Wednesday, May 6

flapjack fones home

the other day, flapjack comes to me in tears... the blubbering monster barely makes any sense when he isn't shooting salt water out of his hideous face, but today, his suffering made him completely incomprehensible... and hysterical.

luckily, i'd just passed off an entire memchip worth of wicked home-porn shots some idiots left in their camera to a doctor, so i have a well-stocked private pharmacy... a few dozen tranquilizer shots later and flapjack was ready to communicate, if not really talk.

it turns out ol' flappy's in a bit of a bind. he lost all the money in his bank account... literally... can't remember the code, or the pin or whatever the fuck it is. here's the rub: normally, he could go get DNA tested. but since he's so ugly, no bank will take his photo, let alone get his reproductive organs anywhere near them to get a sample. they make the poor bastard use a password, like the 21st century. fucking primitives. and for the record, nothing is better than giving your DNA for an identity test... like a milking machine, those things... un-fucking-real!

so flapjack is broke. no big deal. most of my life is spent in penury, so i wouldn't get too sad about the whole thing. but flapjack has never wanted. for two good reasons: one, his shit-father left him a god damn fortune and two, he's too stupid to actually want anything. he's happy enough with food and toys and shit... but i guess there was some candy or plush galactopuss doll he wanted to buy over at zog's and apparently he was a real dick and kicked him cuz his credit was shit.

he's blubbering again. i shoot him full of tranq and he relaxes. what should i do, he manages to get out.
well, flapjack, let's get in touch with your pops... he left you all that money. surely he can get some kind of override...

flapjack bursts into tears again, and i have to use my last three dozen tranqs to shut him up. it turns out he can't fucking write or read. no shit... shouldn't be surprised by this one.

flappy, my child, fear not... i tell him... i shall write to your father myself, pretending to be you.

now tears of joy explode out of his dinner-plate eyes... i let him have those... they aren't so bad.

we sit, and pen, an incredible epistle, mimicking the workings of a brain-damaged mongoloid giant. i'm not showing it to you people, it's too fucking good for the likes of you. suffice to say, flapjack's father was completely convinced, and the account was unlocked, with more cash deposited.

he fucking should have been convinced. i've been writing letters to the old bastard for years, pretending to be flapjack, and have made a small fortune in the process. i'll keep that to myself, though...

1 comment:

  1. If you made a plush galactopus I would buy one


what the fuck is your problem?