“I just got a new kill-switch for my bus parts collection” JoAnn “JK” Kibble tells with heartfelt enthusiasm to her daughter Sybil, Lead Debt Collector at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee. It is Bring Your Parents to Work Day here at CRASS.
“I wonder if she’s single” bill collector Dale Davis thinks about his the mother of his boss Sybil, since Miss Kibble had rejected his many advances in the past. He runs in place and tests his heart repeatedly on his watch, hoping to impress The Kibbles.
“The squirrels are really nuts around here. They are nature’s comedians,” Sybil says to her mom as she crunches on a bunch of dog bones.
“We Are CRASS” is the corporate slogan for Kankakee debt-collection firm Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), LLC.
CRASS CEO Mack E. Avelli loves to find new ways to make money for the company. Because he is running out of fresh ideas, he decides to hold a meeting with the entire staff.
“Anything to get some time off the phones, eh?” Dale Davis giggles to Linda Stay, as they walk into the room. Sybil is seated in front with a cheesy grin on her face. Art Director and Sybil Kibble’s number-one crush Dorian James is slumped in the very back row, hand running through his wavy, auburn hair. Sybil stares at her crush, who has made it clear to her many times he is not interested, and prefers the company of men. Accounts Receivable Chief Tara Bull is seated upright and uptight near Lead Debt Collector Sybil Kibble. Mikey Philips works his way into the room, along with Konrad Teirant, who is tired from having to resolve a conflict last night at his megaplex.
Mr. Avelli makes his presence in the room and the chatter subsides, eyes on the CEO.
“Good morning. It is 11:00. We have an hour to come up with the best ways to maximize revenue for our facility. The most creative ideas will be chosen. Give me your best and brightest ways to bring more income to our company. Who will go first?”
Sybil’s arm darts up.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sybil exclaims.
“We can advertise,” Dale suggests.
“Not a bad idea. Advertising takes out of our bottom line and can take away from our profits if it does not provide a return on investment. Who else has an idea?”
“Oohh, oooh!” Sybil gasps as she gets more excited about her idea.
“We can go on the news and talk about our services. Some companies use a public relations firm to pitch advertising stories as news. It might be a lot cheaper than advertising.” Tara Bull mentions.
“That is considered yellow journalism and thus unethical…not a bad idea. I will consider it.”
“Pick me, pick me!”
“Yes, Sybil…” Mack sighs to Ms. Kibble.
“I have an idea that will certainly make us money! Since we are debt collectors and we mail people collections letters that people just throw out, why don’t we disguise the Dunning letters as checks and people will open them instead!”
“That’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that before?” Mack E. Avelli boasts as he thanks Sybil for her idea.
The letters, which were designed by the CRASS Art Department have been mailed out to the debtors.
Calls come in, but not the ones Sybil was expecting.
“Hi Sybil? Yes, I’d like to order a pizza.”
“Is this Credit Recovery? I heard you were offering me some money! I am sure broke and can use it!”
“I like blondes. Are you single?”
Unbeknownst to Sybil, her name and photo were used on the letters! Leave it to her rival and crush, Dorian James, to pull a fancy trick like that.
Maybe disguising collections letters as checks is not such a great idea, after all.
Sybil goes home and drowns her troubles in a big bowl of Alpo.
Sybil is busy calling up people and bothering them right now, so this is Jen here filling in.
I created Sybil in response to the constant harassment from the moronic debt collectors who could not care less about my situation, and started writing to help cope with my extreme physical and emotional pain.
Dale Francis Davis moved to Kankakee, IL from Snowflake, AZ to seek work after his relationship with Juli-Irma went sour.
His two year engagement with his dear poopiehead, and fellow Snowflake, Juli-Irma went downhill rather quickly when Miss Juli figured out dear Dale’s tablet and mobile telephone password, “password.” In a fit of jealous rage, she discovered that he had one contact other than his mother and his buddies from the town saloon, a Sybil Kibble, and blocked her promptly.
She then destroyed both devices by throwing them in the toilet, perplexed why they did not go down the bowl when she flushed.
A few days later, Dale hit the road to interview for his new position as a Collections Representative at Collections Recovery Associates (CRASS) in Kankakee, IL. He pulled out his new phone and confirmed the time. Today was the first day of the rest of his life.
Dale thanked Ms. Sybil Kibble for the offer, shook her hand and gladly accepted the job.
Sybil will do anything to make a buck. Spotting an ad for an MLM company, she gives it a go. “If the girls at Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) can sell essential oils, I can do it too, only better!” Sybil tells herself. “There is a sucker born every minute.”
Wanting to outdo the competition, Sybil creates her own oil to sell. “Essential Snake Oil” Sybil dubs her new concoction, and she labels it “made from real snakes.”
What Sybil does not tell plan to tell her potential customers, is that her product contains no snake content at all. It is made from 100% Canola oil.
“I cannot wait to rip people off! With all the money I make, I can buy lots of dog food for dinner! Yum!” Sybil plots in her head.
The following day, Sybil heads to the cheapest grocery store in Bourbonnais to get canola oil. Customers looking for the best deal from nearby Manteno and Sybil’s hometown Kankakee look puzzled as a conniving Sybil fills her cart with gallons and gallons of canola.
As Sybil approaches the cashier with her cart, she can barely move, it is so heavy.
Sybil loads her stash onto the conveyor belt, and the clerk immediately gives Sybil the stinkeye. “You are sure buying a lot of oil there, girl! Are you frying up a bunch of fish?” The clerk giggles, unaware of the scheme Sybil is trying to cook up.
“Okay, ma’am, that will be $413.83.”
Sybil gets out her Wally Green’s credit card.
A few uncomfortable seconds pass, which seem like hours in Sybil’s mind.
“What is the matter?” gasps Sybil.
Sybil’s heart sinks.
“This cannot be. Run it again!” Sybil snips.
The clerk ran the card two more times.
“Get me your manager!” Sybil screams.
“I am the store manager and owner.”
“Why was my card declined?” Sybil asks defensively.
“NSF – Insufficient Funds. Pretty bad for a bill collector like you. There was a time I was down and out and you called my house relentlessly, usually at dinner time. I could not afford to make my payments because you doubled the amount you would accept. Now you are broke. What did you need all that oil for any way? Are you you going to oil a snake or something?”
Sybil backs away with her head down and slowly heads out the door, and to her home alone, in Kankakee.
“It is too peopley out there,” Sybil Kibble says to herself as she dodges traffic up and down the aisles at Schmucks grocery store, nearly getting run over three times. Sybil drives her Chrysler LeBaron to Kankakee home to social distance and dance like nobody is watching. Can you blame her?
After a long week collecting dubious debt for her employer Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS), Kankakee’s most shady debt-collector, Sybil Kibble is feeling stressed and irritated.
“Out of dog-food again! Dang, I just bought some at Schmucks! How did I eat all those Alpo cans so fast? They must be making them smaller now.”
Needing someone with whom to vent, Miss Kibble goes over to the house of her best friend and next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pearl Jo Hulbutt (PJ).
“Ah my boys have not come around lately. They don’t appreciate their mother and all I do for them! Have you seen that Kitty Bee lady? Her hair is pink now!” PJ rambles on complaining about person after another. “Have you talked to your father?”
“I stopped talking to him years ago. You ask me that every time I come over. Why?”
“My father was not so nice. It says in the good book we should forgive people and pray for them to change.”
“He’s dead. His new wife was just as abusive, I hear she has an extra room. Why don’t you call her up? I am sure she would like the company. She’ll probably ask all kinds of questions about me! Go up to Chicago and spend a month or two to see what it’s like. Just call her after I leave.”
“No need to go overboard with your remarks. They are entitled to their beliefs as well. Everyone should be able to practice their faith without fear or judgement. As a person with a demon latched onto her body at the age of two that never leaves me alone, I understand fear and misunderstanding. I’ve been judged for my demeanor and nosey words my entire childhood but I still care and help others. I define me not other people.”
Rightfully livid, Sybil Kibble walks back to her home, and eats her last dog bone; much tastier than the word-salad her neighbor had spit out.
Sybil calls a bunch of friends, hoping to open up about the invalidation and gaslighting she just experienced.
Leona Krabalsky’s phone goes straight to voicemail as does her sister Leona’s. Out of desperation, she calls her hairdresser Lila Croule at her home-based salon, even though she is a week early getting her face-frame cut. She just wants to relax, but sorry; more voicemail jail.
“Why are all these people getting at the bus at once?” PJ Hurlbutt asks aloud to a bus full of strangers, looking around for someone that cares.
An enquiring mind wants to know. PJ repeats her nosey nonsense and adds more crap to her routine. “Look at that lady with the green hair. Does she know those tattoos are permanent?”
“I’ll tell the mayor,” Dorian James deadpans, making a cheeky grin while adoring his boyfriend Ant’s half-sleeve.
Sybil drives her white Chrysler LeBaron to find find out why people are ignoring her calls and texts.
She drives underneath the I-57 underpass to seek Kankakee troll Leona. Nope, she’s not home.
Sybil continues North toward Peotone to find her sharp-tongued stylist Lila Croule, hoping to trade barbs about stupid customers. After she parks her reliable box-mobile, she rings the doorbell at Lila’s front door. No answer. The RRRRRRGH of the lawn tractor stops and Sybil spots Lila trimming the edges of the grass using her $1000.00 hair shears.
As Sybil drives home to Kankakee, she sees her subordinate Dale Davis jogging, beeping his watch repeatedly. Dale waves to Sybil and beckons her to come hither. Her stomach turns. No means no.
Sybil drives to Major’s Supermarket and stocks up on wet and dry dog food, with which she drowns her worries at home, glad to be away from the rest of the Moroniverse. It’s too peoply out there. Can you blame her?