bringing me TO and FROM my procedure right?”
“I have to meet someone by 9:30 for a portapotty job.
“OK, just pick me up at 8:45.”
“That’s fine. But I’m not signing any paperwork.”
After a very long, sore night, it’s now the bottom of the hour on colonoscopy day.
Bernadette peels onto Sybil Lane and into Ms. Kibble’s driveway.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah, I’ve been going all night!”
Awkward silence passes.
Bern Cacca — the proud G.G. Allin fan and craptocoin miner — does not even flinch at Sybil’s poop joke.
“Just give me directions.”
Despite looking so good on the outside by giving her a lift, the charity-side-show-queen Bernadette does not even bother to ask Sybil how she’s feeling.
“Just have them call me. But, I’m not signing any papers.”
“What do you mean by not signing papers, if you don’t mind I ask?”
“I don’t want to sign anything I don’t know what I’m signing up for.”
“They might need you to sign a discharge paper, to say you are picking me up, that’s it.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll have them call you.”
Bernadette still does not even ask Sybil how she’s feeling, and instead pulls away. Sybil enters the outpatient facility to bravely face the her anal probe alone.
The procedure goes well. Sybil enjoys the best 10 minutes of sleep ever, and then awakens in the recovery room full of people fart-fart-farting away.
“Good news, Ms. Kibble. I circled Uranus and found no Klingons.”
“Great news doc. Have you got ahold of my ride?”
“We’ll have the nurse keep trying.”
Eventually Bernadette pulls into the outpatient facility.
“Slow down!” the guard warns her.
Sybil Kibble gets wheeled to Bernie’s car and she gets in. “How’d it go?” Bernie asks Sybil.
“It went well. No abnormalities.”
“Did they use real anesthesia?”
“No…just the Fisher Price kind.” Sybil deadpans.
“Great, let’s get you home.”
Bernadette spends the whole ride home complaining about “the sky poop” and her online battles with people who “don’t get her revolutionary ideas,” because “it must be that Manteno water,” while explaining in detail every little chore she has done for CRASS, The Poopy Groupies and The Manteno Optimal Club.
What doesn’t Bernadette do? Ask Sybil how she’s feeling, of course. Instead she peels into the Kibble homestead’s driveway, dumps Sybil on her doorstep like a turd, peels out and waves, evil grin showing off the barely good deed she did for a fellow citizen. She cannot wait to brag about this all over Fakebook and Instaspam!
Mrs. Cacca shows up for work at CRASS the next day, walks in the door bright and cheery, mouth wide open as if to catch a fly, eyes as cold as always to hide her daily fear and self-loathing. She struts right by Sybil’s cubicle, and toward Marketing until Sybil calls her name at the top of her lungs:
“B. M. Cacca, come to my cubicle now!” The call center floor giggles.
Bernadette sits down at her desk in Marketing, defying her boss’ orders.
“Bern Cacca, please see Sybil Kibble immediately,” Accounts Receivable Chief Tara Bull calls over the intercom.
Bernadette chooses to ignore the page, so Sybil walks over to her instead, stack of papers in hand.
Sybil faces Bernadette.
“Your position has been eliminated due to lack of business needs. Resign immediately or be terminated.”
“I told you, I’m not signing anything!”
“OK. You’re fired. You have a 30 minute window to clean out your desk before Security escorts you out the door.”
“I WANT to SPEAK to the MANAGER!”
“I AM the manager.”
“No, YOUR MANAGER!” Karen — err — Bernadette, cries, throwing a toddler-tantrum.
“I’m giving you five minutes to leave,” a tall, fit, medium skinned woman wearing box braids demands.
“Do you know who I am?” Bernadette asks.
“No, do you know who I am?”
“I need the manager STAT!”
“I AM the manager. Leave now before we prepare the trebuchet.”
“Can I go to the washroom first?
“That’s it!”
A tiny violin is heard over the intercom, then Sybil’s voice commands: “YEET!”
The entire company cheers as Bernadette gets flung to lawd-only-knows-where.
“I wonder how she is feeling now?” Ms. Kibble giggles to herself before taking another supervisor call.
Psychic vampyre rabbit Missy Hey works at Wally Green’s collecting blood in their lab after dark, before the sun comes up.
A customer runs up to the counter near the drawing station to complain.
“I pulled in at the stroke of midnight. It’s now 2:00 AM. Do you know where your patients are?”
“Heyyyy! Guess what? I have a bone to pick with you. There’s no way you’ve been waiting two hours, I saw you coming before you got here.”
“You may be psychic but you don‘t know everything!” the customer understandably reacts to Missy’s dismissal of his concerns.
“I’ve been working here 38 nights! I know every vampire in town. I’ve been in this job longer than any one else in Kankakee County! Don’t I know you from the refuge?”
“What refuge? Do you mean the homeless shelter? That was 8 years ago.”
“No the refuge.”
“The refugee center? I have been volunteering there but it’s been awhile since they needed me.”
Wally’s getting fed up with his lab tech. “I’m giving you a written warning, Missy, you’re not making production because you talk too much with the patients. We are losing a lot of money and that’s why I opened this business, to make as much as possible. Just get your work done or you’re fired!”
Feeling the heat from her write-up, Missy applies to work for “Scary” Barry Reynolds at his new School of Mixed Moronic Arts in a strip mall in Noble County Indiana so she can annoy people over there instead. “I love to talk” is listed in her unique set of qualifications along with a set of bowling scores on her “psychic vampyre” resume.
Feeling so impressed by her credentials, Barry unexpectedly hires her after asking only two interview questions from his office near the Northeast border of Indiana and Ohio.
Barry immediately puts Missy to work as his new secretary, working evening shifts.
”Hey! This is Missy from Barry’s School of Mixed Moronic Arts. Call me back to confirm your class or we will have to cancel.”
She makes calls to bother customers four times nightly to “confirm” their appointments, hound them about their bills and missed classes, even after they ask her to stop calling.
“Hey! I’m Missy calling to remind you that you’ve not been to Mixed Moronic Arts in 30 days. You need to keep coming in to keep your membership active. We are open from 7:30 PM till 3:00 AM every week from Monday through Friday. Thankies!”
Message deleted.
“You have a sexy voice, I bet you’re handsome!”
Click.
“Why is that same blue van here? It’s blocking my view. Its registration expired four years ago, it’s such an eyesore…” Missy bothers her boss.
“It’s from the guy that was squatting next door and hoarding. He had done got it removed two weeks ago. Don’t it smell better over yonder now?”
“I went bowling and got a 99 in two games!”
Missy hounds a new student who had just walked in the door. “Why are you wearing THAT? It looks terrible.”
“Missy, just ask them to change into their uniform and remove their shoes.” Barry commands.
She then walks over to the audio room near the dojo and attempts to mix CDs like records on a turntable.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m a deejay!”
Barry — and his students — have had enough of Missy’s antics.
Barry her puts her in the dojo for others spar, accidentally forgetting on purpose to tell them that Missy has no scythe-fencing skills, nor psychic-self-defense, just plenty of offense. He watches from his washroom while eating popcorn., practicing his defensive pooping.
Every year on September 31, Kankakee debt collection firm Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) wants staff to bring their parents in to have fun at their team-building events like the Medicine Pronouncing Contest, Browser Loading Race and Bill-Collector Speed Dating.
Collections Team Leader Sybil Kibble brought her ma JoAnn to enjoy learning how to bother people on the phone to ask for money they likely do not even owe, and her mother took 3rd prize in the CRASS Idol singing competition. Sybil took last place because her mouth was full of dog bones while she tried to belt a tune.
“Try my new Word Salad Adapter, compatible with all Turd Machine Deluxe models! Buy one, get one half off (but never free)” at your corner Wally Green’s!
Be sure to store your Wally Green’s debit card in your spring-loaded Wallyt!
Oh and ladies, I am single and ready to mingle! Tell me your sign and I will tell you about the time my distant ancestors once owned the deed to Manhattan only to be stolen by pirates!
– Walter Augustine Green
Owner of Schneissder’s Sewer Service, Manteno moron, sociopath and zombie Gregory Albert Schneissder thinks his crap does not stink.
This 62 year old fartknocker sports a head full of salt and pepper hair, usually covered up by a ball cap. His eyes glow red and he eats brains for dinner.
Gregory is Chronic; paranoid people will steal his stash, Greg flashes his dime-bag full of perfectly cultivated buds on the bus when he is spaced out on coke he snorted while coming down off a weed high. Yes, he is that dumb.
This Miami Dolphenergans fan gate-keeps in Fakebook groups. Greg brags about his biggest life achievement, having seen someone in 1991 going down the road who owned one. The one-and-only 1988 Chrysler Conquest – just like the one Gothic Diana Ross drives – Greg witnessed the most important event in his life and tells everybody about it.
Undead Greg stopped driving due to DUIs; he lost his license before the slow-burn-virus took over his undead corpse. Now he can only watch people going down the road who own one. He is butthurt because he no longer can legally hunt down the living driving his Ford imbecile machine, covered in obnoxious decals, bearing wheels way too large for the body.
Ableist as it gets, Greg audibly harasses disabled folks on the bus, stalking them in cafés. He thinks they should work and accuses every disabled young person of “faking it” and tag teams with his BFF Pris Dixon to bully strangers since he is a scared wuss with no life.
Bern Cacca’s biggest fan, Greg made a BernCacca Fans facebook account.
He desperately needs a hobby (besides devouring the living). Manteno residents hope he gets one soon.
Narcissists want to buy your time…so they can waste it…over and over without paying.
Gothic Diana Ross is busy minding her own business at her specialist’s waiting room up at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago. A routine follow-up appointment, Miss Ross would rather be home having fun singing with Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary, instead of waiting in a crowded room full of strangers.
An hour passes by and Di still has not been called.
“Hey, I’m Greg Schneissder. Are you from Manteno?”
”Ummm…” Diana rolls her eyes and looks away from the undead Greg,
“I saw one of your shows, you ladies are so beautiful and talented.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know Pat Splatt?”
“Yeah…no. Eew.”
“Pat is one of the coolest guys around! I hang around him and Bernadette Cacca.”
Diana freezes from panic, already nervous awaiting her lab results.
“Don’t. Mention. Bernadette.”
“Oh why? She is the the nicest person around! And so famous! I see her picture in the paper a lot. She’s a celebrity. Wasn’t she on that Human Body Odor Channel show?”
Diana rolls her eyes.
“How can you say anything bad about her?”
“Stop.”
“I am gonna complain. You are harassing me now. Nobody talks bad about Bern Cacca!”
Di looks at the lady across from her.
“I am sure he was just trying to help.”
“Really? Just…no.”
“How do you know?”
“Just leave me the feck alone.”
“I am gonna just leave. I can’t be at this office where people talk badly about other people!” Greg whinges as he storms down the stairs.
“Deeanna?”
“It’s Diana…grrr.”
Diana grabs her patent leather sack and follows the medical office assistant to be roomed.
It begins to rain, the clouds taking a massive whizz all over Northern Illinois. Thankfully Diana merges her black 1988 Chrysler Conquest onto 90/94 safely and avoids rush-hour traffic to head south on I-57 toward her home in Manteno. Mind clear from a clean bill of health, the slender gothic beauty slides into her canopy bed, the silky black sheets comforting her as she drifts off to her internship in Hell.
Two hours later, Diana wakes up in a panic, startled by a moron who thought it would be cute to crawl into her bed.
“You know Diana, your music would sound better if you articulated your words better.”
A stunned Diana looks over.
“You forgot to lock your door, hon.”
“Get the freak outta my house and my bed!” Diana screams at the top of her lungs and chases out the bored poopy-burner and communal narcadoodle, next-door neighbor Bernadette Moran Cacca.
“How dare you talk bad about my beloved Bernadette!” Gregory Albert Schneissder screams at Diana about the crowd-pleaser for whom he created the Fakebook account “BMCacca Fannn.”
Diana slams the slate door to her Victorian Gothic home.
Gregory slithers over to Bernadette and the pair head upstairs to Bern’s bedroom.
“Can you just, like, not fart in front of me?” Greg asks his date Bernadette Cacca during their date netting some flicks while hoping to chill.
“No, honey.”
”You don’t fart on stage at those charity events where you sing and play kazoo requests to raise money for the Manteno Optimal Club and for Ukraine.”
“No need to gas-sleight me!”
“You gaslit me!” Greg retorts.
“No, I mean, I need to fart. Farting is healthy. I will implode if I don’t rip ‘em when I need to.”
The swamp-witch Bernadette lifts her leg and her bum goes boom.
A wild Gothic Diana Ross appears in the foreground.
”Heave-ho! Where are your enablers now? Bwa ha ha ha ha!” The Gothic Boss Miss Ross interjects as she yeets the communal narcadoodle Bern halfway down the staircase, and the Midnight Supremes chuck her bum-licker Greg, spocking the pallino down the stairs.
“You left your front door open…” Diana addresses the undead mess spilled all over the basement floor with a smile.
”What did those stairs do to deserve that punishment?” Gothic Mary jokes as the Midnight Supremes leave in amusement.
Slumlord, malignant narcissist and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran squawks and lets loose the gasp of her ego’s death after finding out that the tenants in one of her buildings have organized and formed an association. After all, they’ve got that right, but Sonya does not want them to have it because she’s a moron.
Even though not doing the damage is, you know, cheaper and more effective than damage control, she attempts to ban her tenants’ meeting by arguing and flapping her wings out of retaliation.
Her song and dance fails to make an impression on a single, rightfully-fed up resident. The maladapted personality — whose empathy cells fell out her brain aeons ago — starts casing her tenants across Northern Illinois and Indiana looking for drugs to steal when they are not at home. After all, she has the master key, so why not (so she thinks, anyway).
Sonya gets mixed up along the way, lost in flight across the Midwest and out toward California.
Hoping to get high after watching some Breaking Bad, she makes a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Oops! Not anticipating consequences just like any other run of the mill narcadoodle, Sonya soars into the airspace at Groom Lake and gets shot down.
After captured, the Area 51 folks run experiments on the shapeshifting humanoid vulture known as Sonya Moran. They don’t know what they are dealing with, so they draw blood, run her through an MRI machine and slide a scope through her beak to identify the creepy cryptid. Then she poops.
Sonya gets arrested for FUI (flying under the influence), her blood chock full of all that Adderal she sniffed chasing the dragon up and down. Then she gets thrown into the cage of fellow test subject, neckbeard Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt. Damien gives her the bedroom eyes, a gaze she quickly returns.
“Hello, M’lady, Madame!”
“Oh no, that thing is gonna mate! Quick, yeet her!”
“No wait, this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” the fellow biologist tells her superior, as the two caged crooks enjoy their conjugal visit.
Meanwhile, Area 51 researchers compare Sonya’s DNA results against the cells-interlinked forensic database. “She’s no angel.” It’s the tip of the iceberg, leading authorities to discover Sonya’s secrets and perhaps the literal skeletons in her closet.
Sonya gets put in restraints and through a series of experiments in the Pain Tolerance Department. A technician force-feeds Sonya 50 hotdogs. Then she pukes them up. Next, a team of scientists slowly play Katy Perry music louder and louder, almost to the volume of a chain-restaurant washroom. Lastly, they bring in an exorcist to pay Sonya a visit.
“Self-reflection is hard, but important Sonya. Have you ever, in one moment, considered that YOU are the problem?”
“Grfhdihfowehfwfhwufthouwofghuwgt!!!”
“I cast thee out in the name of Jesus!”
Sonya pukes up more of those darned hotdogs.
Not knowing what to do with their newly discovered cryptid, the biology team put her back in the cell with Damien.
TO BE CONTINUED
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