CRASS Ahoy!

Ennui has taken over narcissistic abuser and sociopath Damien Hurlbutt as he sits alone in his Bourbonnais neckbeard-nest. He wants to stir up trouble and call attention to himself because he is addicted to creating chaos. His last supplier of attention, Rachel Shelley, has run off with Kankakee smack addict Leon Peeonne. Sitting on his lone piece of bedroom furniture, a metal folding chair, he tries to email his former wife Lori Brown — who he calls “Grimace”:

To: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]

From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Subject: breakfast, lunch, smunch

Hi Honey Puddin’!

This week has been a keystone for an avalanche. I have a stitch in my side. I want to see you, make me feel better, puddin’. 🙂

Moments later, he gets a message from Marty the Mailer-Daemon:

To: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

From: Mail Delivery Subsystem

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Subject:  Failure Notice

Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address.

OhLorT16@fmail.cannes

Unable to deliver message after multiple retries. Giving up, not dying trying.

Yours,

Mailer-Daemon

“Come now!” Damien exclaims out of narcissistic rage. He then re-sends the email to Marty the Mailer-Daemon, only to get get blocked by him as well.

CRASS CEO Mack. E. Avelli holds a staff meeting to gather ideas to increase their bottom line.

“Maybe we can invest in having some CRASS masks printed up, and give them away in Wally Green’s drugstores to help advertise our business?” Art Director Dorian James suggests.

“That will cost us money. We take money here at CRASS, not give it away.”

Operation Director Mikey Philips’ hand goes up. 

“Let us pray to the bill collector gods to make it rain.” 

The room erupts in laughter.

Sybil Kibble raises her hand and waves it in excitement.

“How about we add random people on Fakebook? We can sell our services to the suckers who accept. And we might find some of the debtors who have been hanging up!”

“It’s a game-changer Sybil. Your idea will add CRASS synergy. We are CRASS, and so are you.”

Lead Debt Collector Sybil makes herself busy adding wealthy folks all over Fakebook, hoping some people will bite. Meanwhile Damien Hurlbutt is also up to no-good.

“I am going to look for a clump of people on cBay,” Damien thinks aloud. His frown turns upside down, becoming his trademark evil grin.

“Oh kids. Ohhhh kidssss.” Damien puts in a high bid for an item listed by Lori.

An hour later, Damien logs onto cBay to check on the item.

“My little and dainty ex blocked me. I know…hee hee. I will add her under a sock account on Fakebook.”

Damien strokes his orange, straggly beard, dons his black fedora and heads over to the apartment of petty-criminal Pat Splatt.

“La di da di da. Look at all the people who accepted my friend requests!” Sybil Kibble says to herself. She begins telling them all about CRASS and how they can “help you recover Accounts Receivables.”

She calls her mother, JoAnn, and invites her for a dog-food dinner.

“Can you take a raincheck? I need to rearrange my bus-parts collection.”

Sybil downs her dog food, and logs or her remote laptop to hopefully double down on debt.

“Why is my computer asking for money?” Sybil asks out loud, eyes glazing over as she glares at the ransomware screen featuring a slender, bespectacled, long-haired guy, his face covered in black stubble.

Damien pounds on Pat Splatt’s door, jiggles the knob a bunch of times and the bulbous neckbeard gets let in.

Damien peers over to 47-year old college student and gallery janitor Pat, kicked back in his office chair, feet plopped atop his computer desk. Heavy metal can be heard blaring from his massive sound system.

“Heck, Damien. I have been busy.”

“Oh really?”

“Do you see this screen?”

Pat swivels his desktop computer monitor ever-so-slightly over toward Damien.

“Ahhhh.”

“I did the deed. I infected her machine.”

“I know, I know. Now get me her details.”

“Oh, that will cost you a convenience fee. Go home, log on to your Fakebook. I will slide the deets into your box.”

Damien rushes home, driving like a maniac, despite his car’s gas gauge reading almost empty.

Damien enters his email, password and logs on. He immediately checks his instant message from Pat. Damien’s screen locks up, displaying a drawing of Pat dressed in a pirate costume with a black skull-and-bones flag composited into the background, along with a message asking for money to unlock his computer.

“Well doesn’t that put poop in my soup?”

Damien heads back to Pat’s house, his car running on fumes.

As Damien confront Pat, sirens are heard, growing louder as the seconds drag by. “Sit down Damien.” A loud pound is heard on Pat’s door.

Sybil and the CRASS crew now are happy their computers are working again, despite their accounts having been banned from Fakebook. They create new accounts and start over. All is well in the Moroniverse.

Damien Has the Scoop on Poop


“Dorian, are you some kind of demon?” Sybil asks the CRASS Art Director, Mr. Dorian Daniel James.

“Um, sure,” Dorian replies out the side of his mouth, as he cares a metric tonne more about his project than the Lead Debt Collector, Sybil Kibble.

“I keep trying to email you, sweetie, about the Annual CRASS ReTreat. However this Mailer-Daemon guy replies instead.”

“Is this to be an empathy test?” a booming, dark haired Chief Executive Officer Mack E. Avelli asks the two bickering.

“I have no empathy and neither does she,” an mildly annoyed Dorian states plainly.

“Good. That is the kind of CRASS people we need. Be sure to attend that retreat in Chicago you guys. No blocking each other, per company policy. We need to increase production and team building.”

The two sigh and part ways, not looking forward to working on their day off.

Orange neckbeard Damien Hurlbutt is busy tapping away at his rattly keyboard atop a plastic box to make it extra rattly, inside his Bourbonnais nest. His lone wall decoration, a framed photograph of his brother Robbie singing “Burnin’ Love” in the shower as he washes his black mutton chops, sways on its crooked angle.

“Ding!” Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt’s computer sounds.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” an excited Damien replies as he logs off his favorite Men’s Rights Activist subreaditt, The Brown Pill, to check his email:

From: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]

To:  “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

Friday, September 4, 2020

Subject: Re: broke up with Rachel

Hi Dam,

Yes I remember you. We were married, maybe you forgot? I am having a problem with my butt. No matter what I do to clean it, my derriere still stinks.

I live in Natick, Mass now.

-Lori

Damien immediately replies to the woman he once called “Grimace” out of pure, narcissistic rage, changing his tune:

To: “Lori T. Brown” [OhLorT16@fmail.cannes]

From: “Damien U. Hurlbutt” [connivingpimp@hautemail.con]

To: 

Friday, September 4, 2020

Subject: Re: Re: broke up with Rachel

Hey honey puddin! I sure miss seeing your beautiful body and brown puppy-dog eyes. 

I know Chicago has the best proctologist around, Dr. Keyhoe Keyster. I used to get my high colonics there! Meet me Monday on the train in Chicago and I will drive up to Bourbonnais, with a present for you. It will be a huge surprise!

Lori agrees, to Damien’s selfish delight. He hops aboard his PeeATon bike which his mother PJ regifted him for his August 10th birthday, hoping to lose some weight in his rushed attempt to impress his former wife.

“Today is Monday, September 7th. Are you CRASS people ready to have fun?” a grinning Mack. E. Avelli asks the crowd full of relucant employees.

“I cant’t hear you!” the wannabe MC projects into the microphone atop the podium.

A slow clap emerges.

“Now, that’s the spirit. Today’s retreat is designed to help increase team-building while lowering empathy. We do not care about our debtors, right? The more money you collect, the more you make. Double down on debt for more money for you, and more money for us. Now let’s all gather into teams to form a human pyramid. Sybil, pair up with Dorian Dale with Nando, Tara with Michael…” Mr. Avelli says as he pairs up his bored subordinates.

After a long tired day, Sybil is dying for a dish of dog food and a coffee. She heads over to the Buckstars on LeSalle Street in her white Chrysler LeBaron. As she sits at a table toward the front of the cafe, in walks Damien Hurlbutt, sporting his usual goofy stride.

“Oh boy, I really have to peepee.”

Damien heads toward the all-genders washroom, but is stopped short by a barista. 

“You need to wear a mask to come in the cafe.”

“I know, I am just stopping for a minute.” Damien says as he tries to head to the washroom.

“No mask, no service.”

“I know, I know, I know,” Damien replies, refusing to wear a mask.

Three baristas haul out the petulant Damien, kicking and screaming obscenities and narcississtic nonsense:

 “9/11 was an inside job! The moon landing was a hoax!”. Sybil and Lori just stand there giggling, sipping on their iced doublehsot espressos.

Sybil’s Dog Food Dilemma

“Oh snap, that’s the last bite!” Kankakee debt collector Sybil Kibble exclaims as she shakes the now-empty bag of dog food, and turns it upside down. “I am really hungry too.”

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Sybil hops in her white Chrysler LeBaron and drives down to Wally Green’s drugstore. As soon as she steps through the door, demoted pharmacy clerk who thinks he is Elvis, Robbie Hurlbutt greets her. 

“What can I help you find today?”

“Do you have any Dog Chow?”

“We are fresh out.”

Sybil exits, walks by Robbie’s purple clown car with a giggle and gets behind the wheel of her LeBaron.

Sybil parks in the “Expectant Mothers Only” space at Schmucks grocery store and walks in. “Who is going to know I am in menopause anyway?” Sybil says to herself as she walks through the automatic door.

After a thorough combing of the pet food aisle, Sybil comes up empty. She hopes the third time is a charm, and drives over to Bucketheads hardware store.

After walking past the 11% off everything sign, Sybil hopes to save big money on dog food, which she usually scores toward the back of the store. However she strikes out yet again. 

Sybil gets on her smart phone after exiting the store and calls Wally Green’s 1-800 customer service number. After spending 45 minutes in the on-hold abyss, the call disconnects. She tries two more times and her call gets disconnected immediately.

Sybil walks back into Wally Green’s to try and figure out what is going on. She asks to speak to the Manager on Duty. “I am sorry you are having trouble reaching our customer care line. Our representatives are trained to keep hanging up on all callers until the queue is gone.”

Angered, Sybil Kibble needs to do something to relax. She picks up a newspaper and reads the headline: “Nationwide Dog Food Shortage.” Sybil slams down the paper and storms out, heading to the local bar. “I need a drink,” Sybil mumbles to herself.

Sybil sits down at the bar. Before the bartender can even wait on her, barfly and notorious ladies’ man Wally Green emerges.

“Hey babe!”

“Oh, hi Wally.”

“Can I buy you a drink, hon?”

Sybil accepts because she is cheap.

Wally begins to bore Sybil with his tall tales about his family almost having inherited most of Manhattan Island.

Sybil interrupts Wally’s rambling:

“Hey, why are your stores out of dog food anyway? I am so hungry.”

“Oh yeah, I have a secret stash at my house. Wanna go back to my place?”

Sybil looks Wally in the eye sporting a devilish grin.

The pair arrive at Wally’s McMansion. Wally offers wine, she declines.

Wally starts to bore Sybil about his road trip to Florida as he really likes the heat.

Sybil interrupts and asks about dinner. 

Wally offers to cook her a romantic meal. Sybil agrees with excitement.

“It will be a surprise. I know you will love it!”

Visions of dog bones dance in Sybil’s head. Wally emerges from the kitchen with a plate full of gefilte fish, and Sybil almost pukes. 

“You’re not impressed?” Wally asks.

“Umm, no I eat dog food.”

“You’re a bill collector. Makes sense. If you stop calling my store, I will give you some cans of Alpo.”

“That’s my favorite kind!” Sybil exclaims. “But I won’t take you off my list. You owe us too much money.”

“Then will you kiss me?”

Sybil gags and dashes out Wally’s McMansion, back to her own, where she settles for cat food instead.