Former wrestler, entramanure and charity show-tunes do-gooder-just-for-the-photo-op Bernadette Moran Cacca is busy slurping down her breakfast burritos at the Manteno Cantina, as part of her personal campaign to promote regularity. Last week she bragged to her fan club, the Poopy Groupies, about her constipation.
“Did you know they re-made ‘Yo Mama’s House’ into a full-length feature film?” Bernadette asks the random stranger seated at the table next to her.
“Huh?”
“You betcha. And I’m in it!”
JB the Turd Burglar walks in with Poopy Groupies club president, Aunt Sonya Moran, and Bern’s drunken husband Peppi.
“You’re a national treasure, Bernadette!” JB exclaims.
“Bernadette for president! Feel the Bern!” screeches her aunt Sonya, a shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture.
“You’re no Bernie Sanders!” chuckled a stranger from across the cantina.
Konrad Teirant is foaming at the mouth at his Bourbonnais business.
“This guy is a hot mess. Our janitor called in again! Imma gonna done post his job alrighty.” Konrad Teirant, mad that he can’t keep good cleaning staff, prints out a help-wanted sign to be posted on his Cinema-13 multiplex:
“Now hiring cleaners. $7.50 an hour, experience preferred.”
“Kids these days don’t wanna work!” Konrad whinges as he hangs the signs all over his cinema property and at bill-collection company Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee where he is in charge of cooking the books, err, working as their Controller.
Bernadette Cacca can’t wait to see her face on every silver screen in the county. She buys tickets for every showing of “Yo Mama’s House,” in every single movie house, excited for the opportunity to take selfies at every single showing, so she can brag “I’m on every screen” in her Fakebook feed.
It’s opening night at Cinema-13. Bernadette sits down in the row right up front so she can see her mug grow as big as her ego.
A rumble takes over her belly.
“Oh crap.”
Bernadette tries her best to hold it.
More rumbles make waves through her intestines, heaving her flesh increasingly as the minutes pass. She can’t wait any longer, so she runs for the washroom.
“It smells like rotten eggs and death over there,” box office clerk Bratley Teirant says as he points toward the ladies’ washroom at his father’s business. “I’m expecting a mushroom cloud to emerge any second.” Bratley ducks and covers.
Bernadette causes a cinema-wide brown-out at the spectacle, courtesy of her overflow error. The raw sewage floods well beyond yonder and into the electrical system powering the projector, sound system and the point-of-sale software.
Konrad has to think fast and on his feet. He dons his waders and books it to the ladies’ washroom to do doo clean-up dooty.
Mr. Teirant emerges from his outdated washroom carrying a big bag alright – just not full of money.
“What are you doing in there? Can’t you get things right? You childish little man!” his wife, 7 foot tall dumpster clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant shouts at her 5’4” hubby.
“Ha-ha!” Bratley laughs and points at the people who gave him his genes. He’s not very bright either.
As if her crappy ritual burning her company’s port-a-poops in her backyard has not been enough to irritate her next door neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and The Midnight Supremes, basic Bern eyes a bigger one.
Quoth the new advertising blitz on every app, social media and PooTube video:
“Your pharmacy products* will be delivered to your house within one hour of ordering, or Wally will deliver it himself! *Prescriptions excluded (because Wally is too cheap to hire enough pharmacy technicians)“
“Hey kids, it’s staff meeting time! Our pharmacy clerk Robbie got recently re-promoted from the sales floor! Everybody give him a round of applause!”
A slow clap is heard.
“Do I get more money, Mr. Green?”
“Nope, just more work.” Now we have this marketing blitz going on where our customers are guaranteed to get their things within an hour or I will deliver them myself. I order our staff to prioritize the men in the queue, so that the single ladies can score dates with us!” the desperate barfly and wacky inventor Walter Augustine Green orders his primarily straight and bisexual male drugstore staff.
“Are ya sure about that, boss?” Robbie Hurlbutt asks, and giggles. “Sounds like a groovy idea. Can I make the deliveries?”
“No Rob, we need you in the pharmacy.”
Robbie sings audibly some Elvis tunes, passive-aggressively, as his boss leaves to hopefully deliver some love to some Illinois ladies.
Desperate Wally will do anything hoping to score a date. Wally purposely makes the women’s deliveries late, so he can invite himself to all kinds of ladies’ homes.
Ding-dong.
“Hi, Rachel, I have your beers, just sign here.”
“Why are you so late? These should have been here two hours ago. You should be ashamed of yourself. I want a refund.”
“I’m worth a million dollars, let me inside and I will make you feel like even more!”
“I have a boyfriend! Plus you’re a gross old man!”
Rachel Shelley and Wally argue, because Wally won’t take “no” for an answer, until her boyfriend Leon Peeonne chases Wally off their property.
The compact, medium skinned woman sporting a buzz-cut signs and goes to shut the door.
“Now wait a minute, lady. Wouldn’t you like to see me, now that you have your contacts?”
“See who?”
“Me. I think you’re cute.”
“Dude, I’m a lesbian.”
“Oh, I like Libyans!”
“It means I like girls, you moron!”
“Me too, why don’t you—“
SLAM!
Next stop, Manteno.
“Peppi’s Port-a-potties, king and queen of the throne.”
“Oh hi, honey. This is Wally Green! I have your stool softeners and fiber pills.”
“You’re awesome! I’ll be right out!”
Entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca runs out the door, goes to hug Wally with her poopy hands, dirty from emptying out some port-a-loos as he delivers her pills (meanwhile bragging about charity crap she only does for the photo opportunity). Of course, she did not wash her hands.
“I’ll…just put these here.”
Wally sets the bag on the ground, runs to his delivery car and speeds away, almost getting pulled over by that one Bourbonnais cop who drives up and down same main-drag repeatedly.
“Robbie, you can make the deliveries from now on,” Wally tells his pharmacy clerk, and Kankakee’s number one Elvis impersonator.
The more things change at Wally Green’s, the more they stay the same.
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?
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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Are you lost? Why use Google Maps when you can rent a physic? Just 3.99 a minute to subscribe.I am glad that stripped kitty got home from the club okay. He must have been cold after taking off his coat.Perfect food for a green grouch, heh heh heh.Did Peppi Cacca leave Bern and run for the hills? Let us hope. Then again, maybe not. The couple that poops together, stays together.
“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.”
MoronicArts 
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