“What we’re about to do with you, Sonya, is take that farm-to-table approach.” Dr. Jen Jenner explains to her shackled subject, multi-millionaire malignant-narcadoodle landlord, Sonya Marie Smith Moran.
“WAT?” Sonya squawks.
“Restrain that chick!” The good doctor orders the Security Treatment Aides of Area 51.
“Are you sure that thing is safe to eat?” Jen’s assistant Sam asks.
“I’ll call in an expert. I have a buddy of mine on another planet.”
The wall-to-wall screen displays a conference call window.
“Call Quark.” Dr. Jenner dictates into her Communicator unit.
The Ferengi overlord’s face flashes upon the screen. Sonya freezes in fear.
“You’re—you’re—“
“This is the dumbest acquisition you ever made. Where did you get that thing, and why? There is no profit to be made in shape-shifting humanoid turkey vultures! How did your boss sign off on that Purchase Request and Commitment? And why? What was the bona fide need?” Quark explains to the genius Dr. Jen Jenner who speaks 777 languages.
“Quark, you’re my idol! I learned everything I know about business from YOU! Why don’t you speak to ME? Communicate with ME! I love you! Will you marry me?”
The Ferengi leader gives the fluttering feathered fool the evil eye.
“Don’t you speak English? I thought they spoke it on every planet!” the xenophobic turd complains to the foreign friend of the Area known as 51.
“Self-reflection is scary, but necessary.”
“What did he say?” Sonya asks the crew.
“He says he doesn’t like you. Get over it.”
Sonya’s cold, bleak heart fails instantly; the sheer pain of her crush’s rejection sends her beak straight into to the concrete floor, creating a small crack from the impact. Then she poops.
The doors bust open.
“Vitals!”
“Time of death 7:30 AM.”
“Oops, nevermind.”
The technician leaves the room to go wake up someone else.
“We got a stiff! What are we gonna do with this thing?”
“I dunno, get it outta here, bury it somewhere in Indiana.” Dr. Jen Jenner shrugs slightly and moves onto her next task. Life is good.
Good news from the Moroniverse: Out of the kindness of their hearts, Midwestern slumlords Sonya Moran and Madeline Topolla-Teirant are giving away free rent for life! Read this note issued to their tenants:
“Self-reflection is scary but important. We are sorry we verbally abused you, woke you up in the middle of the night with frivolous fire-alarms, and issued false lease violations. You can stay in our mansions rent-free, because we are so sorry we lived rent-free in your heads.”
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?
“I am so tired of sticking my beak up animal butts to slurp out all the entrails. I want some chocolate! Why does everyone else get to have THEIR ice cream?”
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran hatches a plan and flies down to the swamp where her love-child, bog witch extraordinaire Bernadette Moran Cacca swims and devours the living when she’s not burning port-a-poops nor doing charity cover songs just to look good.
“Hey, do you want to go with me to the Egon Spangler Candy Factory in Ohio? That’s where they keep all the dum-dums.”
“No, it’s not nice to call people a dum-dum…” the holier-than-thou Bernadette Cacca snarks as she rejects her mother’s offer and bites the head off a man whom she just ate for supper.
“Fine. Don’t come to ME when YOU want a favor!” Carla squawks as she flies away.
“What an idiot. First Sonya breaks into my apartment, moves some stuff around, then she pees on my bed. Last year she posted a nastygram on my door accusing me of stinking up the floor from cat pee. The litter-box had just been scooped and there was no smell. If she poops out another fake lease violation, I am going to scream. Then I’m gone done report her to the Illinois Fair Housing Department. I’m done with her shenanigans.”
So go the postings on Manteno People and Places. Albion Places and People. Musings Around South Bend. This is not her first rodeo. She owns apartment complexes all across Northern Illinois and Indiana.
“Yeah, last year when the guys came in to do the bug inspection, they broke my shower-head. Then Sonya had gone and issued ME a violation!”
Complaints continue to pour in.
“Come in” Sonya Marie Smith Moran says, beckons, then gets up to close the door.
“Yeah I’m here to pay my rent.”
“Name and apartment number?”
“Edith Smith, apartment B240.”
The tall, slender, shapeshifting humanoid vulture taps away at the keyboard with her talons.
Edith can see from the angle at which she is standing in the tiny, closed office that there is a flash-note on her account.
Sonya’s assistant, JB the Turd Burglar comes over and looks at Sonya’s screen, craving Evansville brains after a long day stealing turds.
“You’re late.”
“I just got the bill Friday and it’s due today.”
Sonya’s eyes get really big.
“OK I am just gonna stand here and watch this interaction to make sure it’s copacetic.”
“Here is my check. I’d like my receipt.”
“You overpaid.”
“I would like my receipt.” Sonya prints her receipt and Edith walks out the door.
“She did not seem as biligerant and obnoxious as it says on the computer.”
“If it’s who I think it is, she made my last assistant cry,” Sonya projects.
Edith cracks the door back open pokes her head back in. “No that was two assistants ago. That was Erick, and he’s an idiot. He deserves it.”
“Put in that she eavesdrops too.”
Edith walks away, lets the door hang, and laughs in Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dumbs’ faces. “You guys are morons. You need to get better hobbies! Maybe you’d sleep better!” she cries out sarcastically, then looks away, strutting her stuff like she’s living her best life — because she is.
“What’s this?” JB asks as he holds up a blue and white winter hat with the words “Be Nice” embroidered all over it.
“It fell off a truck,” Sonya snarks as she puts the hot hat onto her hard head.
“Time you asked for a refund!” JB jokes as he points at his boss, who does not look pleased to say the least.
JB leaves his job for the day and drives his Turdmobile over to his favourite singer’s house. No not Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes, thankfully for them.
As the two sit on the couch to chill, JB’s former boss – and Bog Witch Bernadette’s other lover – Undead Greg Schneissder emerges from the washroom. Bernadette, the self-proclaimed “piano dominatrix” gets up and gives Greg a stern look. Hey poopy-brown eyes say it all.
“I flushed this time!”
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Don’t nag me, lady.”
Undead Greg spies his employee JB sitting in his seat. “Hey, wanna go over to Evansville and eat some friends? I mean some fried brands. Brains. Excuse me, I’ve had too much of your spicy fecal matter again.”
“I’ll do anything to get out of Manteno.”
After losing all but two dollars in the local mini-casino, Carla soars over to the factory in Northwest Ohio hoping to satisfy her sweet-tooth, only to discover they don’t even make chocolate there.
Hanging her beak in disappointment, she tries to raid a mini-mall ice-cream shop in Sandusky, only to be chased out by the customers grossed out at the sight of a vulture with a six-foot wingspan invading their space.
After doing some fluffy sky donuts across Ohio and Indiana, Carla goes looking for a vending machine. Sadly the only ones she could find take CryptidCoin — not to be confused with Craptocoin.
The shapeshifting humanoid vulture busts the door open of a highway convenience store down in southwest Indiana. “Ah finally, some chocolate ice cream with peaches, licorice and oatmeal raisin cookies! My favorite kind!” Carla thinks to herself as she wolfs down the entire half-gallon. She savors her last bite, only to puke it all up outside.
“Get away bird, or I will call the cops! Stop stealing our crap!” the clerk demands of the bird-brained thief. Carla had tossed her cookies and ice cream out of fear. That’s what you do if you’re a vulture.
Undead Greg and his buddy-pal JB have just got their fried brains at the annual festival in Evansville, Indiana. JB chows down when suddenly Greg’s plate is swiped by an unseen force. He slams down his fists and starts making off-color remarks.
A certain vulture can be seen in her natural habitat, eating dead stuff off a plate.
“Wow, that’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen all day,” Cierra Glitchmore says to her wife.
“You’re surrounded by people eating brains,” April Fool-Glitchmore deadpans.
Then Sonya empties all over the ground and her feet the caustic waste of her previous day’s feast.
“Have that lady arrested!”
Sonya causes a public freakout, cameras naturally rolling, including those of the Evansville television station covering the brainy event.
“I pee freely. I poop freely. I’m a bird. I go wherever I want to. You can’t discriminate against humanoid shapeshifting vultures! Do you know who my niece is?”
“Umm, never heard of her,” Kitty Bee reports.
“Carla? What are you doing here?”
“And this is history in the making. As you just saw this…umm…human vulture thing just…well…make a mess where she probably should have not gone. Evansville police have got the woman, bird person in custody. Man, it’s been a day. Reporting live for Evansville TV, this is Kitty Bee.”
Kankakee slumlord, narcadoodle and Vaudeville clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant walks behind the strip mall, past the dumpsters, to hide from a client who turned her in for illegal activity at Kankakee’s Best Low Income Apartments, which she manages.
“Madwoman!” a male voice calls out.
“Who called me?” a terrified Madeline asks.
A slender, young, dirty-blonde male wearing shades, a hoodie, and ripped blue jeans walks up to Madeline.
“I am Brandon Dixon. I own Brandon’s Imbecile Machines in Kankakee. I hear you are a clown.”
“Ummm, yeah…”
Madeline shakes even more.
“I am one too. I would like to try out for your touring Vaudeville act.”
“Maybe I can use an understudy.”
“You bet. Call me.”
The two shake hands and part ways. Madeline heads back to work, Brandon home.
“Hi, is this Wally Green?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Madeline Topolla-Teirant. I need to order a case of some half-ply toilet paper. That’s the kind that breaks off one square at a time right? I need some really cheap supplies for our community centers here at our low income complexes and I am not going to pay a lot. Ohh, hold on I have a beep.”
Madeline switches calls.
“Robbie?”
“Hey babe. Moronic Half-Assets has a gig coming up tomorrow in Gary, Indiana. I was totally thinkin’ I would rock the joint as Roy Orbinson.”
“You’re just an Elvis impersonator and not a very good one,” Madeline insults Robbie.
“Well honey, I can also pull off a crazy cool Mike Mesmith.”
“Get outta here with that.”
“Peter Tork? “Johnny Cash?”
“NO!”
Madeline slams down the phone.
“Riiiiiing!”
“Yes.”
“This is Wally. You wanted to order toilet paper?”
Madeline sighs…
The next afternoon, a Wally Green’s truck shows up to the low income housing complex where Madeline works.
“Beep beep beep beep.” The truck backs in.
“A whole case of half-ply toilet paper, just like you ordered. Just sign here on the sticker.”
Madeline scrawls her name.
“Here you go!”
“Ouch!”
“Whoopsie!” says the driver.
“You dropped the box on my foot. I think you broke it!”
Madeline drives over to the nearest 30 Second Clinic.
“It’s a bit bruised but you will be fine. Just ice it for two days while you are at home. You can go back to work now.”
“But doctor?”
“Your thirty seconds are up. We have other patients out there in the waiting room. Our medical office assistant will walk you out and take your copay.”
An angry Madeline begrudgingly pays her bill and heads home. There is no way she can make the gig tonight.
Madeline gets on her mobile phone.
“Hey Brandon, this is Madeline. I know this is short notice. I have a clown gig tonight I cannot make. You see I broke—“
“I’ll do it!” Brandon says with a smirk only he can see on his face, as he is looking at himself in the mirror.
“Gary, Indiana. Lapolla Theater.”
“Oh, I will be there, makeup and all.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“Thanks.”
Madeline hangs up her phone and takes a nap.
Hours pass and Madeline thinks about how happy she is that she has another clown. Deep down inside she really does not want to do that gig in Gary. She falls asleep while thinking up a scheme to get out of paying Brandon.
A series of dings wakes a sound asleep Madeline.
From: Konrad
“I did not know you were sending us a juggalo. The crowds booed us! What were you thinking, Mad?”
From: Robbie
“Man this clown is weird and he looks funny. He reminds me of people my father hung out with. He keeps asking me to buy him Faygo. Our gig sucked because of him, not because of me. Just saying.”
A series of photos came in of Brandon, Konrad and Robbie on stage.
Needless to say, Madeline was up all night, and it was not because of her foot hurting.
“Don’t come to see me at my grave if you don’t visit me when I’m alive!” shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Moran passive-aggressively demands of her sister Sonya Moran.
“I’m just going to McD’s.”
“Carrion is all I eat. I am so tired of eating the same dead meat. Carrion, carrion, carrion. You know what, sis? I’m gonna get me some filet mignon and you’re NOT getting any at all. I will eat it myself. You’re not welcome.”
Sonya flies away and gets herself a decent, cheap meal; but more importantly, some peace of mind. For now….
After Sonya enjoys her burgers, fries and nuggets, she leaves the fast-food-joint in Manteno hoping to avoid her idiot sister who had flown in from Albion, Indiana. Think again.
“You forgot your shake!” Grimace exclaims as he runs to hand Sonya her dessert. Though Carla had been making air donuts the whole time Sonya was inside having her McMeal, she swoops down too late to miss Grimace handing back Sonya’s order.
Carla smacks into the ground beak-first. Sonya points, laughs, and does a little dance.
“I have a headache…”
“Good. Mine’s gone now!” Sonya says as she swoops into the air, away from her McMoron sister who really only came to stir up trouble.
“The Lifft driver you get sure makes a difference. It was like getting upgraded from Undead Greg Schneissder to Gothic Diana Ross!” Sybil Kibble tells her ma JoAnn “JK” Kibble as she sets down her phone.
“The LeBaron done broke down again? Why don’t you trade that thing in?”
“I’d probably have to pay THEM to take it off my hands.”
Sybil exits the house, waving to her mom whose bum is parked square in front of the television in her basement apartment, decorated with her school-bus parts collection. Sybil cares naught about her mother’s decor, as long as her rent check made out to Sybil does not bounce she’s cool.
The blonde, bespectacled 60-something collections supervisor goes to rage mow, she takes pride in having the greenest lawn in Kankakee. Two angry birds circle above her, arguing as they do donuts in the sky, taking a massive dump on Sybil’s head before she has a chance to cut the grass.
“It’s stalking season!” shapeshifting humanoid vulture says to her wingding sister Sonya, and then they fly over to a certain house in Manteno.
“An absolutely epic weekend in Bradley. Had the ENORMOUS pleasure of reading a terrifically colorful role in a nearly sold-out benefit reading of dear old friend JB’s wonderful play, HOW TO STEAL TURDS, along with a stellar cast (including BRILLIANT CARLA MORAN as my mom) and many visits to the ER for my rear with friends from far and near. Wow. Here’s to—“
“Hi daring!” Carla calls out to her daughter loudly bragging about lawd-only-knows-what to her drunken, sleeping husband Peppi, empty jug marked “XXX” just beyond the reach of his flopped out arm.
“No thanks, honey. Not now. Did you wax your chin yet?”
“I’ll go! I wanna ring the bell! I wanna ring the bell! Can I ring the bell?”
“Of course Aunt Sonya. Come on over to my charity auction down at Kankakee’s Best and hear me play kazoo covers of OKLAHOMA!”
“How dawg! Ooooooooooh!” Sonya sings, poorly.
“AND, I am donating an autographed picture of ME to the charity auction!”
“Ooooooooooh!”
“Does this lipstick make my beak look big?” Carla’s bird-brain wants to know. “Just be honest.”
“Maybe they will auction off something to help you with your Mamma McRageFace. Come on DOWN! We’ll have a BLASSSST,” Bernadette exclaims with her tongue hanging out her mouth wide open as if to catch a fly. Then she farts.
JB the nighborhood turd burglar and his lover Bernadette Cacca are swinging their interdigital clasp as they walk down the aisles of Big Deal electronics store.
“I miss the days when I could just type “format see colon” to wipe out a store’s computer.”
“You can format my colon any day, Justin,”
“That’s Jay.”
“Let’s go find some crap to get into,” Bern says to JB, one of many tools she has on her side.
CRASS Chief Cooker of Books, multiplex owner and Emcee of Moronic Half Assets (MHA) Konrad Teirant begins the bidding for the charity auction. Of course, bog witch Bernadette Cacca had to show up, as she will do anything to look good and cover up her real-life lack of empathy.
“What is that, a TV?” a citizen asks Emcee Konrad.
“Noooo, that’s a signed photo of Bernadette Cacca!”
“Who?”
“I signed it myself!” Mrs. Cacca brags.
“I’m sure you did. Now don’t panic, don’t be alarmed. This here car alarm was done been donated by Mr. Brandon Dixon, owner of Brandon’s Imbecile Machines! Let’s go! Get those bids in!”
“Now here’s a steaming pile of something, this mystery bag was donated by JB!”
Bernadette’s nose wiggles with interest.
“And here, how clever! A bottle of dehydrated water donated by Mr. Wally Green himself! I bet it has no calories!”
Awkward silence fills the room. Very awkward.
“What is this? I bet it’s essential, that’s right a bottle of essential snake oil donated by the Krabalsky sisters Doris and Leona!”
“And last, but not least, two tickets to see a matinee of your choice here at Teirant Cinema-13! Remember this goes to a really good cause! The big bags you help raise will help the manager of Kankakee’s Best Low-Budget Apartments get a raise!” Emcee Konrad points over to his wife and dumpster-clown, Madeline “Madwoman” Topolla-Teirant.
“I mean you got to have solid leadership, and she is really solid! Yuk Yuk Yuk.”
The seven-foot, 350 pound clown is not impressed.
Bernadette begins to sing and play accordion.
Sybil Kibble has been hanging out at a certain coffeehouse on the regular. A month or two ago she had overseen shift manager Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran verbally abusing her staff, making fun of them for spilling drinks so she decided to leave a review:
“I spoke to the staff and told them I have their back and that if she does it again, everybody should get together and ask Carla how would she feel if she spilled a drink and we all made fun of her.
A couple of weeks ago I saw Carla put her hands on a staff member while she was using negative humor making fun of them. I let the staff know that I had their back but this time this woman seem to be more aware of by standing up for them because she waited on me right afterwards.
Well tonight it happened again. I wanted to complain about it but Carla was the only one on staff who was in charge. Oh my God all she did was argue with me. She said she would hand my comments to Kankakee Police and I would be prosecuted for ‘defrimation of character.’ Nobody should abuse their staff like that. Don’t go there if Carla is working, she’s the shapeshifting vulture with the blonde hair.”
Konrad Teirant tries his best to hustle the donated hunks of junk.
“Last chance to bid on this lovely bottle of dehydrated water, generously donated by Mr. Wally Green himself! Did you know that he was born in Deerfield? It’s their loss because Kankakee is lucky to have him!”
More awkward silence fills the room.
“And sold, to absolutely nobody because nobody bid. Last we have this mystery bag, what is this? If I said then it would not be a secret right? Yuk yuk yuk. I’ll start the bidding at ten dollars. Just ten smackeroos will get you this brown bag of fun!”
“Two thousand dollars to Greg. Going once, going twice…sold!”
Bernadette raises her arm again.
“It’s too late. Sold to the zombie dude. Now get this thing outta here.”
Undead Greg takes the bag of poo and chows it down. He eats turds to stay alive instead of brains.
“Now pay the lady $2000.”
“Buurrrp.”
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Moran is busy filling out an order form for Quack Valley Cosmetics, using her beak and blood from a recent carrion meal.
“Hey, you’re getting blood all over it. You just wasted a perfectly good order form, now you should be ashamed of yourself,” Carla’s bird of a feather and fellow shapeshifting vulture Sonya guilt-trips her sister.
“Nevermind!” Carla exclaims with the wrath of Satan. She stirs up a hornets’ nest which attracts the local murder of crows.
Sybil Kibble stops on Kant Street to text, right out front the Cacca homestead where mother Carla and aunt Sonya are bickering on the lawn like three-year-old children.
The massive flock of crows poop all over Carla and Sonya as they caw, caw, caw.
“Now look what you done!”
“Look what you done!”
“I gotta go to work tonight and now I have to shower all over again.”
Sybil Kibble laughs her bum off watching the bird-brains argue who is the biggest moron, then she drives away in her newly-repaired LeBaron giggling and feeling giddy that the nasty coffeehouse supervisor finally got some crap handed to her, errr, dumped all over her.
“You spilled poop all over your shirt! Now go clean that up!” Sybil shouts out the window and then drives away to her home in Kankakee, looking forward to that rage-mow.
Albion, Indiana shapeshifting vulture Carla Moran complains at her sister-in-law, fellow shapeshifter Sonya Moran, because she dropped a piece of carrion she has been eating:
“You just dropped that perfectly good piece of rotted carcass. You shouldn’t waste food! Now you’re getting that all over your feathers.”
“Umm, do you think I did it on purpose? I’ll wait…” Sonya claps back.
“I am just trying to help!” Carla gaslights.
“How bold of you to assume I did that intentionally. I bet you never dropped anything in your entire lifespan!”
“Okay, okay, okay, drop it already.”
“I will!”
Sonya steals her sister-in-law’s food right out her mouth, dropping her entire meal all over the ground at the Albion park, much to the dismay of her controlling sister-in-law and that of all the residents below.
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran swoops down on her Manteno, Illinois bog-witch daughter Bernadette Moran Cacca, just to waste her time.
“Nothin’ much!” Carla replies like a schoolyard child.
“No really, there is nothing original about you,” Carla squawks into Bern’s face and then flies away back to Albion, Indiana.
Bernadette plots out revenge on her mother and everyone else who she has ever met, on a mission to seek supply after that narcissistic injury she received. Then she poops.
MoronicArts 
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