Deerfield-born ladies’ man, drugstore owner and wacky inventor Wally Green wants all his customers to know he cares. After partnering with corrupted contractor Terry Reynolds of Albion, Indiana, he is doing some “CONSTRUTION” to renovate his stores.
FART CARTS
These shopping carts play the brown note when you get within 10 feet of the store’s door, making you crap your pants to punish you for not putting the cart away
404 COUPONS NOT FOUND
These 404 page coupon booklets are designed with only some pages numbered, confusing Wally’s customers on purpose because Wally hopes they will give up and die trying before finding their coupon of choice.
CLICKETY-CLAPPETY INTERCOM MUSIC
Do you like hearing the same 15-second piano loop every time you call Wally Green’s pharmacy? Wally partnered with the same firm who produced every single commercial that ran on television for the past three years to create 30-second loops using only finger snaps, hand-claps and “boom” sounds…the latter lifted from the Queen song “We Will Rock You.” It is the only music more repetitive than that of pop singer John Mayer. Marshall Stacks will be installed outside every store to make sure his neighbors hear it too.
TRAP DOOR CHILD SEATS
In an effort to save the almighty dollar, Wally Green’s is ceasing to repair the child-seat straps in their carts. At random, your coffee, purse or child will get trapped in the cart, or maybe even your fingers! We promise to keep delivering our buy one, get one half off (but never free) sales, and cutting expenses at all costs enables us to keep offering these sales to our beloved customers!
Ennui fills the home of the bill collector and and banjo player for The Haggs, Becca Frickfrick.
Since her twin sister Pamela got arrested for leaving her young grandkids alone to go out stealing lawn ornaments, the desire to seek get revenge has boiled over. Instead of, you know, getting a hobby, Becca chooses to bother people instead.
“It’s all them kids fault. They never work, they sit around on their phones and they broke our Frickfrick towers that we made ourselves from their LEGOs! Dang kids don’t respect their elders. Imma gon’ done teach them pert near a lesson!”
“Ma’am, this is a Buckstars.”
Becca seats herself while waiting for her pumpkin spice latte, and starts talking at Wally Green who is busy dumbing down his newest Artificial Stupidity Robot.
“I hear that Gothic Diana Ross has been stealing lawn ornaments. I’ve been doing an investigation. You know what that is right?”
Wally continues tuning out Becca, searching for the perfect computer voice, so it can to answer his pharmacy chain’s calls instead of paying humans to do it.
“Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?”
Desperate for attention, Mrs. Frickfrick takes her index finger to Wally Green and repeatedly pokes him in the back until he looks up.
“Oh hey lady, why don’t you smile more? I’m Wally, and very single by the way. Did you know our family almost inherited Manhattan Island? The pirates stole the deed from—“
“Nevermind.”
“Read it on the internet. Trust me, it’s true!”
Becca walks over the sinks to wash her hands, a wild bog witch Bernadette Cacca appears.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“6pm”
Thanks!
“No, it’s only 4pm,” the self-righteous narcadoodle, shapeshifting humanoid turkey vulture Carla Moran says to her daughter Bernadette as she sits down at the table to drink her coffee.
“It’s 6pm, look at my watch.”
“You watch is broke, that’s why you’re always late.”
“Look up there!” Bernadette points to the coffeehouse clock.
In walks a slender blonde woman wearing white-and-purple leggings and a purple-grey shirt.
“Ah, someone new to harass!” Becca thinks to herself.
The woman gets her cake slice and sits in front of Becca, back facing her.
“Hey, did you hear about those missing lawn ornaments, Gothic Diana Ross and her sisters been going round stealing.”
Sybil Kibble turns around.
“Oh hi boss!” Becca sinks back into her seat.
“Why didn’t you come into work today?”
“You have no right to ask me that. Our investigation will be brought forth. You will be in trouble for stealing lawn ornaments. Anybody who stands in the way of what we want to get will be punished.”
”That’s nice.”
“If you want to get right with us, you have to do what we say.”
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Your contract is up this month. Go back to work. This is your final warning.”
Mrs. Frickfrick starts slamming her arms on the coffeehouse tables, slides her feet on the echo-y concrete, pirouhettes her way out the door shouting “I’m not coming baaack! Byyyyeeeeeeeee!”
“This is not an airport, no need to announce your departure,” Sybil Kibble deadpans.
The customers shake their heads and giggle.
A minute later, one of the baristas puts a hot coffee drink up onto the bar.
“Pumpkin Spice for Becca?”
Sybil just rolls her eyes and goes back to her paperwork.
Kankakee, Illinois’ number one Elvis impersonator, Wally Green’s drugstore clerk and vulnerable narcadoodle Robbie Hurlbutt has a huge crush on Midnight Supremes lead singer Gothic Diana Ross who isn’t remotely attracted to him, plus she has a boyfriend. He wants to make a huge impression on her because he does not understand the word “no.”
She has a gig coming up soon and he is scheming to find a way to connive his boss, store owner Wally Green into letting him hang up her show poster at work to promote her music as he thinks it will somehow make her like him.
”Hey Robbie, have a look at these paper towels I invented just for my store: Half the size, twice the cost. All the frustration when you go to rip off a sheet, thanks to me!” boasts a balding, squat, rotund Wally Green as he tips his fishing cap.
“I know, boss, let’s put them on a groovy display table near the front of the store so the suckers — I mean customers — will think they are getting them on sale.”
“Great idea! I am glad I thought of it!” Wally exclaims with glee, throwing his stubby arms into the air.
“Well…now that I, boss, thought of such a splendid idea, I have a favor to ask. This band is really a gas and I want to hang up their poster for their upcoming show at the store,” Robbie says to his superior with bedroom eyes, dreaming of Miss Gothic Diana Ross, the only Boss he could ever want.
“Naw. Get back to work. I need you to make production metrics this time. Start selling people some pills they don’t need.”
Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) Lead Debt Collector Sybil Kibble comes into Wally Green’s Drugstore to buy an iced coffee and a bag of dog biscuits for lunch as she forgot hers at home.
“Ehh. Out of order again. Must be that half ply toilet paper,” Sybil thinks out loud.
“The washroom is on the blink?” Robbie asks, aghast.
“Yeah and I am in a hurry!” Sybil shouts as she makes her way over toward the men’s room.
“Do not go in there!” Robbie commands Sybil.
Sybil walks by Gothic Diana Ross in the men’s room, who is looking in the mirror, applying her jet-black eyeliner. She pinches a huge loaf in the stall next to Wally Green, who is busy whizzing away in the urinal. Sybil flushes but does not clean up the mess on the seat, flinging the door wide open with her arm. She makes a beeline for the sink and spots Diana sarcastically chortling away at the Gothic Diana Ross and the Midnight Supremes poster on washroom wall.
A befuddled Robbie struts into the men’s room.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME IN HERE!” Robbie shouts at the women. “THIS IS THE MEN’S ROOM.”
“Get back to work, Robbie, the ladies’ room is closed. Take down this poster while you are at it and apologize to our customers.” Wally Green tells his employee Robbie.
“I am sorry IF I offended you.” Robbie smirks.
“Get lost!” Diana and Sybil chant in unison at his non-apology as they leave the bathroom.
Sybil buys her lunch and drives back to work.
Wally sells loads of paper towels and Robbie is put on temporary janitorial duty until he improves his customer service skills. But don’t lock him in the bathroom. He thinks he is Elvis.
Twelve turd machines left. Someone stole eight of them!” Bernadette growls angrily and proceeds to mount not one but four turd machines, including one she aims out her kitchen window directly at Gothic Diana Ross’ slate Victorian house.
The next day, Gothic Diana Ross briefly steps outdoors to check her mail.
“Bang bang, you’re dead, fifty bullets in the head” Bernadette sings as she cranks the turd machine, firing at Diana and missing every shot. Diana makes it inside, unscathed but angry.
Psychic vampyre rabbit Missy Hey works at Wally Green’s collecting blood in their lab after dark, before the sun comes up.
A customer runs up to the counter near the drawing station to complain.
“I pulled in at the stroke of midnight. It’s now 2:00 AM. Do you know where your patients are?”
“Heyyyy! Guess what? I have a bone to pick with you. There’s no way you’ve been waiting two hours, I saw you coming before you got here.”
“You may be psychic but you don‘t know everything!” the customer understandably reacts to Missy’s dismissal of his concerns.
“I’ve been working here 38 nights! I know every vampire in town. I’ve been in this job longer than any one else in Kankakee County! Don’t I know you from the refuge?”
“What refuge? Do you mean the homeless shelter? That was 8 years ago.”
“No the refuge.”
“The refugee center? I have been volunteering there but it’s been awhile since they needed me.”
Wally’s getting fed up with his lab tech. “I’m giving you a written warning, Missy, you’re not making production because you talk too much with the patients. We are losing a lot of money and that’s why I opened this business, to make as much as possible. Just get your work done or you’re fired!”
Feeling the heat from her write-up, Missy applies to work for “Scary” Barry Reynolds at his new School of Mixed Moronic Arts in a strip mall in Noble County Indiana so she can annoy people over there instead. “I love to talk” is listed in her unique set of qualifications along with a set of bowling scores on her “psychic vampyre” resume.
Feeling so impressed by her credentials, Barry unexpectedly hires her after asking only two interview questions from his office near the Northeast border of Indiana and Ohio.
Barry immediately puts Missy to work as his new secretary, working evening shifts.
”Hey! This is Missy from Barry’s School of Mixed Moronic Arts. Call me back to confirm your class or we will have to cancel.”
She makes calls to bother customers four times nightly to “confirm” their appointments, hound them about their bills and missed classes, even after they ask her to stop calling.
“Hey! I’m Missy calling to remind you that you’ve not been to Mixed Moronic Arts in 30 days. You need to keep coming in to keep your membership active. We are open from 7:30 PM till 3:00 AM every week from Monday through Friday. Thankies!”
Message deleted.
“You have a sexy voice, I bet you’re handsome!”
Click.
“Why is that same blue van here? It’s blocking my view. Its registration expired four years ago, it’s such an eyesore…” Missy bothers her boss.
“It’s from the guy that was squatting next door and hoarding. He had done got it removed two weeks ago. Don’t it smell better over yonder now?”
“I went bowling and got a 99 in two games!”
Missy hounds a new student who had just walked in the door. “Why are you wearing THAT? It looks terrible.”
“Missy, just ask them to change into their uniform and remove their shoes.” Barry commands.
She then walks over to the audio room near the dojo and attempts to mix CDs like records on a turntable.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m a deejay!”
Barry — and his students — have had enough of Missy’s antics.
Barry her puts her in the dojo for others spar, accidentally forgetting on purpose to tell them that Missy has no scythe-fencing skills, nor psychic-self-defense, just plenty of offense. He watches from his washroom while eating popcorn., practicing his defensive pooping.
“Try my new Word Salad Adapter, compatible with all Turd Machine Deluxe models! Buy one, get one half off (but never free)” at your corner Wally Green’s!
Oh and ladies, I am single and ready to mingle! Tell me your sign and I will tell you about the time my distant ancestors once owned the deed to Manhattan only to be stolen by pirates!
Kankakee pyramid-scheme peddlers Doris and Leona Krabalsky are tired of standing on street corners and bugging hospital patients by pushing their useless woo oils, moldy-buttery-softlined-leggings and investments you can re-sell to your friends out of their trenchcoats.
“We are getting old and living on a fixed income. Our knees are wobbly, our hair is grey–“
“We are a retail store and not allowed to alter prices,” floor clerk Robbie Hurlbutt replies.
“Wait till you get to our age, sonny. You should respect your elders!”
“OK Karens!”
Not happy with their collective egoes once again deflated, the sinister sisters walk about the store.
“Hey, what’s this? My…wail-eee.”
“Miami?”
“My…my…hey would ya look at this! It might pert near dang work!”
The bumbling bullies read the box:
“Are your sales running flatulent? Get MyW-AI-LY, a degenerative-AI program to automatically poop out marketing schemes to sell anything you want, even a half-eaten sandwich! We don’t care what it is. Pivot, and walk that passive sidestream income over by doing almost nothing. Our state of the art Artificial Imbecilics will match up your target audiences using our potential spyware with the things YOU insist THEY must have! Forget those influencers! They’re too expensive and boring. Designed by none other than that wannabe Kankakee ladies’ man himself, the eye in this sky is Mr. Wally Green. He says this product will change your life, he uses it too! It’s his newest invention — and it’s on sale. Feel the power…of the funneling steamed hams backwashing income straight into the mouths of bossbabes like you! Never ruin your roast again! This product description was artificially genrated by MyW-AI-LY.”
“Why hire humans to sell our leftovers when we can hire Roy Batty to do it instead?” Doris Krablasky asks her sister Leona.
“I dunno, I kinda like that Leon guy better. He reminds me of myself!” The two shysters share a giggle while they plot their evil plans.
“Buy one get one half off, but never free. Why not? One for your computer and one for mine, a matching set. Awwwww, how cute. It even comes with a CrapApp and it matches our decor!”
The octogenerians take their newly found program to their basement and try their best to run the software on their Commodore 64, to no avail.
“Do I type R-U-N and then return?”
“No, it says press any key.”
“Where’s the ANY key?”
The forgetful duo call up their old buddy Pat Splatt.
“Yo, it’s Pat.”
“Hey hun!”
“Yes, lady, what must I do ya fer?”
“I got this program I need you to run.”
“I’m busy finishing up a project”
“I need unfettered access to this program right now so I can start making big bucks.”
“No Whammys?”
“Uhh no, hun.”
“I love money, benjamins are my cuddle buddies. I’ll be right over.”
Mr. Splatt drives the Patmobile over to the small geodesic pyramid-shaped domain shared by the pyramid-plan-peddling sisters, installs it on their Winduhs laptop that they happened to get free after buying a washer-dryer set some time back.
“Just set up the prompts, let the bot do the work, you sit around the clock and collect the bucks — plus my 20 per cent.”
“No, WRONG, Pat you get only 10 per cent.”
“OK, make it 50. I’m giving an offer you can’t refuse.”
The ladies get busy hunting-and-pecking, letting the artificial stupidity carry out their very human shenanigans, which people begin to notice.
SUBJECT: “Open up for your new health insurance benefit!”
“ I can sure use the money” Bernadette Moran Cacca thinks aloud as she reads the subject line while pinching a loaf, then clicks to open the email.
“Weight loss? What the heck? Yeah…no!”
SUBJECT: “Get $5 haircuts with the device Nobody wants you to see! Open now!”
“What on Earth would I do with this vacuum-hose thingamajig? I’m bald!” Barry Reynolds screams at his phone, then slams it down on the hard concrete floor, smashing it to bits.
SUBJECT: “Make beaucoup bucks with this one simple trick! Slots open now!”
“We all have jobs, thank you, miss Krabalsky…” Gothic Diana Ross deadpans in her dark bedroom, decorated with band posters, black hanging beads and the text “IN GOTH WE TRUST.” She dims the lights, then deletes the thinly veiled canned commercial content from her cell.
The Krabalksys hold a meeting.
“I got home as soon as I could. I got done chased by them cops again from underneath the 57 exchange while trying to make a sale. “
“It’s not working.”
“Why are we losing money again? I thought we were supposed to get large gains this time! We cut out the middle-man!”
“Call up that nice boy Pat. He knows what to do.”
Leona picks up her flip-phone, slowly dials the chunky, illuminated numerals.
“This is Patrick Oswald Splatt.”
“Hi hun, we have a problem.”
“Leave a message after the bleep and—“
“Oh, another one of those machines again. I hate machines. They ruin everything! They ruin everything, everything, everything! Back in our days we all shared a phone, the entire block only had one television, and no-one had a computer!”
The sisters take turns pestering Pat. After they spend 30 minutes ringing his phone off its invisible hook, Mr. Splatt picks it up.
“I am in the washroom taking a crap! Can ya call me back?”
“Oh, I’ll only take a minute with this one very simple question.”
“No minutes left, you ran out.”
“Huh?”
“You owe me my consult fee plus additional charges for expediting your non-emergency. Pay up or else!”
Then Pat flushes.
“Hello! Hello! Where are you? Is it snowing in there? What’s that noise? Your TV on the fritz? It’s making this weird beeping sound. Is that ya microwave?” the sisters keep shouting into the void on a recursive loop.
“I think it’s broken. Imma gonna lie down after playing some Solitaire.”
Leona lays down the cards onto her wooden desk and begins to play, while Doris falls fast alseep on her polyester, dusty-rose-patterned sofa, sawing not only wood but an entire forest.
“Bernadette is one of their many talented performers. She plays the same two-hour set, refuses requests, then demands craptocoins! Come by on any day but Tuesday or Wednesday and enjoy the non-Bernadette singers.”
“The smelliest washrooms in Kankakee County since the dog-food factory closed down.”
“We’re losing business again. Why is it always the same eight people here?” the president of Bernadette Moran Cacca’s fan club, The Poopy Groupies, aunt Sonya Moran asks.
“Maybe we can hire that Hurlbutt kid to do his Elvis act.”
“Nahh.”
“How about we do some remodeling? And a name change? Nobody will know the difference,” suggests Poopy Groupie and neighborhood turd-burglar JB Powers.
“Not a bad idea. I’ll notate that.”
“I don’t know, Sonya, maybe we need more advertising?”
“Yeah, Dorian. That’s a wonderful idea! Woooooh!” Sonya exclaims a bit too hard, holding her brown note a bit too long.
Dorian begins to sing with excitement.
“Oh honey, don’t quit your day job.”
“Umm…Bernadette, my day job IS advertising and design.”
“Oh I mean keep going with that. I am sorry IF I hurt your feelings,” communal narcadoodle Bernadette gaslights in her typical fashion. She has the voice of an angel and the soul of the devil, leaving that bad taste in your mouth but you don’t quite know why.
Text alerts go out to every member of the Manteno Optimal Club via their CrapApp:
Kankakee Idol! Watch and sing along with the best Kankakee County singers, right here in K3! Watch our singing competition from the comfort of your own home on Cable Access 19, or be a part of the audience in Manteno. Get your free tickets now! Another crappy show brought to you by Peppi’s Portapotties! Bernadette and Peppi Cacca are King and Queen of the Plastic Throne!
Signage has been plastered all over Kankakee County featuring the big cheesy grins of the judges, craptocoin emojis, and this text:
Tomato Karen & The Haggs “They’re Coming to Take Me Away”
vs
Wally Green “Fart Your Birds”
Judges:
Bernadette Cacca Sonya Moran Dorian James
With your host, Konrad Teirant!
The day arrives. Emcee Konrad Teirant, one third of Moronic Half Assets and chief cooker of the CRASS books, hopes to make a big bag tonight.
“Live here, this is your host KT on the TV. Tonight at the Manteno Cantina, we have a real salad bar! We also have these ladies! Give it up for Tomato Karen & The Haggs as they sing “They’re Coming to Take Me Away!”
Tomato Karen Napoleon, Demanda Broccoli, Becca Frickfrick and Jamie Turnip try their very best to sing and play their poorly tuned instruments. As the crowd plugs their ears and Bernadette plugs the toilet, Tomato Karen’s ghastly wail raises in pitch and insanity – hitting a high C toward the very end – barely.
“Thank you for that, whatever that was. Now let’s hear from our awesome judges. Bernadette?”
“You guys are the GOAT! It’s a wooooooooooo from me!” Bernadette’s mouth opens wide, tongue hanging out as usual.
“Why am I craving tin cans right now? Oh, speaking of can…” Bernadette runs off stage and straight to her favorite room to mine more craptocoins because she can. It’s potty time!
“Sonya?”
“The Haggs rule this composition. It’s a woo-hoo from me!”
“Dorian?”
“This song is too repetitive.”
The crowd erupts in boos.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over. It’s a yeah, no from me.”
Sounds of the disappointed crowd magnify.
“Speaking of boos, be sure to stop by our bar for our awesome drink specials!” Konrad spamvertises the already mad crowd.
“Butt, be sure to text us your votes on your smell phones! 815-555-FART.”
“Thank you Bernadette. You look awesome!”
“No, you!”
“You’re a national treasure Bernadette. This next guy is a real hoot! Tonight we present you Wally Green!” The bulbous, squat, 60-something enters the stage wearing a horizontal striped polo shirt, a fishing cap, and a cheesy grin.
“This one is for alllll the single ladies out there. Wally taps the microphone, causing ear-piercing distortion in the public address system.
“Fart your owls, fart your cockatiels. Let them fly away, let them fly for free. Don’t hug your dog, don’t kiss your cat. Love is what I got so give it all to meeeeeee!”
The three judges look at each other in wonder, confusion and astonishment.
In unison: “This is the dumbest thing we saw all day. It’s a heck-no from us!”
“Be sure to lock in your—“
“No nevermind, the razzy has already been awarded. The loser of Kankakee Idol is, Tomato Karen & The Haggs! Congratulations, you’re the only act we’ve seen that’s worse than Wally Green!”
“This is Konrad Teirant signing off…ooh is this thing on?”
The Manteno Optimal Club joins the village in congratulating its new mayor.
Wally Green, drugstore owner, wacky inventor and newly elected president of Bernadette M. Cacca’s fan-club sits and waits his turn to talk about opprtunities to sell more CrapStraps, StrangleTangles and Sleevies in Manteno.
Other Poopy Groupies Peppi Cacca and Dorian James wait in the hall, as the room is overflowing. Kankakee debt-collector Sybil Kibble tries to talk the village into letting Credit Recovery Associates (CRASS) build a second location there. After all, what’s better than one collection agency to hound you about unpaid medical bills, than two?
A very desperate-for-dookie-downloads Bernadette Cacca burps, then bursts into the room, belting her newly formed tune:
“Buy Craptocoins, they are good for you, made from 100 per cent, recycled port-a-poo!”
“Mrs. Cacca, you need to add yourself to the agenda first before taking the podium.”
“No, I don’t need any immodium, I’m regular now!”
The new mayor waves Bern away like the waft of stench she brought in.
“Where have I heard that song before?” Wally Green thinks aloud, then blows his nose into one of his monogrammed hankies.
“Who brought the bullhorn?”
Gothic Flo of The Midnight Supremes just shakes her head and enjoys the popcorn.
MoronicArts 
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