Sybil Kibble unveils the new “Enigma” computers for her debt collection team at Credit Recovery Associates in Kankakee, known better by their acronym CRASS.
“How do you get on the Internet?” asks a quizzical Dale Davis.
“Just type “INTERNET” and then “RUN.”
“How do you load the Collect-o-matic 2000?” a wary Judy Avelli asks.
“Just hook the machine up to a parakeet cage and type away.”
Sybil Kibble is busy taking a dump after a long, hard day when her phone starts to play the “Gongs and Chimes” numbers station music.
“Oh not her again. She only calls when she wants something but never picks up when I need a friend.”
Sybil royal flushes her full house and returns LTL’s call.
“Hey my buddy Sybil Kibble! It’s been a busy-busy month with lots of running around to do, but I’m free today for just the next hour.” LTL begins to read off next month’s agenda until Sybil interrupts.
“But I’m not. I have business to take care of. Call me tomorrow.”
“Okay. But we didn’t hang out on Easter. I wanted you to come to church with me. JC’s the man!”
“I’m not free on Sundays anymore. How about I call you when I am free and we can take it from there?”
“Okay…but I only want to see you for a few minutes.”
“I will call YOU when I am free. Good night.”
The next day, LTL calls anyway — despite Sybil having expressed her wishes for her to wait, and gawd-forbid respect HER time — and she asks again if they can hang out.
“Are you mad at me? You haven’t answered my texts.”
“I’m busy. What’s up, are you OK, LTL?”
“Let’s visit.”
Worried about her friend, Sybil reluctantly gives in.
“I’m pretty tired but I can see you for a bit as long as you actually show up. When will you be down?”
“Get ready.”
“I will. How long will it be”
“Not long”
“Ball-park, one hour?”
“Oh less than that.”
The two disconnect and Sybil fixes up her face-frame, straightens out her black-and-white top and applies her makeup. The clock ticks. No sign from lazy LTL because she’s too busy farting around, so Sybil gets understandably fed up. Setting a boundary is hard but important, so Sybil makes it clear as daylight that she’s done waiting around:
“It’s been two hours and you said to get ready because you would be right down, but you never showed up. You live a half mile from me, if even that. I’m not waiting around on you anymore. I’m going to bed. Have a good weekend.”
Within ten minutes, someone relentlessly knocks on Sybil’s door while she is busy folding laundry in her bedroom, vertical blinds drawn to give her privacy from nosy neighborhood nitwits.
“Sybil!”
knock-knock-knock
“Sybil!”
knock-knock-knock
“Sybil!”
Ms. Kibble dons her headphones and cranks up the volume to the bird and squirrel videos her ma JK had sent her, literally drowning out the noise from the door-pounding and her phone being blown to bits by all the texts:
“I am here”
“I am by your door now”
“I cannot see you”
“I am already here”
“I saw you when you walked inside”
Time is money, yet LTL thinks only HERS matters. L drives home and texts Sybil “Good night.”
The following day, ennui’s calling but nobody’s home. LTL tries to call Sybil so she can make excuses, instead of apologizing because why do that? Only smart people take personal responsibility.
“I am pert near fed up with all the times L has done flaked out! You snooze, you lose.”
Sybil decides to gets inventive instead of even. She checks her itemized log to look up the number of hours LTL has wasted over the years and drafts up a bill, which she then mails to LTL’s house:
Needless to say, LTL fails to pony up, so Sybil sells LTL’s debt over to her debt collections farm Credit Recovery Associates so her team can hound her instead.
What kind of songs do the denizens of the Moroniverse like? Here’s a list. Have fun!
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Kibble misses eating King Kuts dog food.
JoAnn Kibble raps along to this safety song while rearranging her collection of school bus parts.
Robbie Hurlbutt sure thinks he’s number one.
Bourbonnais neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt used to jam out to this tune while driving to work at the Teirant Cinema-13, before he got captured trying to storm Area 51.
Wacky inventor and drugstore owner Wally Green doesn’t accept “no” for an answer when he thinks he has found the magnet to his steel.
Konrad Teirant plays a lot of Dirty Games.
Bernadette M. Cacca had loved her Turd Machine Deluxe so much, she went out and bought 19 more of them.
Gothic Diana Ross turns the men upside down with her long, long notes.
Ant D. Yu was having fun spinning this tune at the Manteno Optimal Club until Bernadette Cacca and her Poopy Groupies had showed up and made a stink. Word has it he still plays it when she’s not there.
Pat Splatt loves spammity spam, spam spam spam, beautiful spam spam spam spam.
Brandon Dixon thinks his tractor…mmm…imbecile machine is sexy.
One half of the rap group The Chickenheads, Tyrell “Ty-Fowl” Fowler burps along to this song:
Basic bill-collector babe Sybil Kibble lives/laughs/loves to fill her Kankakee home with the most boring decor.
Is that a lighthouse or are you just happy to see me? Tour her wannabe McMansion to see her nautical crap — err, you could have done that in the past. She got so bored of it all, she gifted gave it to her mother JoAnn who lives in her basement. JoAnn and her squirrels plays rocket-ship with the pointy wooden trinkety things.
And then there is this Santa Elvis she permanently borrowed from her next-door neighbor and best friend PJ Hurlbutt. Rumor has it, her son Robbie Hurlbutt had got it after it fell off the back of a truck.
Sybil keeps it out all year because she is too lazy to put it away.
“Why take down all my Christmas stuff when Imma just gon’ have to done put it up again next year?”
— Sybil Katrina Kibble, Kankakee
“Don’t you see the sign?” Sybil Kibble asks shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran after she had taken a massive dump all over the tree branch, spilling onto the Manteno strip mall pavement.
“I don’t give a hoot, I pollute!” Carla squawks back at Sybil who has run for the hills, clapping back “clean up after yourself!” at the dirty birdy and her pile of giant turdies.
Kankakee bill collector Sybil Katrina Kibble sighs. No matter how many times she turns the key in her car’s ignition, its engine would rather fart and shart than start.
“Stupid freaking LeBaron!”
Much to her chagrin, Sybil’s Chrysler Boxmobile doesn’t talk back to her this time.
“Oh man, I’d much rather talk to my car than to those stupid morons on the bus…I wish they would get better hobbies instead of bothering people. Read a book or something…”
A very tired Sybil waits at the nearest stop, pays her fare and sits down in a seat toward the middle of the city bus. She avoids looking at the other riders, and instead gawks at the bus’ console instead.
“I wonder if Ma has seen that new parking brake design. I haven’t seen it in her bus-parts collection yet,” Sybil thinks to herself, bobbing her head to the mumble-country music playing through her headphones.
Sybil’s already tense heart races as she witnesses the unthinkable:
Pris Dixon, wife of Brandon Dixon who owns the local imbecile machine lot, uses her young daughter as a punching bag. “How dare you disrespect me!” Pris yells at the innocent child.
“What are you doing? What the heck are you doing?” Sybil yells to Pris as she intervenes to stop the violence. As grumpy as Sybil can get, she has enough of a conscience to at least help an innocent child who cannot defend herself, because duh!
“Mind ya own business!”
Pris calls Sybil every name in the book.
“It’s everybody’s business! It’s illegal to hit an adult, it’s illegal to hit a child!”
“Wanna go? I’mma gon’ kick yo’ butt!”
“Oh, grow up now.” Sybil shakes her head and waves away Pris.
“Stop it ladies!” the bus driver yells out, and Sybil flashes a thumbs-up. Sybil saves the video she had secretly recorded on her phone, pushes up her glasses and breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls the cord to get off the bus just in time for work.
Miss Kibble logs onto the Collect-o-Matic 2000 and makes her first phone call. Sybil can’t wait for the weekend after yet another long, stressful week during these strange times.
It’s now Sunday, April 31st at the Manteno Cantina and Optimal Club. This week’s live entertainment is ready to start.
“Hi! I’m Mr. JB, but you can call me Mister Beef! I’m your host today here at the Manteno Optimal Club! Get ready contestants, cuz we’re gonna play…What’s Your Beef? Now our fine contestants are going to all meet in the ring and answer one simple question. Whoever is still standing will win our grand prize of One Million Craptocoins, generously donated by the queen of the porcelain throne herself, Mrs Bernadette Cacca!”
A slow clap emanates from the audience.
“Now, contestants, hear me loud and clear. I will only ask you all this question once: Does whipped cream go on cake?”
“Ding ding ding!” Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran rings the bell with her beak, then returns to her regularly scheduled preening.
“Now I’m getting hungry for some burritos, I’m gonna go in the back and find the beef!”
JB walks into the kitchen storage room and starts berating the staff. Loud arguing can be heard. Meanwhile, the contestants just stand there and look at each other.
“Whipped cream is not frosting, it’s whipped cream.”
“Yeah, why do people put that crap on cake? So boring.”
“Yeah…no, I would never put whipped cream on a cake. I want my cake and I’m gonna eat it too!”
The contestants share a laugh. Bog witch, communal narcadoodle and entramanure Bernadette Moran Cacca yawns and rubs her eyes. Meanwhile, the cantina patrons watch the local news on the venue televisions. A reporter comes on the screen detailing a story why the Kankakee police looking for Pris Dixon, airing the evidence Sybil Kibble had secretly recorded and sent along with her report.
“Why does this JB, JBeef whateverhisface moron have such a big following on teh interwebs anyway?”
“Beats me.”
“Brainrot.”
“Yeah, anything for skibidi clicks I suppose…”
The contestants collectively shrug and look out at the bored audience, however this does not last long. Their boredom suddenly got jump-scared by a typical denizen of the Moroniverse: A loud thump shakes the cantina wall as a rather rotund, middle-aged woman comes busting through the door.
“Hey, I heard there’s some kind of Beefeater game?”
“Child abuser!” the crowd points at Pris, whom they recognize immediately after having seen her ugly mug on the TV news.
“Adult abuser!” the cooks point at Mr. Beef as he emerges from the kitchen after having chewed them out as if he were Gordon Ramsay or something.
“You want a piece of me?” Pris eggs on the crowd.
“Meet me in the ring, baby! JB smirks at the crowd with his giant set o’ choppers, his cold, soulless eyes stare into the abyss before the rage consumes him as he enters the ring. Both bumbling nitwits cannot wait for the attention and of course – social media cred.
Pris climbs up onto the stage and drops her ghetto blaster.
“Ow, ow, ow, my foot!”
She had wanted to crank up some tunes by the copyright-simps Metallica, but oh well — too bad, so sad.
“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Carla rings the bell with her steel talons.
JB blasts some butt-trumpet tunes in his opponent’s general direction.
Pris chucks a beer can at JB and of course misses, spilling that poor lager everywhere. Awww those poor hops, sacrificed for nothing..
JB dances around the ring, puts his hands to his ugly head and flips the bird with not only one but both hands! Wow — what a move! So creative.
Pris charges at JB like the raging beast she is, slips on the beer she had spilled, and hits her head on the concrete floor of the ring.
“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Pris calls out to the crowd for help, but nobody cares.
Gothic Diana Ross, The Midnight Supremes and their boyfriends point and laugh at the mess.
“Ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead!” they gleefully sing as they head out the door to drive home in the black 1988 Chrysler Conquest TSi.
The patrons and staff all begin to walk out, they’ve had enough.
JB and Bernadette round up all the craptocoins, close up the joint and drive to Manteno. Bernadette loads them back into her basement Turd Vault, arms the two Turd Machine Deluxes guarding it and runs up the washroom. Then she poops.
Five days later, Pris’ dead body is found by a restaurateur after some customers at a nearby joint complain about “that nasty barbecue sauce smell next door,” demanding a refund.
“This skunkweed ain’t skunky enough. Gotta add more port-a-pee.”
– Peppi Cacca, Fartner, Peppi’s Portapotties
“Not more flatulence testing! Stop feeding me corn and send me home!”
– Damien Hurlbutt, world’s largest source of natural gas, test subject at Area 51’s Alternative Fuels Division
“I keep circling and circling…I’m getting hangry…gotta be some fresh carrion around here somewhere.”
– Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture, Sterile supply technician
“These dog bones are making me constipated! I want a refund!”
– Sybil Kibble, bill collector, Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS)
“What are they burning now?”
– Gothic Diana Ross, Singer and Vet Tech
“Poop!”
– Bernadette Cacca, Entramanure
Hell, Inc. CEO Satan temporarily banishes the daemon — once known as Midwestern slumlord Sonya Mare Smith Moran — to the land of the living, because she refused to stop stalking him in his basement C-Suite. He’s tired of hearing the shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture squawking and pecking at his door.
The former president of The Poopy Groupies pays her favorite singer a visit hoping to sing a stinky doo-doo-et, however Bernadette Cacca has once again fallen asleep on the toilet while pooping. Despite her best efforts to make a direct-to-dream connection, Sonya fails to reach her subject because she is too busy farting in her sleep.
Ms. Moran then curses her former tenants who had reported her for false lease violations (cha-cha-cha), using every word in the book, however they all tune her out because the community room television is volume has been turned up to accommodate the hard-of-hearing. Duh.
Making one last ditch to stir up trouble, Sonya-Daemon appears at Sybil Kibble’s house, however she is not home, so Sonya instead cuts off her mother’s internet connection, tapping her toes anticipating a reaction.
“The web has tossed its darned cookies again,” JoAnn Kissane Kibble thinks aloud. “CeeCee, did you throw some nuts into the router again?” JoAnn asks her squirrel-buddy.
After clearing the router of chocolate chips and nuts, she switches her phone from a wi-fi connection to a cellular one, and types on Fakebook: “I can’t get online because the internet is down.” Then she starts crushing candy with her phone.
After Sonya-Daemon has used up her most recent free hall pass to planet Earth, she gets sucked back into the underworld.
“Hey Boss, can you make me 10 feet tall? I wanna be 10 feet tall! I wanna be 10 feet tall, just like I was when I sold you my soul!” the nitwit screams as she repeatedly jumps up and down, like a toddler who lost a kickball.
“I’ve tried startling people, I’ve tried inhabiting their dreams, stealing their cookies, nothing. Nobody even notices me!”
“Have you tried just shutting up?” Satan replies…“Now back to the call center. We need 1000 surveys completed every hour…”
“Woo-hoo!” Sonya un-ironically shrieks as she runs to her new cubicle in Hell, Inc.
Without it, we’d all be using port-o-dumps (or outhouses perhaps, that is, if we don’t mind the splinters)
Big up to LAERAfoolish for drawing the first fan-art ever of the changeling humanoid vulture Carla Moran shapeshifting before our eyes! You rock!
MoronicArts 
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