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.
“Hey Sonya, we’re having you for supper! Come with us!” Area 51 Prinicpal Instigator and Pain Tolerance Department Manager Dr. Jen Jenner tells the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and malignant narcadoodle Sonya Marie Smith Moran, who has been pecking back and forth with her cellmate, narc of the communal kind Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt.
“Hot Dawg!”
“No wieners or winners, just you for supper. Sonya, your hair is a rat’s nest. Violation! Clean your cage, there are bird turds everywhere, even in your water dish! Violation!”
“What? MY cage? YOU put me here!”
“Yes, this is your home now and you’re coming with us!”
“Knock it off!” Sonya says to the raptor-captors at Area 51.
“We can smell your bum-waste clear cross the High Desert. Violation! You freeloaders trash this place that your tax dollars pay for! Violation! Cha-cha-cha. Violation! Cha-cha-cha.” the guards scold the Midwestern scumlord and malignant narcissist as they read from the Code of Federal Regulations.
Sonya hisses at the guards surrounding Dr. Jenner, flaps her wings, taking a defensive stand.
“Violation! Haha. Alright, imma carve this turkey!”
The guards rush toward Ms. Moran, with chainsaw in tow, and yank the caged lady from her cell.
“Oh yum. I can’t wait for turkey dinner. I’ve had nothing but corn and corn-derivatives since I got here two years ago,” says her cellmate and fellow narcadoodle Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, as he rubs his hands together. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh b–“ “I’m a dang vulture, not a turkey, you stupid neckbeard!” Sonya screams as she gets hauled away to a deep, dark crevice hidden within the bowels of the dry lake known as Groom.
After the recovering from the HUD investigation, malignant narc-a-doodle and attention-seeking fool Sonya starts to poop out a bunch more fake lease violations accusing her Manteno, Illinois residents of launching stinkoff from cat pee fair across their buildings and using their floors as washrooms, but this time typing them on a manual typewriter to hopefully evade more trouble from the feds. Sonya leaves her briefly office to whizz, comes back to see this helpful instruction notice taped to her door.
Sonya crumples it up, checks her non-existent security cameras to find out who did it. Ooops. Sonya accidentally forgot to renew her security contract because she did not want to get caught on tape harassing her residents.
Furious, Sonya storms out her door to look for the person, only to see dozens of these same flyers wallpapered across the hall, and outside:
As the frenzied fool and Ferengi fan makes her way to her manager suite, she jumps up in panic to see that a dog had peed ALL OVER her fake violation notices after scattering them on the floor in front of her office (and probably digging his feet in them afterward to show off his hard work).
“Good boy!” she hears off in the distance, a voice too faint to recognise.
“Oh my stars! That dog highlighted every single one of my rule of living violation notices! What am I gonna do now? Those precious papers, my babies…”
Sonya breaks down, gets down on her knees and cries about the dog’s desecration of her factitious fault files.
Wanting a break from work and her usual carrion lunchmeat, the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture takes flight to find the biggest fast food joint she can find.
She lands at a McDonald’s which is so large it takes up an entire Chicago block. Sonya shape-shifts into her humanoid form after having been previously yeeted from a Midwest business which does not allow animals.
Sonya chows down on her greasy burgers and fries, washes them down with a large pop. Wanting a stiff drink and a place to nest for the night, Sonya walks across the street:
“Hotel Ferengi and Bar, sounds like my kinda place!”
Sonya enters the bar and orders a Long Island Iced Tea.
“Sorry, all we got is root beer. I can get you a great deal on a hotel room!”
“Sign me up!”
Sonya scans the QR code and downloads a booking CrapApp. She books the fanciest room in the entire joint and heads to the counter to check in. She hands the clerk her ID, gives him the reservation number and a pint of blood.
“All set, all we need is 50 slips of Latinum.”
“I just pre-paid!”
“50 slips of Latinum, ma’am.”
“I don’t have it.”
“It’s our policy. We need to charge you or you won’t be able to stay here.”
“Who can I talk to about getting it waived?”
“I am the only manager here.”
Calling her bluff, Sonya asks who is above her to hopefully resolve this confusion.
“I have my manager on the phone.”
“Hi Quark. I pre-paid my room.”
“Yes, it’s our policy to charge every guest a 50 Latinum deposit fee.”
“I don’t have it. How do I pay if if I don’t have it?”
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?
MoronicArts 
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