Kankakee pyramid schemer Doris Krabalsky and Bourbonnais communal narc-a-doodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt both arrive at Hell’s in-processing department at the same time.
“Sign the register” says Hell’s in-processing clerk and former Medical Office Assistant, Lucy Furr, who was notorious for bullying her roommate on their college trip to Italy. Meanwhile, Doris and Damien try to take over.
Neighborhood turd-burglar and assistant property manager JB Powers takes over Moran Properties after Sonya disappears, hoping to take over, helping himself to the skims of the profits (and maybe some turds too). Marty the Mailer-Daemon comes into the office with mail, JB freaks out.
“You’re that scary mailman from my childhood with that daemonic voice!”
“No, I’m just a daemon now. A mailer-daemon. The dead letter office transferred me here after I got my fork in the road message.”
JB runs out the office screaming, computer unlocked. Marty glides on over to have a look-see.
“Shall I format, see colon? Naaah, let’s look for buried treasure. Ahh! Oooh, there are some skeletons in these here file closets. Tenant files, ashes of former co-workers, dead bodies? These remains to be seen!” Marty thinks out loud as he sighs and takes a moment to process the newly uncovered data in his inter-dimensional mind.
Satan wants to have a word with his intake clerk, Lucy Furr. He takes the elevator up from his basement C-Suite to pay her a visit at the desk, where she reads the rules and regulations to the long line of newly damned souls, after they have signed their lives away.
“Why did you assign a Sonya Marie Smith Moran to the pale yellow isolation lair? It says right here that she’s to go directly into the jagged rock and bubbling excrement pits!” Hell’s CEO and owner demands of his underling, who had bullied a young autistic lady on a school trip to Italy, before working as a receptionist at many a doctor’s office on Earth.
“I’ve been doing this job for more than ten years–“
“Lucy, I don’t need a resume. I already know your entire life’s history, you’re not going anywhere.”
Business is slow on a typical Sunday at the Manteno Optimal Club.
“Aunt Sonya’s been gone a long time. Who’s gonna run the show around here, and promote my wonderful gas…I mean this fantabulous venue?” Craptoqueen Bernadette belts.
Manteno Optimal Club barista-bartender Ant D. Yu just shrugs.
“I know honey, let’s have a contest,” bartender Dorian James suggests.
“You’re the GOAT!”
“No, YOU!”
Later that evening, the show goes on.
“It’s Sunday and YOU KNOW what THAT means!” orates emcee Konrad Teirant, 1/3 of traveling Vaudeville troupe Moronic Half-Assets.
“Drinks on the hoousssse!!!!” a patron heckles.
“No, silly goose. Do you want to do this job for me?”
“Of course!”
“Not if my wife has her way!” Konrad giggles, gives a snarky grin.
Eight-foot dumpster clown Madeline “Madwoman” Topolla-Teirant emerges and drags the former member by his…er…um…hair.
“It’s talent show time! The winner of this battle of the bands will take over as the brand spankin’ new president of the Poopy Groupies! Let’s have a hand for our first contestant, Wally Green!”
A slow clap echoes throughout the hall of the most Optimal Club in the Northern Illinois town known as Manteno.
“I invented my own version of this here 90s R&B song by Jade, I call it, ‘Don’t Walk Away From This Offer.’
I’ve got craptocoins
Waiting just for you
Made one hundred percent
of some Port-a-poo
Come on, get some new
From the doo-doo-doo
Get them from her dookie vault
Before she Bern’s them all!
I really like your art
This is coming from my heart
It smells just like my farts
From the cheeks that I did part
How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?
You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way
Disarm the turd-machines
Guarding Bern’s turd vault
If you feel kinda funny,
It’s not your fault
They smell really bad
But they’re really cool
Sliding from her bum
Into your inbox!
I really like your art
This is coming from my heart
It smells just like my farts
From the cheeks that I did part
How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?
You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way
Stop all this confusion
Pardon the intrusion
I really like your art
This is coming from my heart
It smells just like my farts
From my cheeks that I did part
How will I get in touch
Do you use Whasapp much?
You will make ten grand
From this craptocoin plan!
(Wally beat-boxes out his butt)
This is all for you, no money down!
NFTs for sale
NFTs for sale
Hot and ready for you
NFTs For Sale
Hot and ready for you
From Bernadette’s cloaca
The old, old fashioned way
NFTs for sale!”
The bulbous 60-something takes off his fishing cap, bows, then tucks his gut back into his trousers.
“That…was…interesting! Wally Green you guys!” MC Konrad announces.
“Who’s our next contestant, competing to win the heart of the farty princess herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca?”
Crickets chirp.
“No-one? Now certainly we have some competition? After all, he does own Wally Green’s Drugstores! ALL OF THEM!”
Konrad’s growing frustration begins to show across his wrinkled face, eyes on him, all six of them.
“Going once…going twice…gone! We have a new president!”
The portapotty empress, queen of the throne Bernadette Moran Cacca, reluctantly crowns her new fan-club president, Mr. Wally Green. A few people clap, the rest, “Craaap!”
“Now you’re gonna work for ME!”
“You mean, I can’t just stare at your beautiful face? You should smile more often, honey!”
Lil Ms. Craptocoin Bernadette Cacca drags Wally by the ear, into the back room, to talk about her backside table of contents.
As Hell’s Chief Operating Officer Satan unveils his newly procured “Welcome to Hell” sign — shown off by visiting intern Gothic Diana Ross — in-processing clerk for the newly damned Lucy Furr looks at her boss with visible dismay.
“Isn’t our new sign just peachy?” Satan asks Lucy as Diana continues to model by it, nearly getting hit a baker’s dozen times by the devil’s not-so-careful use of the pulley system.
“Couldn’t our money be better spent on improving working conditions? Hiring more people? Fixing the toilets?” asks the bully known for her tormenting of an autistic 20-something on their college trip to Italy.
“You have your own heated place for the rest of your life. Try being more thankful for the things you have,” Satan passive-aggressively demands of his clerk while sporting a devilish grin.
Meanwhile, communal narcadoodle Bernadette Cacca is still waiting to poop. All the other washrooms in Hell are closed for maintenance.
After another 666 hour shift checking in the newly damned at Hell’s front desk, receptionist Lucy Furr really needs to whizz.
“Dang it, this toilet’s got poop all over it.”
Lucy runs to another women’s room.
“This is just a chair with a hole in it! And someone tried to flush clothes down this toilet! Where’s the stall doors?”
In a frenzy, the bully from Kankakee best known for harassing an autistic girl on her college trip to Italy, Lucy Furr busts out the washroom, rushing around the first circle of Hell trying to yet find another one before she springs a massive leak in her drawers.
Out of luck and almost out of time, she tries one more powder room:
“Boss, can I get a vacation? I have been taking souls down the river Styx for millennia now, and I need a break,” Charon the Grim Reaper asks Satan.
“Just one day. I will ask in-processing clerk Lucy Furr to fill in while you are out, as she is your backup. You need to train her first.”
“I don’t need training, I can run circles around you!” Lucy Furr demeans the tired old Charon. The harbinger of the dead goes on vacation and Lucy takes a trip to Albion, Indiana.
The notoriously crooked couple “Scary” Barry and Terry Reynolds are having their daily, bitter argument.
“You did not unload the dishwasher!”
“Terry, you did not ask me.”
“Just anticipate it!”
“I cleared the table and wiped it down.”
“That does not even count!” Terry screams at her husband who begins to feel the onset of a heart-attack. In the midst of their creepy fight, a shadowy figure looms behind.
“I have been working for 666 weeks now. Can I get a raise?” Hell’s intake clerk Lucy Furr asks her boss, Satan.
“No.”
“I work harder than anybody here. I do 80 per cent of the work. I can run circles around the other damned people.”
“We provide you shelter with free heat. That is sufficient.”
“How much longer do I have to work? I am gonna quit if you don’t give me a raise.”
“You are here for all of eternity. According to your records, you had been assigned here because you had behaved like a bully your entire life. You were harassing an autistic person on their trip to Italy, tag teaming with your cousin Terry. And you had continued to bully that same person, plus scores of others at the cancer center where you had worked the check-out desk.”
“I don’t care. Get me outta here.”
“That’s not my decision. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them. Now get back to work, or I will order you to the jagged rocks and bubbling excrement room,” Satan orders his subordinate Lucy.
Lucy Furr, who had bullied an autistic student on their trip to Italy, is tired of working as Hell’s in-processing clerk. “Just sign the register” Lucy tells the newly damned who try and take over. All she wants to do is hand them pamphlets, and the regulations manual. “I wish I could clone myself” the adult bully says at her post. Lucy gets her wish.
Have fun!
Hell’s in-processing clerk Lucy Furr, notorious for bullying an autistic girl on the class trip to Italy, rips a fart while waiting for the newly damned to arrive.
Beware the ides of March.
Don’t let them light their farts.
Narc-a-doodle doo,
I don’t like you.
You don’t like me but you pretend to.
Narc-a-doodle doo,
I don’t like you.
I don’t like you, and don’t intend to.
During her 99-hour shift, Hell’s in-processing clerk Lucy Furr heads down to the 9th Circle to grab some joe so she can stay awake. “I would like an extra large latte with Irish Cream” Lucy tells the barista.
“We do not have Irish Cream” the barista advises Lucy.
“Okay, I’ll get an iced red-eye with extra shots.”
“Don’t you know where we are? We don’t served iced coffees.”
“Oh. Can I just get a cup of whatever you have? And make it fast. I need to go back to work.”
“We don’t serve coffee in Hell.”
“Then, what do you serve?” an angered Lucy asks the ogre working the counter.
“Misery. Satan put up this pretend coffeehouse to fake out the damned.”
MoronicArts 
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