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?
“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.”
“And now for our next act, two Bernadette Caccas in a trenchcoat!” barks the ringleader Konrad Teirant at Moronic Half-Assets Three Ring Circus in Manteno.
“Oh look, that’s the shapeshifting humanoid vultures Sonya and Carla Moran flying above! Look out, they just might poop on ya!”
The crowd covers their heads.
“Splat” goes the bird doo right atop Kankakee County’s number one Elvis impersonator:
“I wish I wore a hat…” Robbie Hurlbutt moans as the Undead Greg next to him munches his turd sandwich. He eats poopies to stay undead.
A fan-made video was made starring these idiots. Youtube ads are yucky. If you use an adblocker, log out of PooTube to work around the glitch. The Moroniverse will thank you.
Hey, sis, Bernadette’s enabler aunt almost ran me over tonight!
Carla Moran and her closet alcoholic sister have made it a habit to eat dinner over at Bernadette and Peppi Cacca’s house next door. You know, those loud stinky idiots who complain about our music. Those shapeshifting vultures rarely used to come here to visit the bog-witch except on occasion at holidays. Carla and Sonya flew in from Albion, Indiana, after doing sky donuts looking for carrion, I’m sure.
Tonight when I was halfway through the street, the aunt of that stupid communal narcadoodle Bernadette made a left out of Bern’s parking lot and nearly hit me. I waved at the driver, to alert her to wait. Nope, stupid moron kept beeping at me.
I screamed at her, and then flipped the bird once I had safely crossed. Her family is chock fulla enablers and I wish someone had taken the aunt’s keys away by now. Stupid fool drinks wine by the box! Hey, I’m no angel however I am in recovery and it’s daily, hard work. Ya know what? I do it.
Diana
“Hey, I am almost to the bank, I’ll text you later.”
–Sonya
k
— sent from a jpay phone
Hey, my dahling niece Bernadette. The bank is closed. I ran all the way there only for them to close on me! Their ATM is broken. Sorry I cannot bail you out. When is your trial?
–Sonya
Not soon enough. I cannot believe this community allowed this to happen to me. I do so much for you, I do so much for them. I am an Actor/musician/writer/piano bar empress who raises money for charity. I paid to heal 1000 blind men on TakTik all with craptocoins straight from my bum! I am God, and in prison, about to be hung from a cross. This is all their fault!
— sent from a jpay phone
Diana is fed up with the Caccas’ and Morans’ shenangians:
Hello sir:
May I please submit a tip to you regarding a drunk driver? I almost got hit by her Friday around 7:15PM at the intersection of Kant Street and Utica Ave in Manteno, Illinois. Her name is Sonya Moran and she lives at 1304 O’Brien Ave, Albion, IN. She is a closet alcoholic and usually starts drinking around 4:30 PM daily.
Can the police please keep an eye on that area? I don’t want her to hit anybody. It almost happened to me. I think she drives a white crossover of some sort.
I want no drama, just want to keep people safe.
Sincerely,
Trisha Cobb (Gothic Diana Ross)
Bernadette gets desperate for bail money by leaving fake reviews using her jpay mobile phone, which she loaded with craptocoin:
Bernadette Cacca recommends Black Kow Manure
I met a recommendation by someone on this page writing how Mr Pat Splatt helped her earn $10,000 with $700 weekly on forex and craptocoin trading, wow I’m happy to let you know that it’s so real contact him now to know how its works and start making profit on craptocoin trades. Whatsapp: +1(815) 555-1896
“Success doesn’t come to you, You go to it… I’m not the one to call you to invest and have a bright financial situation. If you know what’s right, you’re supposed to contact him now and start trading ASAP”
Stylish interior
Tasting menus
Curbside Pickup
— sent from a jpay phone
“Come on Bernadette, we’re letting you go home.”
“Bail reform in my favor?”
“No, your farts are a safety hazard and pose a security risk to the other inmates.”
“Woo-hoo! I’m free!” Manteno’s favorite fake-do-gooder, communal narcadoodle and entramanure does a little happy dance, gyrating her hips like she’s pouring soft-serve from her bum.
Bernadette is in such a hurry to become irregular that she nearly runs over one of the regulars at the coffeehouse. She is a crappy driver.
She wants to get the runs, Gotta mine that craptocoin and those NFTs: newly-formed turds for her charity singing and kazoo playing which she does only for the photo opportunity. Looks are deceiving because she makes a good dog-and-pony poop show pretending she cares.
She only loves poop.
Bernadette calls her husband Peppi to let him know that she is free from jail. “We need a new jingle for our portable john business.”
“Like a hole in the head we do!” Peppi replies.
“How about we do a mashup of Lincolnshire Poacher and Funeral March for a Marionette and you rap over it? I’ll play the entire song on accordion and kazoo.”
“Mayyyybeee…” Peppi chortles as he takes a huge drag off his skunky joint. The Caccas love to smell bad.
Leona Krabalsky scowls at Sybil Kibble the whole time she is in her range of view at the Bourbonnais Buckstars. Leona’s evil gaze goes right through Sybil and she smiles wide intentionally, because she is living her best life and wants it to show. She cannot wait to taste that initial sip.
“Can I ask you something?” Leona asks Sybil, despire her body language giving off a glaring “no.”
Sybil makes her way back to her table to drink her iced mocha. Meanwhile Kankakee County troll Leona follows her to her table to spam her some more with her unsolicited advertisements of her nosey questions.
Sybil waves her arms to assert Leona “no,” however she asks anyway. “Where did you get that bag, I like that bag.”
“No means no!” Sybil chants, grabs her things and leaves. No Area 31 Bag sale for pyramid schemer and hag Leona.
Frustrated with her lack of business, Leona Krabalsky makes her way for home, the Exit 315 interchange. As she sulks, a mad driver squeals her brakes as she pulls over to Mrs. Krabalsky, nearly hitting her.
“Hey where did you get that bag?”
Stunned, Leona’s eye open up wide, her jaw drops.
“Area 31.”
“Did it come from outer space?”
“No, but I can get you a deal that is out of this world.”
The two morons shake hands, Sonya Moran peels away, her niece Bernadette Moran Cacca smiles with her tongue hanging out.
Sonya and Bernadette head toward Manteno and the Bradley police car makes his usual patrol up and down the main drag — or does he?
Happy to be free from jail Bernadette heads upstairs to the washroom and pinches a massive loaf, not even waving to her husband Peppi sitting on the rocking chair, drinking moonshine.
“Time to mine more craptocoin! My turd vault is fresh out.”
A siren heard in the background, gets louder, its doppler effect fading as the decibels rise.
“Ooh, party horns!” Bernadette jumps for joy.
Bernadette tells her aunt about her prison stay:
“I had an absolutely epic month in jail. Had the ENORMOUS pleasure of police reading my terrifically, bigly, colorful rights in a flashy car. Stellar food — included with cot are THREE HOTS and many visits with friends from far and near. Wow. Here’s to Kankakee County Jail.”
“What are you on, hon?” Peppi asks his wife Bernadette. “Can I get some of that?”
Bernadette’s smell phone rings but she does not answer, too busy gushing about her fun times behind bars and all the friends she made. “They are totally going to give me community service, I just KNOW it.”
Bernadettes phone continues to ring as she continues to ignore it.
“Darn it. I did not know these fools were going to pay in Craptocoin.” Leona says to her sister Doris. Leona makes a call to someone else.
January 14, 2023, was the last day I performed in person with other people. I was at The Manteno Optimal Club, and I re-live-streamed my shift because I honestly wanted to encourage people. I thought, “This will be an interesting experiment for a couple of months or however long they keep me in this silly prison cell.” ONE MONTH LATER, and a BIG thank you Aunt Sonya.”
“Wooo-hoo!” the histrionic Sonya screams as she runs and then jumps onto her man Bingle-Derry, spindly legs wrapped clear around his waist.
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Manteno Police. This is not a joke.”
Peppi opens the door, glad that his stash is well hidden.
“Are you Mr. Peepee…Cacca?”
“Peppi.”
“We need a word with your wife. Is she home?”
Bernadette retracts in fear, stunned she could possibly be in trouble. After all, she thinks she did nothing to deserve her jail sentence. Her mind races as she prepares excuses.
“We heard that you were dealing in some funny money.”
“Oh not her, she is a WONDERFUL person,” Sonya tells the cop.
“I am asking Bernadette.”
“Sir, we can talk about this. Here, how much do you need for your funding? Let me get you a coffee and–“
“Don’t bribe me unless you want arrested.”
The smell of Bernadette burning her turds overwhelms the cop, who coughs his way out the Cacca homestead.
“Oh hey officer, ya got a minute?” Gothic Diana Ross asks, gesturing for the cop to come over to her next-door home.
The gothic singer and the officer exchange information and a wandering Leona Krablasky slaps Di five.
Bernadette gets yeeted from her home and back into the clink where she belongs, along with her aunt Sonya who is thrown into the drunk tank.
Much to Bernadette’s dismay, and the delight of her fellow inmates, the jail chef changes the menu to a bland diet.
Albion, Indiana shapeshifting vulture Carla Moran complains at her sister-in-law, fellow shapeshifter Sonya Moran, because she dropped a piece of carrion she has been eating:
“You just dropped that perfectly good piece of rotted carcass. You shouldn’t waste food! Now you’re getting that all over your feathers.”
“Umm, do you think I did it on purpose? I’ll wait…” Sonya claps back.
“I am just trying to help!” Carla gaslights.
“How bold of you to assume I did that intentionally. I bet you never dropped anything in your entire lifespan!”
“Okay, okay, okay, drop it already.”
“I will!”
Sonya steals her sister-in-law’s food right out her mouth, dropping her entire meal all over the ground at the Albion park, much to the dismay of her controlling sister-in-law and that of all the residents below.
Tamika Euforia had enough of people giving her crap at Kankakee’s Best Low Income Apartments. It’s bad enough renting from owner Madeline Topolla-Teirant.
“I’ve got to tell you something funny. You won’t believe this. I went downstairs cuz I heard a noise and I thought maybe someone had left the fan on which upsets my next door neighbor who lives directly above the party room. It turned out somebody was vacuuming to set up for a party. I thought it was the monthly luncheon so I asked if it was a potluck. The adult banshee gave me attitude, sternly bellowing out ‘no this ain’t no damn potluck.’
”I said to her “all you need to do was be nice, it costs nothing,” but banshee did as banshees do: had a blow out about it. She called me crazy and told me to go to hell, shoving the door in my face. So I heard her and her banshee enablers talking trash about me as they set up their baby shower, all decked out in pink. I went in the other door and I told them to stop disrespecting me. She goes ‘I’m going to go tell my mama.’ Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!
”Turns out her mother’s a good friend of mine told the the three of them to shut up, three of them a kind. Her mother was married to a narcissist like I was. I knew she had some trauma history, so I said I said I am sorry you have to deal with all this. She was the same person who brought me to my procedure on Monday with my so-called best friend bailed on me at the last minute.I feel bad for the kid already and she’s not even born yet. I also laugh knowing that I will sleep well at night and she won’t because she’ll be waking up all the baby banshee screams.”
“Who’s the father?” asked her friend Darrell.
“I was told it’s some dude named Damien. He’s that orange neckbeard who works the ticket counter at Cinema-13, the one owned by our landlord’s husband. He offered m’ladies free movie tickets over at the cinema where he works. Apparently she took him up on his special offer!” Tamika said while giggling.
“Where’s he now?”
“Last I heard he was at Area 51. He went looking for someone, Bernadette from the port-a-crap company in Manteno. That bog witch who moonlights singing kazoo covers of show-tunes for charity.”
Wanting to find the deadbeat dad, the band of bad banshees went down after the party and wailed at the last known place where Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt was seen, the swamp where they all hung out. Nobody was home, not even the bog queen Bernadette.
There they encounter The Poopy Groupies.
The Poopy Groupies thought their iconic poop-emoji Bernadette was dead, so they call Albion, Indiana police.
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture and aunt to Bern, Sonya Moran cannot be reached so she becomes a moron of interest. She flew the coop.
Next-door neighbors Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes all have an alibi; they had held a concert up in Chicago at the time of Bern’s disappearance.
The Poopy Groupies joined the banshee queens after to hunt for the lost Bernadette and the baby daddy Damien.
Undead Greg Schneissder became the prime suspect in Bern’s disappearance, the cops too dumb to know that bog-witch Bernadette is also undead.
“Bern has been in jail, did you ever think to check your records?”
Nobody involved in the police investigation suspected Bern’s rose-scented bum to be behind bars.
Meanwhile baby-daddy Damien, the world’s largest source of natural gas, continued to be busy expelling wind at the Alternative Fuel Source Department down underground at Area 51.
Manteno communal narc-a-doodle, entramanure and poopyburner Bernadette “Bern” Moran Cacca had got in Gothic Diana Ross’ face and screamed at her, saying that “she’s sick of her and her spoiled brat personality,” and calling her “stupid, lazy and stuck-up” after eavesdropping on her talking about her job working as a veterinary technician. Apparently, Bernadette fails to comprehend that a vet tech is a freaking nurse for animals, and that it’s not nice to listen in on other people’s conversations. Bern is a moron.
When Di walks away, choosing not to engage, Bern tells her to go tattle to her mother “like she always does.” Yeah…no.
“I just said I wasn’t going to be treated like that,” Diana tells the other Midnight Supremes Gothic Flo and Gothic Mary.
“She said that she hates me and she can destroy me. I just left. And she was drunk. This is a woman who hasn’t even left the country, can’t speak another language, can barely read, yet she throws shade behind the scenes when she’s not kissing the butts of her friend collection. She called me irresponsible for listening to the vet over her. She works at a portapotty company when she is not singing cover tunes for charity, tips and giggles. Why should I listen to her? She’s a volunteer. Not a vet. She thinks she knows everything, and that she’s God’s gift to Manteno.”
Bernadette peels her turdmobile out her driveway, over to the Kankakee Riverview district, hoping to race. After the drivers start heckling Bern, she joins the side-show to heckle the drivers who have rejected her. Bern needs to get better hobbies.
Bern uses her butt-trumpet to shame the drivers she does not like. She feels so proud of every fart with which her cheeks part. The hecklers turned violent, turning over a minivan driven by a woman and her two kids. Police catch on to what Bern and the rest of the sideshow kids are doing, and catch up to the three-ring-circus.
Bern gets arrested and charged. Terrified about her reputation, she makes a phone call to her aunt and promoter Sonya Marie Smith Moran, who does not answer.
“Can I pay in Craptocoin? I just mined them myself, the old fashioned way, from NFTs! Newly Formed Turds,” Bernadette asks the bailiff.
“You’re an idiot, Bernadette.”
Shapeshifting humanoid vulture Sonya Moran is standing behind one of the low-income apartment complexes she operates, talking to her sister-in-law and bird of a feather Carla.
“I’m running,” Sonya tells Carla over FaceCall.
“I did not know you could jog.”
“I got another job. I don’t interact with people much there.”
“How many people did you tick off?”
“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to work.”
The Albion, Indiana WallyWorld self-checkout clerk self-rates her store 5/5 stars as Kitty Bee gathers her groceries and receipt. She calls her out on it.
They had stopped doing that awhile back ago and now they are up to their old antics again. Kitty grabs a candy bar, scans it, and pays, saying aloud to the moronic clerk: “I am turning your five into a three as I rate you a one,” making sure to look her in dead in the eye. She then reports the clerk’s ego-inflation to the Manager On Duty.
“I have done my good deed for the day,” Kitty says to herself as she drives home.
“Sure, honey, I’ll bail you out,” Sonya says with a smile in the WallyWorld washroom. Enjoying her new job, the president of The Poopy Groupies savors the idea of enabling crappy behavior. Then she takes a dump.
“Sonya, I need a word with you,” manager Eduardo tells his new employee, as she emerges from the ladies’ room.
“Your behavior is unacceptable.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“I think you know what you did,” Eduardo says, pointing to the self-checkout area. “I don’t need your services here any more. You are dismissed.”
Sonya is frozen in place, shocked by the unexpected news.
Meanwhile, her phone rings rings away, playing kazoo-covers of show-tunes, much to the dismay of all the customers shopping at Sonya’s very busy former place of employment.
“God hates cats and he hates demoncrats!” Sonya screams as she gets yeeted by WallyWorld security, squawking and flapping her wings all the way home.
MoronicArts 
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