“Why are you wearing THAT? What is that thing in your nose? That looks awful!” a creepy – yet familiar – voice echoes throughout the the eaves of Gothic Diana Ross & The Midnight Supremes’ Manteno home, annoying the poor ladies who are just sitting down on their patent leather chairs minding their own business. Their stalker is back.
Wanting to find the source of their pest, the trio of slender black beauties climb atop the roof of their slate Gothic Victorian mansion, and briefly take in the view of their town. Illinois is full of small towns. This is one of them.
“Why is that stupid vulture asking us dumb questions and pooping all over her claws?” Gothic Diana Ross asks her bandmates about the bird trespassing on their grass.
“It flew into our wall today. Twice.” Gothic Mary deadpans.
A large nest is spotted, hidden inside one of the spires.
The shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture hurls more insults at the talented sisters.
“Your hair is full of rats’ nests! You need a wax! When’s the last time you had a shower?”
“That looks like Bernadette’s mom!” Gothic Flo tells the Ross siblings.
Gothic Diana has had enough. She looks Carla Rachella Amanda Medici Moran dead in the eye, only for the stupid bird to go into defensive mode. Carla pukes up all over the Ross sisters’ lawn. Feeling egged on, Mrs. Moran tries to make herself look bigger by extending and flapping her wings as if they were fists ready for a fight. She looks like a confused chicken.
“Here’s your rat’s nest!” Gothic Flo says as she chucks Carla’s second home clear across Kant Street into next Tuesday. The ladies don’t like squatters.
Carla flies up onto the roof, and starts making demands. She clearly has no concept of boundaries.
“NOW I CAME HERE TO TEACH YOU GUYS A LESSON! SEE WHAT YOU DID? NOW I DON’T HAVE A PLACE TO LIVE. YOU SHOULD BE THANKFUL FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME AND RESPECT YOUR ELDERS!”
“I’ll show you respect!” Gothic Diana Ross knocks the angry bird straight into the ground with a single punch, Carla’s long, pointy beak stuck straight into the grass. The inverted bird’s long, dark tail sticks straight up with her cloaca for all the neighbors to see.
The ladies share a deep belly laugh, and beckon their next-door-neighbor, the equally moronic Bernadette Moran Cacca to pick up her mother.
Made from Newly Formed Turds (NFTs) mined the old-fashioned way, Manteno’s very own bog witch and doo-doo-gooder Bern Cacca says: “Craptocoin can put poop back into your backside! Have a good do your business day!” – B.M. Cacca
Be sure to wipe and flush. Don’t forget to wash your hands!
MoronicArts has received news that someone in the Midwest named a kitty after the fictional Manteno moron Bernadette Moran Cacca. From left to right: Not-Bernadette, Bernadette, Another Non-Bernadette cat.
That poor cat! When asked if she poops a lot, we were told “Of course! She is a bottle baby.”
Why go to the doctor when you can do your own medical tests? New to Wally’s Pharmacy Department, pick your nose and use our hose to see what troubles your throat may pose. Buy one, get one half-off (but never free!)
“Works like a charm!” – Lifted truck salesman and Juggalo, Brandon Dixon, Peotone
CRAP FLAPPITY
This toilet seat is not only buy one, get one half off (but never free), but it attacks people randomly using Wally’s patented cheap brackets. Why take a boring dump when you can take an annoying one?
“This is an awesome toilet seat!” – Communal narcadoodle, photo-op enthusiast and entramanure Bernadette Cacca, Manteno
These mobile phones are three for $1000 (must buy three). Why buy a boring mobile phone? Wally’s exclusive D-Mobile phone plays with itself when you are aren’t looking, dialing random numbers and opening random crapApps. Maybe it will dial 911 when you least expect it!
“D-Mobile is a great phone. Trust me, I sell them myself!” — Wally Green’s floor clerk Robbie Hurlbutt, Kankakee
Manteno bog witch, narcadoodle, and port-a-john proprietor Bernadette Moran Cacca is pooping green with envy because she did not get this brown cake to celebrate her birthday all April Fool’s Month long. Aww, a tiny violin is played in her honor.
Manteno pretend do-gooder and real doo-do-er Bernadette Cacca may not be much of a racer (nor that good a driver), however she found a race specially made for her, because she loves to get the runs (so she can burn them). She would be a regular here. Butt, do they take Craptocoin?
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?
As part of her campaign to promote regularity, Manteno’s very own communal narc-a-doodle, former wrestler and port-a-potty proprietor Bernadette Cacca tries to persuade people to invest in Craptocoin, mined the old fashioned way from NFTs (Newly Formed Turds).
To promote her new app, Craptocoin Registry And Preserved Poop Exchange Resource (CRAPPER), she hires the cover band Manteno Mentors, known to their fans as the MaMentors to perform tunes like this NSFW gem:
Pat Splatt plays guitar, JB The Turd Burglar plays bass, D-Fail of The Chickenheads growls the vocals, and her husband Peppi Cacca is too stoned off skunk-weed to play drums so he smokes his double-fisted doobies to double as fog.
Unfartunately for Bernadette, her CrapApp fails to launch. The MaMentors ditch the bog witch after one gig because she had paid them all in Craptocoin.
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