Albion, Indiana millionaire, narc-a-doodle and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Marie Smith Moran cannot connect the dots why her tenants at her low-income apartment complexes across Northern Illinois and Indiana are complaining about her code of misconduct and lack of empathy. She had issued hundreds of embellished and flat-out false lease violation notices, hoping to collect a crapton of funny money from the false flags.

“Why would they expect me to come out acting like a barista?” 

“Because baristas are nice to their customers and generally happy to see them,” her assistant Justin Brown “JB” Powers replies.

“Why do so many residents have cats? I don’t like cats. They should be used as test objects. How do you spell puke?”

“P-U-K-E”

“I thought that was ‘puck’.”

“How do I submit this resident complaint into the company software so HUD can’t see it?”

“Press F4.”

Sonya Presses F then 4.

“Why won’t this go through?”

JB sighs and walks into his office.

“Is this that Area 51 virus again? I just used 50 milligrams of data and already I need to clean out my cache.”

Sonya takes the day off early to go hiking; she climbs up the mountain near the country club in her nighty and poses for photos after she gets to the top of Mount Stupid. Then she heaves up the roadkill she ate for lunch, lightening the load so she can fly back home.

Indiana Fair Housing has caught wind of Sonya’s malarky and therefore sends out one of their own inspectors to do Sonya’s properties, knowing she cannot be trusted to do it right. The Lizzie Borden-like landlord thinks is is a great lessor but she is just a hack.

Sonya escorts the inspector into an apartment for the annual safety inspection. The large kitchen light fixture is out, the room is dark.

“Do you have a lightbulb?” Sonya asks the rightfully puzzled tenant.

“Lightbulb?”

“He needs to see to do his inspection.”

Burrstone flips a switch and turns on another light.

The inspections carry on and just as Indiana Fair Housing’s team suspects, there are many discrepancies. They confirm that Sonya has been issuing false lease violations to extort and harass her tenants. The lead inspector leaves his clipboard with his findings by the office door because Mrs. Moran has already flown the coop for the day.

The craptor sisters Carla and Sonya Moran stalk their prey, hoping to find out who has tipped off Indiana Fair Housing, after they stop for seafood because they are bored of eating roadkill. Then they pee all over the place.

“Cat pee? What cat pee? I don’t even have a cat?” tenant Jim reacts after reading landlord Sonya’s Fisher-Price lease violation posted to his door.

“What is her obsession with pathological lying and pee? Strong odor of cat pee when she followed in the pest control guy. Yeah…no. I am incontinent and she smelled MY pee because that cokehead woke me up and I did not have a chance to change my pull-up!”

“Lease violation because dirt on the floor. It’s winter in the Midwest. Who doesn’t have dirt on their floor?”

JB Powers, Midwestern turd burglar and assistant to Sonya Moran steals pooch poops from Manteno lawns on his break. Suddenly he strikes gold: a poop box. He feels he strikes gold when he pirates the home colonoscopy return box from the unsuspecting person’s porch.

Two blockchain blockheads – Robbie Hurlbutt and Pat Splatt – want to get on the bad money bandwidth bandwagon, so they visit Manteno communal narcissist, bog witch and self-proclaimed “port-a-potty empress” Bern Cacca at her Manteno home to get down to business.

“You’ve heard of food pics, right? Now look at this: recycled food pics!” Bernadette exclaims as she opens her turd-vault gate to the two potential prospectors, walls lined with Bristol Stool charts in different designs which her hubs Peppi had picked up from various dumpster jobs over the years.

Pat and Robbie heave before they can leave and take a powder to Kankakee.  

A wild Undead Greg Schneissder emerges from Bernadette’s basement poop coop, belly full.

“Hey, you’re eating up the profits!”

“That’s amazing, Grace!”

“My name’s Bernadette Moran Cacca, and don’t you forget it!”

A persistent knock is heard at the Cacca residence at 810 Kant Street in Manteno, Illinois.

“JB!” The two poopyheads Bernadette and JB share an embrace.

“Look what I brought ya honey puddin’.”

“Just for me, awww, you’re such a poop god!”

“How much can I get for it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can mine a lot of craptocoin from this preserved poo. No formaldehyde needed! You can save that for your turd-machines.”

“Oh no, I’m not paying for it. You should just donate it to me.”

“How’s work going?”

“Work? Good. We just opened up the Manteno Cantina. I can’t wait for those tips to just rollllllll in!”

“How about the port-a-johns. How’s business?”

“Crappy.”

“I know. How about I give you this box of poop which fell off a truck and we will go into business together mining craptocoins.”

“You got yourself a deal!”

Sonya Moran returns to her Albion, Indiana headquarters on Monday after a long weekend making donuts in the sky. The millionaire scumlord checks her texts, voicemails and emails, deleting everything. Why check your messages when you could just delete them? Ahh…the power of voicemail jail.

Sonya sits down in her loafy chair at her massive cherry desk. Two imposing women in suits show up and open her unlocked office door. 

Sonya gasps.

“Hello, we are from Housing and Urban Development (HUD) for our meeting. Are you Mrs. Moron?”

“It’s Moran. You need to make an appointment to see me.”

“Did you get our messages? We sent you five of them. We are here to investigate multiple complaints we received regarding unfair treatment of your tenants.”

Before she has a chance to fly away, the shapeshifting malignant narcissist Sonya transfigures into her vulture form, only to fly into a wall. As the bird-brain lies on her office floor stunned, the investigators look through Sonya’s resident files. 

“Just as we thought. We have all the evidence we need. Here’s our card.”

The HUD investigators drop their card on Sonya’s desk and it slips off, falling onto the floor.

“Pick that UP!” Sonya demands of the ladies dressed for business, who leave in silence.

Sonya’s phone blows up a couple minutes later. A woman sings her message on Sonya’s office voicemail which can be heard on speakerphone.

“Hi! I’m Bernadette. You might know me from my accordion covers for charity at the Manteno Optimal club and a few random walk-on roles for an app-only television series! Well I have a special offer for you! Craptocoin is the hot new thing and ours is sizzling! Call us now!”

“Wait! Wait! Don’t hang up!”

Hoping to score a deal from her favorite swamp witch — niece Bernadette – the president of Bern Cacca’s fan club The Poopy Groupies is too stunned and woozy to answer the phone. 

Meanwhile a certain tenant — television news reporter Kitty Bee — can be seen giggling and dancing, laughing at the fallen tyrant who had previously harassed her.

She had witnessed the entire incident, can you blame her?