“Anything that gives me good poops so I can burn them later” – Bern M. Cacca, Bog witch and port-a-potty empress
“Carrion usually, but I will fly great distances to get the best filet mignon.” – Carla Moran, Shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and sterile supply technician
I wanna suck your blood…I mean eat some rabbit pellets. They come out the same way they go in. Whatever you do, keep the garlic away. If you lie and tell me there’s no garlic in your blood I’ll know cuz I have ESP and PMS. I’m a witch who knows it ALL. You can have that one for free. Next customer! – Missy Rabbit, Psychic Vampyre
“Dog food, any kind, but I prefer Alpo.. Never Brand X though, I can’t stand Elon Musk.” – Sybil Kibble, Debt collector
“Anything but corn” – Damien Ulysses Hurlbutt, Area 51 test subject
The dusk is hitting Manteno, Illinois. Before she has a chance to slither into her bog, a certain village trustee gets into it with a disabled veteran. Having no shame, she will do anything to put others down. The swamp witch emerges from seemingly nowhere.
“Why are you taking pictures?” Bernadette Moran Cacca bothers someone minding their own business, enjoying the sunset. Ennui and lack of narcissistic supply has given her the cravings for attention of any kind, good or bad.
“I live here. Nice night.. Nice to meet you. I’m Shanna.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s me, Bernadette, I went to school with you.”
“Oh hey, you’re still in Manteno?”
“Now you see the real me! I don’t like you. Now keep on walking.”
“Now if you disagree with the fascist council member that also runs the Optimal Club, you will be shut down and shut up,” Gothic Mary, member of the Midnight Supremes tells Shanna.
“Oh hey, I remember you Mary, what’s up?”
“She used to get mad at my sonic sneezes that I cannot control and then peel out her driveway yelling the N-word. I had told our classmates but nobody would believe me. She was much more prejudiced than I thought but pretended to be an ally who cared about other cultures, and people in general. She actually had said she got a better ‘gold star bisexual’ to taunt me into taking her back, thinking I’d get jealous. First she was bragging on about how perfect things were going between them, that I was ‘too sensitive’ to give her what she wanted, and how she will change and mold everyone in town into something special. This town has always been great and would be even better without her and her Craptocoins.
“Who’s that smelly dude over there in the baggy clothes? Is he a meth-head?”
“Hey Greg! I hear they sell fried brains down in Evansville, Indiana,” Shanna yells out. Gothic Diana Ross joins Mary and Flo in giggling.
“Okayyyyy…In America there are three mountains in regions where it snows on top of the river and in other regions it is 180 degrees because mountains control temperatures backward towards chemtrails. Unless we make inflatable artificial bounce mountains on the face of the Moon base to control the weather, we will always have these weather problems which can be changed in five minutes. Brains? Brains branes brainnnnnnz…”
Undead Greg Schneissder wanders down to Indiana to find himself one…if only.
Greg heads to a truck stop to make a pit stop so he can empty out his toxic waste and then immediately refuel. While browsing the store, Greg shouts over to a man microwaving a packaged sandwich, “Don’t open that microwave until after it stops beeping!” The trucker just shakes his head and begins to pry the plastic upon plastic from his late night meal. “You’ll get radiation poisoning if you open it too soon. It’s in the manual.”
Greg comes up empty and eats some poopies instead, left behind some man who didn’t flush down the brown.
Ragged and scrawny as ever, Greg continues walking down to Evansville, after hitching a ride on a manure truck and sleeping in the back.
“Closed for rest and reset? What’s that?” Greg says aloud as he pounds on the window, breaking the glass. The burglar alarm goes off immediately as Greg climbs in, loiters around the restaurant looking for a seat.
“Doooooes this TV get the Aaant & Ding Show?
Undead Greg walks toward the basement to look for the cooler full of chilled brains only to fall down the stairs, crumpling into a bag of bones, a waft of dust smelling oddly like cheese puffs fills the building. Yum.
But not for long with our new Polt-R-Gone! Spray that spectre with our patented sage blend!
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Buy one, get one half off (but never free) at your local Wally Green’s! (Not valid in Manteno, sorry!)
Owner of Schneissder’s Sewer Service, Manteno moron, sociopath and zombie Gregory Albert Schneissder thinks his crap does not stink.
This 62 year old fartknocker sports a head full of salt and pepper hair, usually covered up by a ball cap. His eyes glow red and he eats brains for dinner.
Gregory is Chronic; paranoid people will steal his stash, Greg flashes his dime-bag full of perfectly cultivated buds on the bus when he is spaced out on coke he snorted while coming down off a weed high. Yes, he is that dumb.
This Miami Dolphenergans fan gate-keeps in Fakebook groups. Greg brags about his biggest life achievement, having seen someone in 1991 going down the road who owned one. The one-and-only 1988 Chrysler Conquest – just like the one Gothic Diana Ross drives – Greg witnessed the most important event in his life and tells everybody about it.
Undead Greg stopped driving due to DUIs; he lost his license before the slow-burn-virus took over his undead corpse. Now he can only watch people going down the road who own one. He is butthurt because he no longer can legally hunt down the living driving his Ford imbecile machine, covered in obnoxious decals, bearing wheels way too large for the body.
Ableist as it gets, Greg audibly harasses disabled folks on the bus, stalking them in cafés. He thinks they should work and accuses every disabled young person of “faking it” and tag teams with his BFF Pris Dixon to bully strangers since he is a scared wuss with no life.
Bern Cacca’s biggest fan, Greg made a BernCacca Fans facebook account.
He desperately needs a hobby (besides devouring the living). Manteno residents hope he gets one soon.
Still not aware of the kind stranger returning his ciggybutt cartons, a second person calls out:
“Hey Greg, you forgot your cigarettes.”
Greg grabs the two red packs on which he had been sitting. No longer able to drive, the newly undead Greg had taken the bus to meet up with his lover, Bernadette Cacca at the Manteno Optimal Club where she is performing charity pop covers just for the photo opportunity.
Bern drives Greg home after the gig. Both get lost, not just because someone told them to scram. Fighting over directions, Bern wags her finger and tells her Poopy Groupie “I told you so.”
“What am I going to do with all these NFTs?” asks a puzzled Bernadette.
“What’s an NFT?” the newly undead Greg asks his partner-in-stench.
“Newly formed turds, my turd vault is full! I want to burn them, however they will go bad by the time I burn them all! The craptcoin market is in the toilet!”
Greg gives Bern his trademark devilish grin.
“What about formaldehyde? Don’t you load that into your turd machines?”
Bern folds her arms, turns away from her lover Greg, and walks upstairs to crap.
“You sing like a dying cow!” Bern Cacca yells out her washroom door at her next-door-neighbours The Midnight Supremes, as she pinches a loaf and then burns it in her fireplace. She has unleashed The Kraken.
Enraged, Gothic Diana Ross directs her bandmates so crank their amps up and engage the Marshall Stacks.
Bern peels out her driveway.
Patrick Oswald Splatt is busy in his Kankakee basement, developing his newest useless invention, when a certain Manteno entramanure rings his bell.
“It’s my new killer-app. Siri-al-Killer.”
“Yeah, what can it do for me?”
“It is a virus, designed to mimic Siri. Only it is seriously plotting to kill you.”
“You’re awesome!”
“Thanks. I know.”
“Yeah. So am I, that’s why I want to hire YOU!”
“Young lady, what can I do ya fer?”
“I need to unload my Turd Vault.”
Awkward silence fills the room.
“Your…what?”
“My inventory’s getting stale. I use newly-formed-turds (NFTs) to create Craptcoin. The market really stinks right now and I need to clean out my product.
Pat giggles. It has been a long time and he feels good to laugh at someone else’s expense again.
Pat and Bernadette make a food baby together:
Pat’s junk email go into circular files across the globe. Meanwhile, the craptocoin market falls further into the bowels of the abyss.
Desperate, Bernadette sends out this flyer. She made it herself:
Bernadette slides into her shack, waves to her husband Peppi high off stinky skunkweed, and runs down her basement stairs, nearly falling down and smacking her big mouth on the concrete. She disarms the gate and the two Turd Machines guarding her massive Turd Vault, only to find her precious turd-collection missing.
“Oh no, where did they all go! I bet it was JB the Turd-Burglar, he stole my crap, I just know it.”
Bern’s smell-phone rings, playing her favorite GG Allin song.
Before she has a chance to answer, she spies Undead Greg sitting in a corner of her basement.
“Hey. My turds are gone, Greg!”
“That’s greeaaat.”
“How is that great?“
“They were delicious,” the undead Greg tells his fartner Bernadette. “These things keep me going. Unlike other zombies, I don’t neeeeed to eat rotting flesh. Recycled food is goooood-forrrr-yooooou and tastes better tooooo!”
Kankakee art student, grifter and narc-a-doodle Pat Oswald Splattposts to Redditopixly begging for volunteers to help with his “nonprofit” app project that’s really for profit.
He interviews three people remotely – all three he rejects even though they were well-qualified – simply because he is a sadistic moron who gets a high off hurting people’s feelings. The empathy is small with this one. Size matters.
Taking a different approach, Pat posts to Fakebook and the X-Parrot begging for free art, a fancy computer and people to tell their friends about his new, non-existent gadget in the making.
After asking a bunch of people if “this is still available?” he starts to get a few replies from people who are a little too nice.
“Hi, you asked about the computer?”
“I don’t like that machine. Can you give me a bigger hard drive?”
“I’ll show you my hard-drive! Click.”
“Yes, the art is available! I’d like to help out.”
“That drawing will suit. Can you make it a little bigger?”
“If you want it, pick it up. Otherwise I will sell it.”
“Come on man, it’s for a good cause!”
“It’s already framed. I put a lot of time into that picture. Time is money and mine is valuable, yes mine. Waste my time again and I’ll send you a bill!”
A “This person is no longer available” message promptly appears at the bottom of the chat window.
Pat messages 89 more people, but his calls and texts go unanswered.
Undead Greg Schneissder walks by Pat’s house, pounds on his door, busts it down.
“Got anyyy braiiins?”
Pat gives Greg the stinkeye, waves him away with one hand.
“Poopies?”
Pat reaches for his shotgun, however the zombie walks away before the non-existent warning shot could be non-fired.
Greg wanders over to a neighbor’s apartment and stares into his window, fixated on the television game-show.
“We surveyed 100 women and asked them, what about men—“
“Farts!” the contestant answers after slamming her hand down onto the set-piece.
“What about men do women find most attractive? Let us seeee…FARTS!”
“AAAANT!”
A big-ol’ X covers the screen and Greg giggles at it, slowly pointing his left arm or finger, he doesn’t remember which.
As Mr. Splatt barricades his newly broken door to keep out zombies, a newly formed text appears on his phone (not to be confused with Newly Formed Turds).
“I thought I’d never hear from him!” Pat thinks aloud, as he makes a mad dash for the door.
After moving the heavy boxes, metal sculptures and broken computers, he opens the doorway to let in his delivery.
Too late!
“Heres your free crap!” the Fakebook freebie group member yells out to Mr. Splatt.
“What? Pat shouts as the dump-truck lowers a whole load of manure all over his front lawn – and him.
“What the truck? The landlord is going to freak out!” exclaims a neighbor.
“Yummm, turds!” Undead Greg cheers as he makes his way towards the pile o’ pig poo, sits down, takes out a fork and a spoon.
“Business is really crappy! I do SO MUCH for Manteno and Kankakee County, yet NOBODY cares. Why didn’t I get the Citizen of the Year Award this year? I taught a lion to poop in a litter box at the Kankakee Petting Zoo!” communal narcadoodle Bernadette Moran Cacca brags, embellishes.
“I know, let’s hold a pooping contest!” Aunt Sonya Moran exclaims to the Poopy Groupies. “It will be a great way to promote regular business! I’m just waiting for the log to emerge…” fan club president Sonya announces, as she strains on the crapper of the Manteno Optimal Club washroom at their monthly meeting. She makes sure to get out the most important information.
“You’re awesome!” Bernadette gushes.
“No, YOU!” Aunt Sonya replies.
Sonya Moran, slumlord, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture and president of Bernadette Cacca’s fan-club The Poopy Groupies hears her phone jingle, ringtone singing the bathroom blues of The Mentors.
“This is Sonya”
“Hey, this is—“
“Oh great to hear from you, I’m just getting done with a call on my other phone. I am so excited about this event coming up at the Manteno Optimal Club! My OWN NIECE Bernadette is—“
“Excuse me, may I interrupt for a second? I only have a minute.”
“Oh you’re not bothering me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t make the event, my brother passed away.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear! What was his name? What happened? Where was he?”
“Thank you for your condolences. I just found out Friday night.”
“Oh man, I was really hoping to hang out with you Tuesday and get to know you! It’s gonna be a real hootenanny! Did you lose any money from the event tickets? I hope you didn’t.”
Awkward silence passes.
“Hello?”
“I’m good.”
“Can you hear me? It sounds like you’re in a loading zone. I’ll pick up some mementos from the event and give them to you.”
“When?”
“Didn’t you see the schedule? There’s an Optimal Club meeting at the end of the month.”
“No, I just lost my brother. Gotta run. Maybe I’ll see you in a month or two. We’ll see.”
Sonya gets back on the horn with her other call:
“So yeah, Bernadette, you star are sure gonna shine! Get out there and done hand out those free tickets. Hot dawg!”
“Woooooooooot!” Bernadette replies to Sonya.
Sonya ends the Zuum meeting and flushes the washroom toilet.
Entramanure and Queen of the Plastic Throne Bernadette Cacca hits the streets of Kankakee County handing out “free tickets” to her event:
“September 31 – Join us for a protest party in the basement of the Manteno Optimal Club! Stop our commie mayor from bringing in the Gotion plant! Two drink minimum. Over 21 only!”
The big day arrives (or does it?)
Emcee Konrad Teirant of the Moronic Half Assets (MHA) gets ready to provide all the entertainment with half the budget.
“OK Kids, it’s time to put on your Gotion!”
The crowd goes wild with chants of “Go Gotion Go! Go Gotion Go!” mixed in with “Stop our commie mayor!”
“And now we have a surprise for you! A contest — But it’s a secret. Shhhh. It’s our last event, so sign up now! There are prizes but they are secret, too. We don’t want to ruin the Sur-Prize! Get it, Sir, Prize, yuk, yuk, yuk…”
The quiet crowd just rolls their collective eyes.
“But first on the agenda, Crabby Crafting with Bernadette!”
“Crabby Crap Thing?”
“No!” Bernadette exclaims.
“Crabby patties?”
“Nope, Crabby crafting. Today I will introduce you all to the art of the paper-craft. Construction paper, glue and crayons generously supplied by Peppi’s Portapotties! Look for my face on the sign.”
“Mine too, Bernadette,” a plastered Peppi calls over to his wife and co-crap-tain of the plastic portable john business.
The patrons begin to make signs using Bernadette’s instructions, chatting as they craft.
“That Gothic Diana Ross, she’s a schizophrenic who does drugs! She never had that brain injury that she talks about, she just makes up things for sympathy. Oh and she’s violent! That makeup, those clothes, those piercings, oh my God, who would dress like THAT?” Carla Moran gossips at the table.
“Oh and, her mom was never a nurse practitioner. She was a housewife like every other woman back then.”
“So…what’s the deal with the Gotion plant? Are they gonna build it?
“Our commie mayor wants to spend our tax dollars to bring in a company from China.”
“You’re gonna have to speak Chinese just to apply there. Who in Manteno does that?” xenophobe Bernadette replies with her usual turd-eating grin.
“Rock, paper, scissors anyone? Speaking of rock, let’s give it up for the king!”
Subdued voices in the crowd can be heard:
“When are we going to protest?”
“This is Emcee KT bringing you the best of Elvis, he is in the HOUUUUSE!”
“Heh-heh. I’m just his groovy reincarnation,” Robbie Hurlbutt self-proclaims.
“Will you sing Jailhouse Rock?”
“Yeah, throw the mayor in jail! Go Gotion Go! Go Gotion Go!” the crowd chants.
Robbie sings, as Dumpster Clown Madeline Topolla-Teirant does her usual act juggling bowling balls and chainsaws from inside her dumpster shoved on-stage by a group of unseen stage-hands.
“Look at my wife, she’s such a clown.” Konrad says, points at Madwoman, attempts to make the crowd laugh. “I just went for the juggler.”
Groans are heard from the impatient crowd.
Konrad reaches down to a stranger and pretends to grab their nose.
“Got your nose! Without that you can’t smell Elvis Parsley.”
The embarrassed spectator melts into a puddle of embarrassment.
The MHA bow as they finish their three-ring circus act.
“Thank you everyone! Now it’s karaoke time. We only have one sign-up, everyone give it up for Wally Green!”
Half the crowd gets ready to exit, they’ve had enough.
“Make sure to throw money in the tip jar” a looming bog witch Bernadette says as she guards one exit.
“It’s a two-drink minimum, so get back in there, it’s for a good cause!” JB says as he guards the other door.
Wally finishes his own rendition of “Magnet and Steel” to a slow clap from a disappointed crowd, wishing they could up and leave already.
“I’m single and ready to mingle at the bar!” Wally proudly announces.
The crowd erupts in boos.
“That’s right, head over to the bar and our wonderful bartenders will be sure to serve you. Remember our two-drink minimum helps raise money for The Manteno Optimal Club! Your dollars go to an awesome cause! And now the moment you’ve been waiting for, our accordion empress and kazoo cover queen, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca!
Emcee Konrad turns off his mic and the talented Bernadette plays her usual two-hour set, covering show-tunes on piano, accordion and vuvuzela horn. All requests denied and then she bows, showing off her poop emoji dress.
“Everybody give it up for Illinois’ Number One piano empress and entramanure, the queen of the plastic throne herself, Mrs. Bernadette Cacca!”
Bernadette’s fan club — The Poopy Groupies and some other morons give their favorite nitwit a standing ovation, drowning out the people at their tables talking on their cell phones, playing games and ranting about the proposed Gotion plant.
She bows again, exits the stage and heads downstairs to poop, because, gotta mine those craptocoins the old fashioned way.
“Free balloons for everyone!” announces Poopy Groupy and turd burglar JB as he hands them out to the contestants for the pooping contest.
“We ran out…”
“Oh, just blow these up, but don’t inhale,” Bernadette says as she pulls out a box of condoms and hands it JB, who is manning the helium station.
“Did you pick that guy off the mountain?” Sonya says, making fun of the contestants in her typical narcadoodle fashion.
“Huh?”
“I bet you picked a whole bouquet of mountain climbers, you like them so much.”
“Oh, the mountain you climbed in your jammies?”
“No, in Switzerland. They use Oreos there.”
“Wait, what?”
“For money right?”
“I think you mean Euros.” JB replies to his idiot boss, scumlord Sonya.
“I think you have been smoking some of that governmental illegal substance again…” Sonya projects.
“And now our top-secret contest is about to be revealed by our guest announcer, one true Illinois treasure: Bernadette Cacca! Lift the curtain and reveal the fun surprise!” Konrad announces.
A row of seated contestants are slowly revealed as the curtain rises.
“Whoever poops the most wins! On your pot, get ready, GO GO GO GO!” Emcee Bernadette Cacca announces.
Bernadette closes all the portapotty doors, “Peppi’s Portapotties” logos decorating complete with the owners’s cheesy smiling mugs.
Undead Greg Schneissder, Wally Green, Pat Splatt, JB “Turd Burglar” Powers, Sonya’s aunt Sonya Moran, and Peppi Cacca all aim their bums to please, meanwhile Bernadette Cacca plays the butt trumpet. “Any requests?”
“Yeah, tell us what the feck is going on?”
The dookie starts to add up.
All toilets flush except for Greg’s – he was constipated. Must be that Slow-Burn Virus he got on his Undeath Day. Bernadette goes into each portable toilet bowl with yardstick in hand, carefully measuring each poo-pile.
“We have a weiner! Pat Splatt has pinched the biggest loaf! It’s a foot-long! Now come up to the stage and collect your prize, Pat!”
“What did I win?”
“A bag full o’ Craptocoins, mined the old-fashioned way!”
“WAT? I don’t want that crap. What’s the real prize?”
“I’ll have it!” Undead Greg says has he grabs the big bag off the stage, poring the Newly Formed Turds (NFTs) into his mouth, gobbling every single one.
“MMM! So much better than brains, brains brains, brains…”
“AAAAAAAARGGGH” the crowd screams bloody-murder and escapes, people nearly trampling each other to avoid the looming Zombie Apocalypse.
People gather in the parking lot, dumbfounded over the dim-bulb nitwit tomfoolery that just happened, thankfully having avoided the zombie inside.
“So…what were we gon’ done-protesting in that here place again?”
“Oh my gawd, JB, stop holding your fork like a shovel. You look like someone from the backwoods,” Manteno’s very own Bernadette Moran Cacca berates her Poopy Groupy and secret lover JB the neighborhood turd burglar right in front of her husband and co-entremanure of their portable washroom business.
“Now why are you eating that with your hands?”
“Two words, “Finger foods.”
“D’aaah-is it made from real fingers?” Fellow Poopy Groupy Undead Greg Schneissder asks Bernadette as he slithers over to the table.
“No, horses’ ovaries. That’s what hors d’oeuvres means in English,” Bernadette claps back.
“That’s not true!” JB argues.
“Yes it is!” the confidently incorrect Bernadette argues with the turd burglar in a recursive loop. The family that poops together, stays together.
Yet, communal narcadoodle Bernadette graces the cover of the Manteno Sentinel again for her charity work playing accordion and kazoo show-tunes at the Manteno Optimal Club. Her aunt, slumlord, and shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Sonya Moran helped get her the press about some upcoming event crap. No wonder people want to yeet her.
Nobody knows when Manteno’s very own xenophobe, gun-humper and MAGAt Greg Schneissder was born, however we do know that on July 15th, he met his fate down at the bog after communal narcissist, show-tunes cover singer and swamp witch Bernadette Cacca ate him for supper. Then she pooped him out.
The ground shook as the newly undead Greg rose from the rocks, his zombie-fied body now infected with the slow-burn virus on that fateful mid-July day. Bernadette’s farts did not help.
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?
MoronicArts 
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