Communal narcissist Bernadette Cacca loves all the attention she is getting at the Manteno High School awards ceremony all students were forced to attend, complaining she might have to move closer to the aisle because she keeps getting up to receive buttloads of awards. Pat Splatt, meanwhile is bored out of his skull and Gothic Diana Ross is pleading to her homeroom teacher to take her out of her misery.
“Mary” from Delhi, India called from a spoofed New York number to ask nosey medical questions. I wasted her time boring her about Gothic Diana Ross, Peppi’s Portopotties and Norilsk, Russia so she cannot use that time to try and scam other people.
Bernadette Cacca has the voice of an angel and the soul of the devil.
Peppi Cacca has the voice of a daemonic troll.
“I got a new gig! And it’s a national one!” Manteno communal narcissist Bern Cacca exclaims to her sociopathic husband and entremanure Peppi, mouth wide open as if to catch a fly.
“Lemme guess…your aunt got you on the front page of the Kankakee Sentinel again.”
“More charity shows to make you look good, pretending to care while you don’t? You’re a really good actress,” Peppi emphatically tells his wife.
“Yeah, I know. Not this time.”
“Another recurring walk-on role for a show you can only see on one certain app?”
“Nope. This one is bigger!”
“I don’t care but tell me anyway, I have skunk-weed to smoke after my date with the bottle. Then I have to go harass our next-door neighbors.”
“Out of Warranty Experience hired me for their robocalls! Everybody in the nation will hear wonderful ME tell them their car is out of warranty!” Bern says with glee, then rips a fart. “Mmmmmmm. I love that smell.”
Peppi pounds on the air vent cover to remove his dope from the stash he hides in the duct, rolls up a skunky joint and crawls outside.
“Git-git-git-git-git-git” the clowny Peppiwise calls from the manhole down in front of The Midnight Supremes’ black Victorian Gothic home next door.
“No thanks, you can keep your candy” says Gothic Diana Ross toward the sound coming from the gutter.
A skunky stench emerges from the drain, but not from poop. This is a water drain.
“Do you have something better to do? I’m not interested and never will be.”
Peppi’s ego deflates as Gothic Diana continues to ignore his plea for attention and goes inside and starts band practice.
Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes get ready to play, beginning with the number “Stop in the Name of Death.”
“Check-check, 1-2-1-2. Six Six. Why is this mic not working?” a frustrated Gothic Diana asks her cover band.
Diana opens up the battery cover. “Dead as a doornail.”
“Why don’t you bury them?” Gothic Flo jokes.
“We should have a funeral,” deadpans Miss Gothic Mary.
As the trio begins the dead batteries’ funeral rites, their ceremony gets interrupted by a phone call.
“Hey” answers Gothic Diana, putting her phone on speaker, hoping the band is getting called about a new gig.
“Don’t make the mistake of driving without a warranty…” the robocall commands. “This is the final call before we close the file. Press one to speak”
“I’ll press you, stupid moron!” Gothic Diana exclaims.
“She sounds familiar. Who is that?” Gothic Flo asks.
“Don’t know, don’t care.” Diana replies.
“Hey, methinks it’s that actor lady next door…the one who owns a port-a-potty business with her husband. Hey Mary, what’s her name?”
“Bern Cacca. She burns poop in their fireplace.”
“Ohhh, that’s why we smell her crap. Does she think it does not stink?” Mary jokes as the girl group erupts in laughter.
Gothic Diana walks outside her home to go for a brisk walk. She hears a sound off in the distance: “git-git-git-git-git.”
“Oh no, not Peppiwise again,” Diana says to herself as she passes by another rain gutter.
The 5’10”, slender beauty in the black dress gets another cell phone call.
“Don’t make the mistake of going without a warranty…”
“I’ll get a warrant alright, for her arrest!”
Gothic Diana walks over to the house of her Manteno neighbor Bern Cacca to give her a piece of her mind. However there is a line of angry neighbors queued around the street wanting to also have a word with Mrs. Cacca. They knock, to no avail.
“Git-git-git-git-git” emerges from the sewer drain.
“I don’t want to litter, however I have no choice” Diana says as she goes to drop the leaking, dead batteries from her microphone into the nearest gutter. Before she has a chance, Bern comes a-running.
“Git-git-git!” sounds Peppi’s mating call.
“Oh I am here, honey!” an attracted Bern Cacca says as she runs to her hubby hiding out in the sewer.
Plop. “Oops did I do that?” Gothic Diana thinks out loud as she drops the dead AA Imbecells into the drain.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Peppi exclaims, barely dodging the battery acid.
Needless to say, Bern and Peppi’s romantic moment was ruined.
The crestfallen Caccas retire to their shack next-door to the Midnight Supremes.
As they drift off to sleep, sirens grow louder, and a knock is heard at the Caccas’ entrance.
“Hee-hee” Gothic Diana says as she fist-bumps The Midnight Supremes.
Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Accounting Chief Konrad Teirant is having trouble balancing the assets against the liabilities, even after having cooked the books to a carbonized mess.
Chief Executive Officer Mack. E. Avelli calls in Konrad to hold a meeting.
“Kon, if we cannot make ourselves look good to our investors, we are going to fail as a company. I don’t need you to be honest about it, I need you to make us some more money. Just get it done.”
“I’ll think up something. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Good,” the fifty-something Mack says to Konrad and starts texting his 22-year-old wife Judithann.
It is midnight here in Kankakee.
The fire alarm sounds for the third time this week at the low-income housing complex, complete with strobe lights, sirens and a man’s voice repeating the same message over and over again.
As the residents of this sorry apartment building wake up and use the bathroom, Moronic Half-Assets (MHA) takes the elevator up to each floor in the tower.
“It is midnight and you know what time that is! Come on, guys, let’s all dance! Didn’t you see that four-page flyer we left on all of your doors telling you to exercise more? We knocked on your doors because we had nothing better to do! Resident deejay Konrad is on the ones and twos!” exclaims property manager, half-wit and overt narcissist Madeline Topolla-Teirant.
DJ Konrad Teirant picks some records out of his crate, and begins spinning and scratching, rapping over the music.
Resident Tyrell Fowler — out in the hall wondering what the racket is about — explains to Konrad “dude, you cannot scratch 1950s love songs,” and walks back into his unit.
“Let’s get out the glowsticks everybody!” Madeline says as she pulls them from the fire-hose compartment on the wall.
Robbie sings Elvis tunes as he dances away, doing moronic martial arts moves on the in-between.
The MHA troupe packs up their party-gear and heads upstairs to the next floor in the tower.
When the crew are all done waking up their residents, they head downstairs to the office and turn off the alarms. Finally those poor residents can get some sleep.
“Here is your check, Kon. We will write it off as a business expense here at the complex.”
“Great, I will bring it to CRASS tomorrow,” Kon tells his wife and they head home.
“Oh good, I got it,” a resident says sitting in her bed, as she reviews the video she recorded on her phone.
Konrad Teirant heads into the CRASS office, strutting along the halls with a turd-eating-grin across his face as he makes his way over to the office of his supervisor, Mack E. Avelli.
“Kon! You have a great smile! You should smile more often.”
Kon hands Mack the check.
“Oh good! Now you can keep your job!” Mack tells his subordinate Konrad.
Kon says nothing and heads back into his office to cook more books.
Meanwhile, the CRASS phones light up like a Christmas tree. However the increased call volume is not from debtors calling back the CRASS collectors.
“I saw that video on the news, your accounting dude and his buddies woke some poor folks up in the middle of the night hosting some hokey rave party? What were you thinking?”
“Hey, this Trisha Cobb, better known as Gothic Diana Ross. You know, from The Midnight Supremes? We saw what you did when we watched the news. That’s not cool.”
“Hello, this message is for Mr. Avelli. I am Geoff, an auditor with the firm Deltoid & Tush. We were asked to contact you about your accounting records. We are stopping by in an hour.”
“Kon, how do we cook the books now? Ya better cook them good this time,” Mack shouts to an empty room. Since he was up half the night, Kon took the rest of the day off to go home and now he is fast asleep, sawing a forest.
Looking for a dog-food date, Sybil Kibble places a want-ad. Look at all those hot contenders!
“Been drinkin’ again?” Manteno narcissist Bernadette Cacca asks her husband, sociopath and portapotty co-proprietor Peppi Cacca.
“Can you blame me?” Peppi replies as he takes another moonshine swig from a jug marked “XXX”.
“I want a new drug,” Peppi thinks to himself, “one that won’t make me heave.”
Peppi Cacca knows crap is king, after all he and Bern own a portopotty business. Bored with binge-watching the Crap Me Outside Girl rapping on TakTik, Peppi starts looking for videos on how to get high on uTube. After scrolling through pages of unpredictable results, Peppi sits through a four minute commercial and watches a video filmed at Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.
“Plutonium tastes sweet” the presenter announces.
Intrigued, Peppi asks YooHoo Answers in their Qannon section if Queue can tell him if snorting Plutonium can get him high. After all, Peppi believes everything he reads on the Internet.
Peppi goes to Wally Green’s and Bucketheads looking for plutonium to buy, but comes up empty. No 11 per cent off sale for him, no buy one, get one 50 per cent off (but never free) either.
Driving home, Peppi gets stuck at a light at the intersection underneath the I-57 interchange. Under the bridge he spots a wild Leona Krabalsky, the Kankakee town troll.
Peppi drives his crapmobile to the underpass, going through the red stoplight because he thinks the laws do not apply to him. Peppi rolls his window down and yells his mating call “git, git, git” to Leona.
“I don’t want you and I am not for sale!” the elderly hag growls.
“You got some anything good?” Peppi clarifies wearing his turd-eating grin.
“I just might. What’s your pleasure?”
Peppi and Leona shake hands and Peppi peels out after chucking the brown paper bag into his backseat. Peppi rushes back home to meet wife Bernadette at their Manteno shack for dinner.
Bernadette and Peppi sit in their bedrooms, eat their Hardlees burgers and fries and belch a bunch of times. Bern lifts her leg and farts.
“Ahhh, that was a good one,” Bernadette says with glee.
Peppi takes his newly discovered rocks out the paper bag he bought from Leona.
“Mmmmmmmmm…this is sweet” Peppi thinks out loud as he munches on the pebbles.
Then Peppi pukes up his dinner since he was drunk.
Bernadette walks in on Peppi tossing his cookies in their washroom.
“Hey, what’s up?” a nosey Bern asks her beloved Pep.
“Blecccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhh” Peppi repies into the toilet.
“What were those cat turds doing in your bedroom? I need to burn them. Let me light a fart first to spark the flames and then I will watch them burn in the fireplace.”
Bern watches the glisten and pop, all aglow, gleaming like a twinkle in Bern’s eye. “Ooooh, that smell.”
Disgusted that Leona sold him fake Plutonium, Pep cooks up a way to make some cash.
Bern and Pep team up to make a mumble rap video. Pep raps and plays a single snare drum which fell off a truck, while Bern sings show-tunes while playing her accordion she uses to trick people on the internet into thinking she cares about charities.
The video fails to get monetized.
Bern makes a TakTik viral video lighting her farts and burning poopies in her fireplace which her fans adore. Then Bern runs out of poops because the neighborhood turd-burglar JB Martin stole them all.
Bern makes a collection of her own poops to burn since she needed more, and makes more TakTik videos, becoming an “influencer.” Companies offer to mail Bern free toilet paper in return for her becoming their brand ambassador.
As Bern logs into accept the free toilet paper, the Caccas’ fire alarm goes off from the unattended poopies burning in her fireplace.
The Manteno Fire Department rushes over to the Caccas’ house.
Bern screams with excitement when the Waaaaaah Machines wail and fart as the firefighters rush to their house to put out the fire, clapping as they arrive.
“Hi guys, I really love those fart noises your fire engines make. Can I get one of those keen blow-horns for my house? I think they will go great with my accordion routine I do for charity and the Turd machine I mounted on the side of the shack to shoot at Gothic Diana Ross.”
“Shut up and leave, your house is on fire,” the firefighter warns Bern as the two Caccas walk away and watch their house burn, along with the poopies.
Communal narcissist and poopie-burner Bernadette Cacca wants to go find this chick and shoot poopies at Gothic Diana Ross out her turd machine together.
“You know, Bernadette: You cannot exactly drift a car with your suspension out of whack,” Gothic Diana Ross says to her next door neighbor Bernadette Cacca, as she peels out her Manteno driveway for the zillionth time and veers to the side of the road, releasing an awful stench since her oil is running on fumes.
“Are you burning rubber, or are you burning poopies?”
“Why does your brother Damien keep buying pool toys in the middle of Winter?” Wally Green asks his Illinois pharmacy-chain clerk, Kankakee Elvis impersonator and covert narcissist, Robbie Hurlbutt.
Robbie says nothing, chooses to ignore his boss and keeps on stocking shelves as he hopes to leave early so he can skip out on closing.
“Has he moved a body or something?” Wally says of Robbie’s equally creepy and narcissistic brother Damien.
Robbie ignores Wally, finishes stocking and sneaks out the door while the store owner is not looking so he can head down to the bar. First, he has to meet his speedball dealer.
Robbie, high on uppers, spends 20 minutes chatting up the bartender, while other customers grow impatient and angry as he is holding up the mixing of their cocktails and the pouring of their beers.
Robbie downs his downers and chases them with prescription painkillers he stole from his elderly mother PJ.
The inebriated Elvis impersonator texts his brother Damien, hoping he will join him and take him home, however after multiple selfies and text messages saying how much he loves his brother, Damien does not reply.
Cinema-13 clerk and bulbous neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt strokes his dayglow-orange facial coiffe, and sets out a clipboard containing a sign-up sheet requesting email addresses for a newsletter. A theater customer walks up to the movie theater counter and asks what the newsletter is about. “It’s just a newsletter,” the sneaky narcissist Damien replies in his typical smug tone.
After the picture finishes its run and the ushers escort all the guests, Damien collects the newsletter sign-up sheet and heads to his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest to sleep on the floor. Before he can retire for the night, he get annoyed over the mess of texts and photos from his brother Robbie. Damien would rather sleep in his mess of plastic tubs, and boxes of the things he loves more than people, than head back to Kankakee to pick up a drunk. Thinking he can gain something from helping his brother, he drives down to the Kankakee bar at which Robbie is performing slurred Elvis Presley Karaoke. The two bumbling idiots get into Damien’s beat-up van and head home.
“What about my purple clown car?” Robbie asks Damien.
“Get it tomorrow.”
Damien gets a text from a coworker whose birthday is coming up soon. Knowing well it is illegal to text and drive, Damien messages his coworker, lovebombing her about the $50 gift card he is going to buy her, bragging about the surprise she clearly expressed she did not feel comfortable accepting.
After nearly crashing, Damien flips off the other driver and heads to Robbie’s Kankakee apartment, crashing on his floor instead.
Damien and Robbie wake up to snow on the ground. Damien retells the same story about his father N. Ron’s obsession with the weather channels he has already bored Robbie with at least 80 times now. Robbie leaves the room, stumbling on record albums he dumped all over the floor to get to the bathroom. Even though he is terrified of getting locked in the washroom while pooping, Robbie wants to get away from Damien.
Robbie emerges, and Damien pulls out the newsletter sign-up sheet, filled with names and email addresses. “Hey Robbie, my number-one brother? I would love to ask a favor from you. Can you contact Pat Splatt and try to sell him these email addresses? I collected them to send out messages getting out the good things us tender-hearts at the Bourbonnais Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Club can do to help us men fight misandry. I would like to sell him a copy because I need the money to buy my coworkers gifts. I spent my paycheck already on action figures.
“What’s in it for me?” Robbie asks his equally self-centered brother Damien.
“Well, our theater has an extra Gothic Diana Ross poster from when we sponsored her show a couple years back.”
“Sold.” Robbie grins ear-to-ear and dials up Kankakee criminal and email spammer Pat Splatt.
The Hurlbutt brothers drive over to Pat Splatt’s flat, where the straggly long-haired Pat is busy harvesting emails from the Internet using his Spam-O-Matic computer program. The three group together to organize their petty crime.
“Damien, I can pay you per email reply, that’s it.”
“Oh come now!”
“Oh go now, Damien. That is my final offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t have to offer you anything.”
“I know, I know, I know…” Damien says like a broken record, mimicking a certain furniture commercial emanating from Champaign.
Damien reluctantly hands Pat the photocopied sign-up list containing contact information he collected from unsuspecting moviegoers.
Damien then heads to Wally Green’s to buy more pool toys and chucks them in his bathroom. After whizzing, he washes his hands with far more water than he needs and sprinkles the water all over the bathroom floor, leaving on the bathroom light and fan because he does not care.
Damien begins typing up his MRA “newsletter” in a word-processor program on his 10 year old desktop computer, resting atop a wooden folding table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. The rotund neckbeard emails his diatribe while wearing his graphic tee displaying the text:
it to you
But I can’t
it for you.”
A few days go by, however nobody takes Damien up on his offer to join the Bourbonnais MRA Club. Nobody clicks on the ads for the 21 Conference either.
Damien realizes he needs to get ready for work now so he can make it on time after taking his two-hour shower.
Mr. Hurlbutt walks into the theater barely on-time. His boss, theater owner Konrad Teirant, calls him into his office.
Damien’s heart sinks and he utters a melodramatic “gulp” as he walks over to Konrad’s office.
“Damien, you really dropped the ball this time. I have been receiving numerous complaints from customers who have been getting emails about some misogyny club.”
“This is unacceptable. They told me they signed up for a newsletter here? I never ordered you to or anyone else to put out a call for contact information. Do you want me to get sued?”
“Well…no” an embarrassed-because-caught Damien tells his boss.
“Damien, you have been working here a long time. You know that if we want to gather contact information so we can sell it, that would come from me. And only so I can profit, not you Damien. You’re not that important. Not at all. In fact, I can fire you at any time. I am telling you that because I am your friend. Oh by the way, why do you wear that dumb fedora? It looks stupid. And wash your beard. It smells. Don’t tell anyone we had this meeting. Go home and stay home the rest of this week. I will call you about next week’s hours.”
An excited Damien rushes home to play with his pool toys because he is happy he has the week off, not wondering at all if his boss will even call him back to work the next week.
Gothic Diana Ross, leader of the Manteno-based cover group The Midnight Supremes, is getting tired of her next-door neighbor Bernadette Cacca peeling out of her driveway, blasting her accordion, and stinking up the air by burning poopies. Diana wants to have a word with Bernadette, who is polishing her wall-mounted Turd Machine, and walks over after she finishes making her poo-shooter shine.
“You have a very punchable face.” Gothic Diana Ross tells Bernadette.
“I have a beautiful face? Aww, thanks. I get that a lot.”
“A punchable face you dipstick. Come here, I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich.”
“Thanks! I love to eat!” a wide-eyed Bernadette exclaims with glee, mouth hanging open until she gets punched by Miss Ross.