Uncle Bobo’s Prize Depot

Researchers exploring a warehouse on the edge of reality found the place known only as “Uncle Bobo’s Prize Depot”, which had various prizes to be awarded to children that sold cases of salve for the company.

Grab Bag of Axes, Knives and Guns- A bag full of deadly weaponry and a pardon letter.

Glass Eye- A glass eye. Pupil dilates when it is brought near children’s cartoon merchandise.

Marble Ocarina- An ocarina that can only play Dick Dale’s rendition of Misirlou, including drums, regardless of the skill level of the person playing it.

Forbidden Baseball Cards-  A pack of baseball cards of various professional baseball players. Instead of statistics, it lists the date they were born and the date they died, despite most if not all of the players featured on the cards being alive at this moment.

Uncle Bobo’s “Science Can be Fun!” Chemistry Set- A box full of beakers and various powders. Analysis of the first bag of powder reveals its contents are mostly amphetamine.

Statue of Mickey Mouse- A statue of cartoon character “Mickey Mouse.” Not noteworthy apart from an inscription on the base reading “All hail.”

Tubes of Wacky Putty- Lab analysis reveals them to contain lethal amounts of cyanide.

Counterclockwise Watch- None of our scientists can figure out why this thing refuses to tell the time like a normal watch, but they don’t care enough to try and fix it either.

Duct Tape Recorder- A tape recorder that can produce sounds out of the bountiful data that is stored on rolls of duct tape. It mostly tends to whisper secrets about whoever is listening.

Tub of Salve- One of the possible rewards for selling a tub of salve is another tub of salve. Not noteworthy apart from the intense feelings of pity the researchers had towards whoever the kids were who got this as a prize.

The Incredible Sulk- An action figure of a green, muscular humanoid with a button on its back. Pressing the button causes the small, tinny speaker embedded in its stomach to say various lines. All of the lines have the Sulk losing his job and his wife as subject.

"Super" Mario-  An action figure of pop culture icon and video game hero Super Mario. Price tag notes the "Super" in "Super Mario" in quotation marks, and scientists noted the face looked a tiny bit off, but they couldn't put their finger on it. 

A Small Monkey- Who the fuck ran this depot?

Uncle Bobo’s Urine Samples- Lab analysis reveals them to contain lethal amounts of cyanide.

Bag Of Peanuts- Perfectly edible.

Real Motherfucking Tank- A real motherfuckin' tank, for steamrolling those goddamn bullies once and for all. All the kids that got this one were sorely disappointed once they found out the cannon doesn't function and the bible-verse-reciting comic relief sergeant in it wouldn't let them in. 

Elder Talisman- A necklace with a talisman depicting a symbol that can not be drawn by human hands. Researchers are unable to determine what material the necklace is made out of, but the safest bet is “nothing good.”

Uncle Bobo’s Tongue- A disembodied, forked tongue suspended in formaldehyde.

Walther P99- As the duty pistol for law enforcement agencies in North America, Europe and Asia, the P99 has endured the harshest operating conditions a handgun will ever see. What’s more, its ergonomics and engineering have evolved subtly in response to feedback from agencies over the years. The P99 is truly a world class handgun for professionals who must trust their lives to a firearm.

Uncle Bobo’s Britches- A pair of weird pants. Uncle Bobo appeared to lack a fashion sense along with common sense or a conscience.

Vortex Diner

Hi! We are so, so very glad you chose our humble restaurant as the place to get your meal for the day. Study the menu carefully, and make your selection. We have a wide variety of tasty treats, sure to please even the pickiest of eaters.

Appetizers

Frolic Bread: Ten slices of bread seasoned with garlic squeezings, our secret blend of herbs, and a sprinkling of arsenic.

The Big Boy: Combining 300 kg of black angus beef with a bun fifty sizes too small, this delightful treat is excellent as a light snack on the go.

The Salad: The Salad never changes. It consists of a bowl filled with uranium.

The Atom Smasher: One of our waiters will come to your table and put you in a headlock. Another waiter will then arrive armed with a large hammer. The rest of your family can enjoy the particles you left behind after the process is done. Not recommended for those with a peanut allergy.

Negative Fries: Eating these will actually make you hungrier. The perfect starter for a long night of devouring. Don't eat more than two.

Main Course

The Chef's Selection: The chef takes a swig of whiskey and throws whatever he can find on the grill. This may or may not include other restaurant personnel.

A Peanut: An authentic, homemade peanut. May contain traces of nuts.

Wizard's Delight: A plate of woodchips, molten rock, and fairy blood. The woodchips are gathered from a real wizard wand.

Flesh: A heap of meat from around 4 to 6 randomly selected animals. The options are Cow, Fish, Elf, Horse, Ox, Goldfish, Duck, Mouse, Owl, Bear, Dog, Cow, Mouse, and Pig.
A true delight for any meat veteran.

The Chef's Recommendation: Our chef comes to your table and tells you exactly what you should order, based on a palm reading. Do not lock eyes with The Chef.

FOOD: A solid, gray block of nutrition. It is delicious. You love FOOD.

This Painting We Found In The House: It's a painting of a clown, crying in the rain and clutching a bottle of whiskey. It is said that eating this will grant you mystical powers.

Dessert

A Full Canister Of Nitrous Oxide: We modify our whipped cream dispensers to dispense nitrous instead of whipped cream. Open wide and get ready for the ride of a lifetime.

Dentist's Shame: Three scoops of icecream, a banana, an orange, a peanut, a bucket of tootsie rolls, mustard, owl shavings, paint thinner, grape soda, assorted amphetamines, salt, rocks, bone marrow, and a cherry on top.

Soup: Why is this on the dessert menu? Why aren't there any ingredients listed? Some questions best remain unanswered.

Drinks

Cosmic Latte: Coffee so good, it'll blow your mind. We mean it. It'll scorch every synapse in your brain as it attempts to register what the fuck you just drank.

Soda: Various offbrand sodas, like Dr. Preppy, Cloaca Cola, Dr. John's Peanut Ale, Flinta and Orongo mixed in a bathtub and then funneled straight into your stomach through a tube.

The Bad Bourbon: We searched high and low for the worst bourbon this planet has to offer, and we finally found it. Serving this to a prisoner of war is considered a breach of the galactic code.

Wizard's Phlegm: Exactly what it says on the tin.

The Chef's Wrath: The Chef comes over and talks some sense into you after he realizes you haven't ordered anything all evening. What do you think you are doing? Who do you work for? Who sent you?

Overtime

It is Sunday, 7:23 A.M. You just finished a light breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs with bacon. You cooked the eggs too long and the bacon too shortly, so both were rubbery, and yet you didn’t mind. You aren’t that hungry anyways, and it’s best to not be nauseous on your first day at your new job.

It is Sunday, 7:30 A.M. You realize you have just been replaying the events of your breakfast in your head for a solid seven minutes, despite it just happening. You shrug and walk out the door, to your car. No time to lose. It’s best not to be late on your first day at your new job.

You are driving in your car. It’s a 1971 Ford Pinto. Your friends found it an odd choice for a vehicle, but you got it in a yard sale. Yard sales are weird, sometimes. Usually it’s a collection of old toys and photos of the elderly, but this particular yard sale had an entire car lying on the blanket. You could not find the seller anywhere, behind the mounds of old floppy disks and stuffed animals, so you just left twenty dollars on the blanket. A gnarled hand reached out from under the car, grabbed the bill, and retreated back. Five minutes later, it emerged again, this time clutching rusty car keys. You took them, and drove off immediately. This was five days ago. The first thing you drove to was, of course, your job interview.

The job interview was, surprisingly, very relaxed. A lady told you to enter a room, sit down at the desk, and start up the computer. On said computer was a rather long test to fill out. It started off with basic math questions, moved into basic language questions, and finished with a personality test. The questions the personality test asked you ranged from the obvious (“Do you agree with the view that everyone steals from the workplace sometimes?”) to the unnerving (“Would you ever betray the CEO?”).

You snap out of your thoughts as you near the office complex. End of the line. You step out of the car, and walk to the entrance. You stare at the massive sign looming above the revolving doors.You walk through the doors, sealing your fate. You now work for Bluetronics Incorporated. Walking through revolving doors is, in corporate culture, a declaration of allegiance to a company. You and everything that you do should now be devoted to furthering The Corporation’s goals. That’s fine though, you signed a contract stating you are fine with it.

The secretary looks up from her papers, while you stand there, gawking at the marble floor and the pleasant light-blue wallpaper. She coughs, and you excuse yourself for staring. You tell her you are new here, and that you do not actually know where your office is. She says it’s okay. She also says that your office isn’t actually fully outfitted yet. Computer systems aren’t hooked up yet, and the previous employee’s personal artifacts are still on the desk.

She hands you your employee’s card. From now on, everything you need to do will involve this card. She points to the vending machine, humming softly in the corner. She tells you anytime you feel hungry or thirsty, you can use your company scrip to purchase a beverage or a snack. She informs you you will only be paid in company scrip. She informs you that your office should be ready in fifteen minutes. She informs you your company scrip will be stored on your employee’s card. She informs you you are dependent on your employee’s card.

You accept.

You walk over to the vending machine. You immediately notice you only have three options: Translucent bags in the top row labeled “FOOD”, containing gray cubes. Translucent pouches with straws attached in the middle row labeled “DRINK”, containing a liquid of some sort. Small bags of airline peanuts in the bottom row, containing small oversalted peanuts and costing twice as much as the bags of FOOD. You decide to order some DRINK.

The transaction goes smoothly, and you watch as the pouch of DRINK gets dispensed. You stick in the straw, and sip slowly of the beverage. It tastes of salty nothing. You love DRINK. As you sip, you sit down on one of the folding chairs and wait. Eventually you finish your beverage, and are left biting down on the straw. After what seems like hours, the lady tells you you can go upstairs. She tells you The CEO will meet you there in a while, and that you’ll recognize him. She whispers to you that he has these piercing blue eyes that you can just immediately fall in love with if you are not careful. You thank her for the warning.

You walk up the staircase, eventually arriving at the third floor. The office is empty, but all the computers are switched on anyways. You shuffle forwards, looking at the nameplates in the hope of finding your own. Eventually you do.As you sit down at your desk, you hear footsteps behind you. You swivel your chair around dramatically, and are greeted by The CEO. He looks exactly like you expected from the moment you took the job interview: a tall, suit-and-tie clad man with a light stubble and short brown hair. His eyes, a deep green colour, meet yours, and he smiles as he extends his hand towards you. You reach out and shake his hand. He’s exactly like you pictured him.

It’s very unnerving.

You tell him you still do not know what your job position exactly is. He tells you that does not matter. He tells you you should really start working. You note to yourself that he speaks in the tongue of a bat. You swivel back to your computer, and he walks out towards the staircase. He says that you will have to be working overtime today. You start to ask why you should have to work overtime on your first day, but he is already gone.

You stare at the computer screen, and forget the time. You type on the keyboard, and the screen fills up with a jumble of letters that can only be described as Pure Data. Eventually you grow peckish. You stand up from your desk and walk downstairs. The secretary has gone home. You are alone in the building, although you are not sure since The CEO could have stayed behind to work as well.You make the mistake of looking outside, through the glass of the revolving doors. It is morning.

You check your phone. It is Saturday.

You buy a bag of FOOD.

This is your life now.

The Ballad of Filthy Elvis

                                                                              1955


The air is greasy. Anything you touch feels slick to the touch. At least, it would, if you didn't have these ropes on.

The loud sound of sirens blaring.

It's dark here. A basement of sorts? Attic? Who knows. A damp, dark, greasy place. Next to you, on the hardwood floor, is a rather short fellow. He too has been bound and gagged by your mysterious assailant, but also seems to have a blindfold on. You can barely make out his style of dress in the faint light struggling against the boards against the windows. Attic it is, then. He seems to be dressed rather affluently, which worries you. If whoever kidnapped you is doing it for the ransom money, you have nothing to give except your life. You wiggle your legs a bit. Tied together. Of course.

"Mmf!"

You attempt to communicate with your fellow hostage, but he does not respond. Maybe whatever soporific you got slipped hasn't finished working yet on the poor schmuck.

#TURN YOURSELF IN.#

The scratchy sound of a barely-functioning police megaphone vibrates through the hardwood floor.

"When ah was a boy... ah used ta' see myself in those comic books an' those movies we used ta watch... he would see himself as the hero in em... ah was the villain..."

You roll over on your back, hoping to capture a glimpse of whoever the sick fuck is that captured you. Sharp beams of bright light pierce the gaps between the wood, only barely illuminating the room you are in. Some sort of abhorrent silhouette is cast on the wall. Seems the guy who spoke is in the next room. His heavy footsteps echo through the building.

Blue and red lights are flashing behind the boards, slightly illuminating the room. Your cellmate is still unconscious. The rag in your mouth is soaked with your saliva, and tastes vaguely like motor oil. The footsteps are coming closer. You see a dark figure slide into the room. A very LARGE figure. His body odor immediately penetrates the greasy air, feeling like a kick to the face. He reaches out to the wall, and you hear a click as the light blinds you for a short second.

Oh god. Oh god no. Fuck that.

In the center of the room stands an absolute mountain of a man, wearing a disgusting, grease-stained jumpsuit, adorned with various cheap plastic gems. His legs wobble. His facial features can only be described as "Elvis Presley, but horrible". You think you can see his abhorrent pubes growing through the jumpsuit. On second thought, you don't think that's a jumpsuit. It might actually be his skin. His oversized sunglasses only barely hide the fact that he does not appear to have eyes. A light dusting of a mysterious white powder adorns the area below his nostrils. His hideous body sways from left to right as he walks, as if he is having serious trouble figuring out how his legs work. His ridiculously greasy pompadour softly bounces up and down with every step. A trail of dried vomit is smeared from his lips to his cheeks, and his skin-pants appear to be covered in a variety of mysterious and horrid stains.

He kneels down in front of you.

"You awake yet, uh-huh?"

Wincing, you turn your head away so you don't have to look at him. This earns you a swift kick to the sides.

"MMFF!"

"Yea... yer awake alright..."

He speaks to you in a crude mockery of a southern drawl. There is a mild slurring to his words, as if he just had a drop from the old fruit jar. You can see that he has a switchblade in his right hand, and he is staring intently at you, apparently gauging if you are going to be a problem. He gets down on one knee, and removes your gag. You gasp for air immediately. Big mistake. The scent of the building mixes with the disgusting odor emanating from the grotesque mockery of The King standing in front of you, and you immediately hurl on the wooden floor.

"There there dahling, dry yer eyes..."

You spit on the floor a bit, trying your best to get rid of the acidic taste in your mouth. You look up to him, and cough a bit.

"Why... why am I here? What are you going to do to us?"

He scoffs.

"You guys... yer my bargainin' chip."

Oh dear.

# 'FILTHY' ELVIS AARON PRESLEY BETA, RELEASE THE HOSTAGES AND TURN YOURSELF IN. #

The King waddles around a bit, seemingly pondering what to do. Eventually, he settles on lurching forwards, and for a second you are afraid that it's all over and he is going to strangle you. Instead, he grabs your cellmate, and drags him over to the windows by his arms.

"Y'ALL'LL GET YER FIXIN'S!"

With those words, he raises his meaty arms and smashes the poor son of a bitch through the window, shattering the glass and probably the guy's skull. The hapless hostage gurgles as he drops out of the window, and you hear the sickening crunch of his battered body hitting the stone pavement outside.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"
"Someone get a paramedic goddamn it!!"
"Why aren't we shooting this sick fuck yet?"

The King guffaws. It makes you nauseous. The cracks of gunfire ring out, and you see the boards  across the windows slowly becoming less and less aerodynamic. The floor proceeds to creak as 'Filthy' Elvis hits the deck.

"Uhuh... caught in a trap..."

You take a moment off from wriggling to cover to pray for a stray bullet to shut this asshole up. The gunfire dies down, but you see red lasers on the wall behind you. If that fat fuck would just raise his head to peek out of the windows...

#THAT'S IT, WE'RE COMING IN YOU MOTHERFUCKER#

You roll your eyes. Fucking finally. What, needed a call to the chief first to gun down the most hideous mistake of nature ever spawned?

The wooden floor groans as Filthy Elvis gets up, a mild scowl on his face. He ducks for the windows, taking care to avoid the really obvious and convenient pointers. He waddles to the door, shoving a large sofa in front of it. He gets down on all fours, and crawls over towards you.

He's definitely doing this to creep you the fuck out, and he's successful. A thin trail of black sludge pours out from under his sunglasses, where his right eye should be if he was a human being. Grinning, he stands up, rears back, and kicks the wall next to you with the force of a thousand suns. You curl up to shield yourself from the splinters being scattered around the room.

After a few seconds, Filthy Elvis reaches down and grabs you by the leg. He walks over to the newly-created hole, and descends down a staircase that was hidden behind the panelling. Seems he is well-prepared for whatever the hell he was trying to do.

Your head fucking hurts at this point, which isn't helped by it hitting the stairs constantly. What the hell does this guy want from you? Why you specifically? Does it even matter? What year is it again? 1955? Is it 1955?

It is 1955, and you just kind of left. You woke up one day, and left. You got in your car (do you even own a car? Did you walk?) and fucked off, leaving everything behind. Screw all those responsibilities. You did not tell anyone, you just went. You ended up driving or walking or taking the bus or hitchiking to the nearest forest, where you just sat there, in the middle of the trees, waiting for someone to find you.

You weren't expecting someone else to be sitting in the forest, just out of view, eyeing you and coming up with a plan for his last stand. He's lost everything. He was a genetic monstrosity, bred in a lab for the express purpose of replacing his genetic template if he should ever pass away prematurely or be inconvenienced while on the road to a concert. He could do hip gyrations, play the guitar, sing, speak in a drawl and smoke cigarettes, but none of that would hide the fact that he was an inferior version of the original. A fraud. The media found out, and the fans revolted, calling for the 'real' Elvis Presley, whatever that meant. They rushed the stage, brandishing scarves, intending to lynch the false King.

They didn't expect him to lift up his sunglasses. In the ensuing chaos, he dove off the stage, running out into the dressing room. He barricaded the doors, squeezed his oversized tucus through a window, and ran off into the sewers, finally escaping to the very same woods you were sitting in. He was prepared for this, and made sure his compound in Death Valley was well-equipped to handle his last stand. It would be the performance of a lifetime. He already had a nosy local reporter, Gavin Silver, tied up there. Then he spotted you.

Two hostages would be better than one.


You are awakened by a splash of ice-cold water to the face, and the by now all-too-familiar feeling of being tied to something with a rope. At least you are sitting this time, on a relatively comfy dining chair. Next to you is a small table, with on it a large toolbox of sorts. A single lightbulb illuminates the room, and you notice Filthy Elvis standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette and holding a now-empty bucket. He looks at you, and lights up another cigarette, sticking it into his mouth.

He slowly walks over to you, his face illuminated by only the weak flickering lightbulb and his lit cigarettes. You watch in astonishment as he reaches into his pocket, only to fish out another fucking cigarette and light it.

"So... you are probably wondering what happens now."

"Sorry, what was that?"

He takes his cigarettes out of his mouth.

"You're probably wondering what happens now."

"I can guess."

"Good. Then I won't bore you with the details."

Any hint of his accent is gone, replaced only with a cold, uncaring and slightly guttural voice practically dripping with venom.

He walks over, putting his cigarettes back in his mouth (and adding two extra), and opens the toolbox. He rummages through it a bit, before finally pulling out a pair of pliers. You don't like where this is going.

"Open wide."

Oh god no, that's a bad thing to ask when you are holding pliers. You keep your mouth shut tightly.

"Obey."

'Filthy' Elvis Aaron Presley Beta rears back, before punching you in the gut. You wheeze loudly as all the air gets punched from your body, and your attacker puts his foot on your knee, pressing down hard. He uses one of his oversized hands to pull down your bottom jaw, and slowly, almost tauntingly moves the hand holding the pliers your way.

You clench your eyes shut, and gurgle in agony as The King himself extracts one of your canines. The upper right one, to be exact. Blood runs down your tongue and into the back of your throat, causing you to gag from the copper taste. Tears well up in your eyes. You try your hardest, but you can't kick him in the dick. Not with these fucking ropes on.

Filthy Elvis doesn't seem too bothered by it, and places your recently departed tooth in a small shot glass on the table.

You cough up some of your blood onto his jumpsuit.

"What do you... why are you doing this?"

He shrugs.

"Fuck, shits and giggles I suppose. They'll be busting down my door anytime now. They won't hesitate to gun me down. I'll be buried somewhere, unmarked grave, no frills around it. Everyone will forget me. But you..."

He looks at you, and grins coldly.

"You won't forget this, won't you. And once... once HE sees it, when he watches the news tonight, he won't forget me either. He won't forgive himself. And that's enough for me."

He turns around, and drops the blood-spattered pliers to the ground. He spreads his arms, and stands there like that for a while. You are barely even startled by the sound of the door splintering, and a couple of heavily-armed men swarming into the room. Your head is swimming.

"Until we meet again. May god bless you as he has damned me."

You close your eyes as the sound of gunfire rings in your ears. When you open them again, you are being carried by someone, and feel the burning heat of the sun bearing down on you. You squint,  and look backwards at the compound. Various police cars are parked outside it, and you see Filthy Elvis's ventilated corpse being loaded into an unmarked black van.


You sigh in relief.

Red Ops

"Plan is simple. Get in. Get the jokes. Get out. Try not to die."

You remember the words of your superior as you listen to the sound of worn tires traversing the dusty roads of what was once a magnificent city. You stare out of one of the darkened windows of the orange van, seeing the ravages of mother nature taking over old office buildings and abandoned houses. The van whizzes past a withered, vine-covered motel at top speed, but you still feel the eyes of the beings lurking inside the dark rooms. You shudder.

Next to you sits Chirurgeon, your stealth specialist, wearing his almost trademark scowl. You can't remember ever seeing him smile. You don't blame him. Not much reason to smile, when your home has been bulldozed to make room for another goddamn circus tent. He fiddles idly with his field radio, and raises an eyebrow at your staring. You cough and turn back to the window.

God, you hate these stupid codenames you all have to use. It's not like clowns have any use for tracking someone down based on a name. They'll just wipe out the general area an agent MIGHT have been active in and call it a day. You most of all hate your own codename. You never use it.

"Hey, Domesman!"

God damn it.

The person who called out your embarrassing and totes unfitting nickname was Bonesetter, arguably the only person on your squad with a decently rad-sounding nickname. There he is, waving at you excitedly. He's sitting opposite of you, almost vibrating with excitement. He's alright, you guess. He's just a bit...

"Dude, aren't you excited to finally do this? This is going to be our first REAL job! None of that training exercise or secret test of character bullshit, just plain gettin' in and shooting a bunch of bozos with high-powered automatic weaponry."

Yeah.

Chirurgeon scoffs. 

"Need I remind you that our objective is to STEAL something, meaning we really shouldn't go around making a ruckus? Need I remind you that this is frankly some dangerous goddamn shit we are doing? Need I remind you that right now, you are wildly gesturing with a loaded pistol in your hand, and risk shooting the driver and causing us to crash into one of the fifty million abandoned office buildings, killing us all in an anticlimactic explosion? Need I-"

"No, you don't."

You interrupt another one of Chirurgeon's half-paranoid half-depressing lectures before it can spiral out of control. Problem being, most of the time they are already spiraled way out of control and into oncoming traffic before he even starts them.

You are startled by a low, long-winded moan coming from next to Bonesetter. There's nothing to be startled about, you realize, as it is simply Accoucheus, yet another old-medical-profession-themed dick you have to drag around with you. (You often wonder why you got chosen to be put in this squad, despite having a nickname that's not even close to being related to medicine. Most likely they ran out of old professions starting with a "D".) They are already wearing their mask, and injecting something icky into their arm. You briefly consider telling them to cut it out, before you realize they are just taking a hollandaise supplement directly into their bloodstream.  

A brief glance at the mask's eyeholes later, and you're creeped the hell out again by the shifting colours dancing around behind it. You always wondered what the hell was up with that. You're not about to ask them, though. Accoucheus kind of creeps you out, so you avoid actively engaging in dialogue with him whenever possible. You've never seen them without their mask on, for instance. They've been with the Splintered Path for far longer than anyone else you know, including yourself. Some say there's not actually a face underneath, due to a peanut overdose at early age. Some say they traded their face to an ancient deity, in exchange for a boon of unimaginable power. Some say these rumors are bullshit. You are pretty sure you are the person who said that last one.

You grab your duffel bag, and take out your weapon of choice: a 9mm submachine gun. Your limp-wristed firing stance, honed and perfected through MINUTES of training, ensures that you can't fire anything heavier. Hell, even this thing misses most of the time, and because you flinch a lot, you don't even take the time to aim and just kind of close your eyes, squeeze the trigger and hope for the best. 

You also unpack and put on a belt with a bunch of syringes filled with various helpful antidotes and deadly poisons on it. There's something for every situation, from emergency hollandaise to lethal aioli overdoses. You've never used that last one. The description the requisitions officer gave to you of its effects made you vow to never, ever use it. You're sure it won't come up as some kind of Chekov's Gun or whatever, so you take it off and offer it to Bonesetter, who gratefully accepts it and trades you a pack of cigarettes. You don't smoke. Neither does anyone else you know, including Bonesetter. You decide to just slip the pack into your bag, and pretend you appreciate the gesture. 

After some more idle banter, the van comes to a stop. You briefly consider softly saying something like "This is it" or "End of the line" to sound cool, but due to the fact that you are wearing thick, hooded rags instead of body armor and are about to steal some really lame jokes about chickens crossing roads as part of a clandestine operation to reduce carnie influence in the city, it'd just make you look like a tool and probably get Chirurgeon to punch you again. Instead, you quietly put on your respirator and breathe deeply. 

"End of the line."

God damn it, Bonesetter.

Accoucheus groans as he opens the doors, and climbs out. Bonesetter quickly crawls out to avoid Chirurgeon's glare. Chirurgeon peeks outside of the doors for a second, looks around, and then decides it's safe to exit the van. You follow him. Your boots hit the sand, and for a brief moment you are blinded by the sun. Not much sun in the city, not with the rooftops transformed into a SECOND city, just to save space so these dicks can plop down more popcorn stands. Once your eyes get used to the light, you look around at your surroundings. You stand in front of a massive, garishly decorated trailer park of some sorts. It stretches out for miles, and on the horizon you can see the silhouette of a humongous circus tent. A dilapidated banner waves, bearing clown insignia, and your stomach turns when your gaze wanders to the empty, filth-covered cages that serve as home to the lowest of the low at a circus: the clown. 

Chirurgeon peers through his binoculars, marking various targets and possible routes in his mind. On his hip is his MSP, the only truly silent weapon of your crew. Too bad it only holds two bullets and looks WAY ugly. You don't know how he can stand the thing. It's like a tiny gun for tiny babies. It's like impotency fired bullets. It's like a 50 year old man in a midlife crisis. That's how lame that gun is.  He takes down his binoculars, notices you glaring at his pistol, and raises an eyebrow at you. You quickly turn around again.

You come face to mask with Accoucheus, rocking back and forth and muttering something. That's fine, you think. They do that sometimes. Seeing them reminds you to put on YOUR mask before you go any deeper into the territory. You grab it from your backpack, and put it on. It's a sleek white thing, just like the one everyone else wears. Yours has a small crack through the right eyehole, though. Far as you can tell, almost everyone customizes their mask at some point or another. Accoucheus either hasn't, or it's on the inside like Bonesetter's. Bonesetter painted the inside of his mask bright red, in a flame design. When you asked him why, he replied that it made him faster. You laughed for a while, until you realized he was serious. 

Anyways, you haven't customized your mask either. And don't intend to anytime soon. The day you write a bible passage on it is the day you attach a scope, a laser sight, and an extended magazine to your gun, wear nightvision goggles everywhere you go, and talk in military lingo for no fucking reason while people around you ask how your day was. 

Chirurgeon puts on his mask, and motions for you and the rest to follow him, and sneaks off through a gap in the fence. You follow him for a few minutes, sneaking through the trailer park like a bunch of rats in a really fucked up pantry stocked with cotton candy. Eventually, he motions for you to halt. Bonesetter bumps into you, and whispers an apology. Chirurgeon peeks around the corner, and does the universal hand sign for "Holy fucking shit, there's a loose clown over there and it almost spotted us".

To your left, Accoucheus walks off, undisturbed by these developments. Chirurgeon motions for her to stop, but they don't seem to give even a faint hint of a shit. Accoucheus rounds the corner, and disappears from sight. He'll be fine. Chirurgeon motions a three-count, and you all quickly move behind another trailer. You peek through the windows, and see there isn't even anything inside except some straw. Seems he got promoted. With employment bonuses like these, no wonder the funnymen have almost limitless manpower. You move behind some boxes, and look over them, finally spotting it.

The clown stands there, smoking a cigarette and bobbing his grotesque head to the tinny MIDI rendition of "Entrance of the gladiators" emitting from the speakers mounted on all the trailers. The greasepaint on his face is permanently fused to him, and his cracked, raw lips have been forever forced into a crude mockery of a smile. A knife is attached to his hip, and he is wielding a compact assault rifle. He impatiently drums his fingers on the foregrip, and peers around him looking for prey.

Suddenly, he startles, and fires a full magazine's worth into the direction of an adversary you can't quite see. The clown starts to sweat as he notices whatever he tried to shoot didn't die. He fumbles with a magazine, desperately trying to reload it before the heavy footsteps get too close. The clown seems to have forgotten the basics of reloading, and drops its rifle to the ground, raising its hands in surrender. You consider running in and gunning it down while it's unarmed, but you are rather scared of whatever the fuck scared the dickens out of that clown.

A figure strides from the shadows, raising its long arms towards the frightened mirthmaker. The clown gasps, and starts to claw at its body, shaking its head and generally looking a bit uncomfortable. A second arm is raised, and the clown lifts up into the air, flailing wildly and honking in fear. The being, unsatisfied with merely terrifying a clown into whatever passes for submission in circus culture, then spreads its arms wide, and the clown, for lack of a better term, turns inside out. Bonesetter looks a bit nauseous.

A limp, smoking corpse drops to the ground, and immediately starts to disintegrate into a puddle of disgusting brown liquid, hissing violently. A foul stench hits your nostrils, and you gag. Turns out whatever is inside a clown really isn't fit for contact with the outside world. A long, silent minute passes as everyone ponders what the fucking hell just happened. Chirurgeon is the first to speak up.

"A...Accoucheus? You... Y-you alright there?"

Accoucheus raises its head backwards and gurgles, clearly satisfied with her victory over what is pretty much the clown equivalent of an untrained citizen. Sure, it had a rifle, but all clowns have at least five rifles on them at all times. You immediately draw some conclusions from all of this, and come to realize that Accoucheus might very well be both fucking rad and absolutely terrifying. In any case, there currently aren't fifty strongmen barreling towards your group to pound you into dust, so you suppose the clown didn't raise any kind of alarm. Accoucheus looks at you, and cocks his head slightly. You shudder.

Bonesetter seems a little worse for wear. Chirurgeon takes a swig from his hip flask. You don't even know what's in there, as alcohol is extremely hard to come by nowadays. You see Bonesetter inject a syringe of hollandaise, presumably to maintain his overall sanity and cheery demeanor.

Accoucheus shrugs, and walks off into another alleyway, towards the big tent. Seems they want to get on with the show already. You and the rest follow after some meaningful shared glances.

After about fifteen minutes of skulking around, taking care to avoid known strongman patrols, you arrive at a more isolated and luxurious looking trailer. Around it are some scorch marks, and a conspicuous tripwire surrounds it. There is a sign next to the thing, saying "Not a trap".

"I think it's a trap."
"Shut up."

Before you can step over the tripwire, you notice Accoucheus, leaning against the sturdy tentmeat. Right, the main tent. It's right there. You can hear horrifying music and disturbing sounds coming from within the tent's bowels. Accoucheus gives you a thumbs up. This is the biggest honor you have received in your life. You smile uneasily, and step over the tripwire.

As you carefully tiptoe towards the trailer, you start to make out more of its features. For instance, it has a waving banner on top of it. The door has odd sigils scratched into the wood, and the windows are blocked with wooden planks. Another sturdy-looking wooden plank blocks the actual door from opening. You motion for Chirurgeon to get over here, while Bonesetter keeps watch.

You and Chirurgeon start prying off the wooden plank. It budges, but it takes a lot of effort. Fucking clowns. The wood splinters as Chirurgeon delivers one final kick to it, and the door swings open. You and him share a glance, and when you see the nervousness in his eyes, you know it's going to be your turn to go in first this time.  You slowly enter the trailer, gun ready. He follows, lighting up various surfaces with his flashlight.

Another barred door is to your left, leading into what you hope is some kind of bedroom and not a torture dungeon. Chirurgeon nudges you to ignore it for now, documents come first. He shines his flashlight on a fairly large table, stacked with various documents. You glance at one.

A man wakes up in the cellar of his house, and immediately starts screeching. Clown! Clown! I can not feel my legs! 
The clown answers: "That's because I have cut off your arms!"

You don't get it.

Chirurgeon starts shoving stacks of paper into his backpack, and you do the same. He walks out of the trailer, hurrying to leave the place. You follow, but pause when you come across the barred door once more. You shrug, and exit the trailer. Best to let sleeping mimes lie.

Another tense avoiding of the devious trap later, and you are all standing together near the tent's wall.

"Alright, I've just heard from central that there's currently an undercover team inside, ready to fuck up the show at our command."
"Wait wait, what? No, fuck no. The mission was clear. Get the jokes and get out. No fucking with the show."
"Relax, Domesman. The team was already there. Thing is, we're in the neighbourhood now, right? Best to just do anything we can to help out. Two acrobats, one stone."

You grumble and nod. Whatever. Let's get this over with. Accoucheus skips over to the group from the wall, holding something in their hand.

"Whatcha got there? A remote?"

BLAM.

Oh god.

You and the team ready your guns, and run into the newly-created orifice in the tent. Bonesetter is firing his gun wildly into the roof, Chirurgeon is lagging behind, holding his head in pain from the eardrum he undoubtedly shattered. Poor guy.

You are met with what can only be described as a complete clusterfuck. A massive horde of Splintered Path assassins are firing their assault rifles wildly into the stage. A figure stands there, flinching rapidly from multiple impacts, before sinking to its knees and hissing.

You aim your gun, and squeeze the trigger at the stage. The recoil immediately makes the gun smack into your mask, cracking it something fierce around the eyehole.
You stumble backwards, groaning in pain. Accoucheus is firing some kind of rifle at various corpses, making sure to triple-tap every single clown on the floor. Bonesetter is still not doing anything that could possibly be described as useful.

The sound of gunfire dies down, as does the pained groans of mortally wounded circus goons and the labored breathing of mimepriests. The grunts are searching the corpses, and shooing out civilians.
In the corner of your eye, you spot someone getting up from their seat and attempting to sneak off. They immediately slip and fall down. Poor guy. Acrobat sweat is one of the most slippery substances in existence, right next to strongman drippings and mimefluid. No one knows what mimefluid does, but that is because no one wants to touch it.

The moment he hits the floor, you feel a stinging pain on the back of your head, and groan. You stick up your hand to your squad, and walk over to the guy. They're groaning too, and shutting their eyes. You look at their face. It's so impossibly familiar. You blink. Their face is obscured by what appears to be a whirlwind of colour. You step over to them, on autopilot, and extend your hand. 

Top 8 Elvis Presley Facts You DID NOT Know

Everyone knows Elvis Presley. Everyone LOVES Elvis Presley. We know you love this man. You probably know everything about him. I can smell it on you. You consider yourself an Elvis geek. A regular detective, scouring for info on The King every hour of your life. But you don't know everything.

Elvis was a big eater.

He started every day with an entire canned ham, and towards lunch he would usually be found snacking on bowls of jellied eels and unbaked cookie dough. His favourite food was reported to be the "Fools Gold Loaf". The recipe is as followed: A large hollowed out loaf of bread, filled with one jar of peanut butter, one jar of grape jelly, one jar of bacon, one jar of bread, a canned ham, various cured and smoked meats, eyelashes, congealed hog's blood, and a jar of jellied eels.

Elvis HATED His Fans.

There were many people in life that Elvis Presley loathed. His fans were all of them. His mansion was guarded by his own private army, the Blue Sues. These men and women were known for their cruelty, from crucifying people asking for autographs to draping the gates of his home in entrails as a warning to potential enemies. Elvis himself was once quoted saying: "I fucking hate these people. I wish they went away. I never should have done it. I never should have forgotten Master's scent. It seriously puts a damper on the mood, man. I can't enjoy my ham like this. This has to stop."

Elvis died twice.

This one might come as a surprise. We all know Elvis died on a toilet in 1977, right? But no, the truth is far more sinister than that. Elvis has died once before that time. Listening to the album "Having Fun With Elvis On Stage" backwards reveals a message from The King himself, composed of him yelling obscenities at an unknown foe as loud sounds are heard, indicating someone or something trying to bash down his door. He clearly states that he is hiding behind his desk, wielding a snub-nose revolver, and can be heard firing off shots at his assailants. The moment the message ends, a loud crack of splintering wood is heard, followed by soft squelching.

Elvis had a clone.

Elvis's clone was known simply as "Filthy Elvis" to him and his inner circle. Filthy Elvis was known for his crass language and rude demeanor, very few people who knew of his existence would claim to like him or be friends with him. Filthy Elvis was a heavy smoker, never seen in public without at least five lit cigarettes in his mouth. He had pubic hair growing through his jumpsuit, which has fused with his skin from the moment he got released out of the vats. He had no eyes, but chose to disguise this with a large pair of tacky sunglasses, which he never took off. On his rare dealings with the public, he would impersonate Elvis Prime, doing the same moves and sometimes replacing him during a concert when Elvis Prime felt down. Eventually the false fame rose to his head, and Filthy Elvis was shot during a standoff with the police in 1955. His death would go unmentioned to the public, and he was buried in an unmarked grave, somewhere in Death Valley national park.

Elvis looked like an angel.

He fooled people with his kisses, he cheated, he schemed, he told lies. No one saw through him until years after his second death. No one knew of his sadism, his creativeness in his killings, or his fortified bunker in Memphis. It wasn't until 1985 that an unknown private detective stumbled upon his bunker, snuck inside, and discovered The King's now-famous "pain barn". The man remained anonymous, and simply delivered an unmarked envelope full of  photos and a severed finger to the Mephis Police Department.

Elvis never apologized for "Having Fun With Elvis On Stage". 

Even years after it got released and panned by critics and fans alike, he maintained his view that it was a "really good album" and "contained some fucking good tunes". However, there's substantial evidence that Elvis quite regretted and was deeply hurt by the reception to it. He would be found staring out of his window, crying and drinking liquor from an old fruit jar for most of his days until his eventual second death.

Elvis had a secret, hidden album.

Known to true fans as the infamous "Fuck You" album, this album has been almost completely wiped off the face of the earth. There were only five copies in existence, and four of them were sealed in Elvis's secret catacombs. The fifth one was found in an industrial furnace, completely unharmed by the flames roaring around it. After employees fished it out, they played it and noticed that though the record was still functional, it played only a demonic wail of some sorts, followed by the song "Nothin' But A Hound Dog" repeated thirtyseven times, with Elvis sounding more and more exhausted after every loop. By the end, The King lets loose a wet, hacking cough, and the record stops after you hear the sound of a brick being thrown at high speed hitting something fleshy. 

Elvis was president of the united states for five minutes.

No one knows how this happened. The King immediately seized the moment and used it to his favour, by legalizing torture on prisoners of war and naming the long-deceased Joseph Grimaldi as his vice-president. After he was forcibly escorted out of the white house, he fired off a .308 caliber rifle round at a random passerby, vomited into a gutter, and collapsed. Paramedics escorted him to his home, and applied strong amnesiac drugs to make sure he did not remember the event. 

Wrong Number

"Alright, initiate. This next step is very simple. You kneel here, I grab the back of your head, and I drown you in the gentle forest streams."

"Wait, what?"

You manage to let out a yelp of surprise before your entire world becomes the icy-cold water currently trying its damnedest to fill your lungs. You struggle, but eventually give in and close your eyes. It's not so bad, actually. Mostly because you can somehow breathe normally. You quickly give up trying to figure out the logic behind this.

The experience is kind of soothing. You drift off to a dreamless sleep. When you wake up, you are walking through the forest.

"Good, you're awake. You're part of the 5%, buddy."

"I'm not even going to ask you what that means."

"Good idea."

You look around you and see numerous people in hooded purple robes walking alongside you. You nervously shuffle over to a rather cheery-looking lad with a bright smile on his face.

"So, what brings you to the Fhurbahel Cult, initiate?"

"Do you guys seriously call yourselves the Fhurbahel Cult? Like, the word cult is right there in the name. That usually implies something negative."

"Relax! Messing with you. What brings you to Apathy's Dawn?"

"Ah, that sounds suitably ominous without being too in your face about it. Well, I suppose I was just kind of looking for something to do. I don't even remember where I was before the grand poobah over there tried to drown me with wizard water."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find your place soon, in our cozy little family."

You nervously smile and nod. Eventually, you reach what the cultists were walking towards: a massive temple with a large banner hanging down from the top. You don't care about the logo it depicts. At all. Large statues of disinterested looking people flank the entrance.

You wonder what this cult's gimmick is.

You follow the rest of the members into the temple. It's dark and damp and icky and you don't care about any of that. Eventually, you enter a large room with steps leading down to a large altar. No good can come from this, you tell yourself. Your grandmother always told you you should really stay away from anything involving an altar, candles, and hooded cultists. Then again, your grandmother worshiped a tree, so she was kind of out there, really. The leader motions for you to stand at his side.

"Look. The ritual is starting."

"Cool, what's it called?"

"The Ritual."

Lazy bastards.

You lean against an uninteresting stone pillar, and look down at the altar. Three blue-robed fellows start dancing around it in circles, waving their arms in the air and chanting in ominous greek. You look over to the leader, and he seems to be vibrating in excitement. You yawn.

Eventually, one of your fellow yellow-robed companions walks down the steps, and kneels at the altar. The three blue-robed priests chant in unison.

"Παρακαλούμε σημειώστε μας."

The leader leans over to you.
"I read that one in a magazine recently. This is our first time trying it out... it looks promising though. I can feel it in the air."

And indeed, you can feel the air has become heavy, though that might just be a side-effect of a large group of people gathering in a damp temple in the middle of summer.

Eventually though, something does happen. You get a mild headache. A light throbbing feeling in the back of your mind. It's not just a headache though.

It's something worse.

"Something's happening, guys!"

The leader loudly laughs in happiness, before coughing. He doubles over, and starts retching. Then the black fluid comes, and splatters on your shoes.

You look down in disgust, and when you look up, he is weeping. Black fluid seeps down his cheeks and runs into his robes. You look around you in panic, and notice several other members doubling over and vomiting on the stone floor. One of the three blue-robed priests has grabbed the initiate, and lifts off his hood. It's the fellow you talked to earlier. He coughs as the priest plunges a dagger into his chest, again and again and again until he stops coughing.

Yeah, this ritual got weird fast. Time to book it. 

You turn around, only to be greeted by a complete clusterfuck. Priests and initiates are running around screaming, banging on the floor and walls and punching the stones until their knuckles bleed. When you look back at the altar, where once stood three priests now stands a... hole.

"OH GOD, WE FUCKED IT UP AGAIN! AGAIN!!!"

You have no idea how else to explain what you are seeing right now. A sort of rip in the fabric of reality has appeared right infront of you, and you are surrounded by puking and screaming cultists and have no idea how you got here and you'd really really like to leave now.

You feel a tug on your robe, and note the initiate from earlier standing up, bleeding from multiple chest wounds.

"Stay a while. Enjoy yourself."

You run forwards and clothesline him, and dash for the door. You are starting to cough, and notice your eyes are... leaking, for lack of a better term. Jolts of pain pass through your entire body, and you fall to your knees. You are now dragging yourself to the exit, eyes closed from the pain. 

You turn your head back, just in time to see a withered wooden cane exit the void and enter the joke you used to call reality. 

The pure adrenaline gives you a burst of strength, and you run like the wind, out of the temple. You don't look back long enough to catch a glimpse of the monocled eye gazing at you. 

Peanuts

You are at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. You just topped off your gas tank, and are walking into the shop to pay.

A kindly-looking clerk peers at you over the counter through his small, round glasses as you enter. You're feeling peckish, so you look around for something nice to snack on while you continue driving to wherever the hell you were going. Things aren't so clear when you are at a gas station on the edge of reality. 

You aren't in the mood for the colourful packets of chips lined up on the shelves. You aren't in the mood for candy bars with their screaming taglines and pastel logos. 

You're in the mood for peanuts. Salted, or coated in caramel. You never combine the two. To do so would be unwise. Your stomach growls just looking at the long, thin packets of salted peanuts. You grab one. Okay, you grab two. Three.

You bring your four packets of peanuts to the counter.

You exchange your money for the goods, and turn around to leave, when it hits you. Nothing is preventing you from opening one of the packets right now, and eating some right here. No one would stop you. The clerk notices your heistation.

"Don't worry, you can eat in here."

You don't waste a second. You rip open the top of the packet, and open your mouth wide as you tilt it. The legumes fall out, and you barely chew them before swallowing. Oh god, these are some good  peanuts.

The packet is empty, and so are you. You stare off into space. The clerk smiles at you. You drop to your knees and hands, and vomit black sludge on the clean tiles of the gas station shop. You look up, teary eyed, at the clerk who is smiling inhumanly wide right now.

"Close your eyes. Dream."

Everything goes black as your head hits the tiles with a loud thud.


You open your eyes to a blindingly white void. You hold your hands out in front of your face, and see that they are covered and dripping with a thin, watery black liquid. Once your eyes are adjusted to the sheer brightness of the white void, you notice a small speck in the distance. Without thinking, you walk towards it.

You walk close enough to better make out just what the figure in the distance is. It appears to be a purple-robed humanoid. You shout out towards them.

"Hey! You!"

You get no answer, but the robed figure starts shuffling in your direction. You start walking again, hoping to get some answers as to where you are and WHY you are here.

You meet up with the figure. Two glowing white eyes leer out through the complete darkness that is their face. You shudder as they seem to pierce right through you, into your soul and possibly your pancreas.

"Who are you? What is this pla-"

The figure holds up its arm, stopping you midsentence. A deep, rumbling voice emits from under the cowl.

"Come."

The being turns around, and motions for you to follow.

You hesitatingly follow, into the vast nothingness. You and the entity walk for hours, and eventually you forget how you got here. You realize that you don't even own a car. Why would you be at that gas station? You can't remember. You can't even remember what you were doing BEFORE you ended up buying those snacks.

You notice the bright nothingness slowly gets darker and darker, the longer you walk. By this point, the void is almost entirely gray.

Eventually, the entity stops. It holds up one of its arms, and motions for you to kneel. You do so.
It motions for you to take off your shirt. You do so. It presses its hands against your bare shoulders, and you scream out in agony as a blistering pain radiates through your body.

When the entity removes its hands, you notice strange sigils have been burned into your flesh, marking you forever.

"Stand up."

You stand up, still wobbling from the pain. The being reaches into its robe, and pulls out a small vial of the most pure blue liquid you have ever seen. It dips a small, thin paintbrush into the vial, and starts drawing various markings on your torso. You nervously stare forwards, trying your best not to move too much or disturb the being currently painting your skin.

When you eventually look down, the being has disappeared. You are alone in the void once again, this time minus shirt and plus forbidden glyphs. You once again spot something in the distance. This time, you don't waste a second running towards it, hoping it might be an exit out of this place.

You get close enough to recognize the shape as that of a door. You don't even care if it leads you to a place even worse or if it leads you to your home, where you can just jump in bed and sleep until you forget all the events of today.

You open the door. Behind it stands Peanut. You close the door, and weep. When you open your eyes, Peanut is with you. You weep harder. Peanut weeps with you, not making a sound.

You look at Peanut, your eyes foggy from the river of black liquid flowing out of them. Peanut's shell is cracked by the ravages of time, and purple ichor seeps out from it's wounds.

Peanut reaches it's cane out towards you. You bawl like you have never bawled before. It touches your forehead, and you let out a gurgling scream as you feel your lungs fill with thick purple ichor. It seeps out from your wide-open mouth, flowing down your chin and forming a large puddle on the ground. Your mind is filled with images of the darkest reaches of this universe. Your vision zooms out, revealing the universe to be shaped like a peanut. You smash your fist into the floor until it starts bleeding.

You close your eyes in fear of what Peanut will do next. You clench them shut for what seems like hours as your mind continues showing you visions of every dark corner of the hideous nightmare you call reality.

When you open them, you are alone again. You are lying on the floor of a gas station bathroom, in a puddle of your own vomit. Your head hurts.

You get up and shuffle towards the shop. It's dark now, yet the door is unlocked. The clerk is nowhere to be seen.

It's only at home, when you finally take a shower, that you see the glyphs on your shoulders.

Spongebob JUMPED THE SHARK after the first movie happened, and here's why

We all love Spongebob Squarepants, the wackiest cartoon out there. It's been with us since July 17, 1999. However, after the first movie got released, the show took a massive dive in quality and we, the fans, started abandoning The Sponge. Here is a list of a few reasons why everyone knows that this lovely cartoon started jumping the shark.

• Spongebob legally changed his name to "Marijuanabob Weedpants" (Seriously, Nickelodeon? KIDS SHOW!)
• Spongebob stopped wearing pants and dragged his malformed dick around the screen at all times
• Patrick got laid
• Mr. Krabs joined the church of scientology
• Spongebob's grandparents died, resulting in the events that would end up causing The Splinter to air
• Plankton stole the secret formula, and used it to rewrite history in a way that did not result in the birth of Eugene Krabs, therefore destroying all competition
• Season 6, episode 5 where there was an unneeded censor bar over Squidward's nose at all times 
• Sandy learned the secrets of the cosmos and ascended to a higher plane of existence
• Plankton joined the army and died for his country
• That episode where squidward grew a toenail for the sole purpose of it being painfully removed through Spongebob's antics
• Theme song got changed to Sail by AWOLNATION, reversed
• Patrick received whispers from the darkness during one of his DMT experiences and proceeded to change his behavior to that of a huge jerk
• The entire cast of Fairly Oddparents came to bikini bottom for a vacation, set everything on fire, and left
• Squidward became anatomically correct
• Spongebob grew eyeballs on his two regular arms 
• Patrick deep-fried his face and served himself to hungry customers, chanting "Eat The Starfish" until the customers joined in
• An average human male named Jim started living in Sandy's treedome after her ascension
• Spongebob insisted that everyone called him The Sponge instead of his actual name
• Squidward took up pro wrestling 
• Bubble Bass died
• Squilliam Fancyson sold his own genitals for seven dollars and five cents
• The second movie's ending song got changed (They wanted to do Ocean Man again at first, but settled on Waving My Dick In The Wind instead.)
• Spongebob grew ten extra arms on his ass after losing both his legs in an industrial accident
• Spongebob lost his face's eyeballs, opting instead to see through his hands 
• After a failed ritual to bring Sandy back, Jim, Sandy, Squidward and Mr. Krabs got fused into The Meat
• Squidward joined the freemasons
• Spongebob stopped hanging out with The Meat around season 9... seriously, what a jerk! This is not the loveable sponge we used to know!
• Secret morse code hidden in all of the dialogue about mr krabs' disappearance, spelling out "SAVE THE CRAB"

Clown Café

"Table for One."


You walk into the fine dining establishment known as Clown Café. A bored teenager who undoubtedly gets paid too little to care guides you to your table. It's right across the open kitchen, where you can see the oddly-dressed chefs running around, preparing various dubious ingredients for their unspeakable dishes.

You sit down on a whoopee cushion, and realize that it is going to be a long evening.

A man in bright orange pants and a polka dot bow-tie walks up to you, and introduces himself as Jeremy, your waiter for today. He's wearing a fake smile and his eyes reveal a hint of sadness.

He hands you a menu booklet. You flick through it, noting various horrid dish names like "Liar Liar Pants In The Fryer" and "Honk Bites". You sigh loudly, and want to ask for some advice on the menu when you note that Jeremy has wandered off already,

You look around you for the time being. At the table next to you, a nervous, rotund young man is enjoying a plate of fries, while fiddling with his keychain. You've seen him before.

Where?

You don't have time to ponder. Jeremy returns to your table, and asks you what you'd like to drink. You order a jar of clown juice. You do not know what clown juice is. It was the only thing on the drinks menu.

Jeremy gives you a wink. You nervously wink back. You stare off into the open kitchen as Jeremy runs off to fix you your beverage. Fitting with this part of town, you see various clowns in various clownosity tiers running around, chopping vegetables. You also see beings shuffling around, clad in yellow robes and wearing metal masks. They silently scan the crowd, and check on the various pots and pans. You can hear their laboured breathing.

This is not a surprise. Wherever clowns are, the horrid Mimepriests are sure to follow.

 Jeremy returns to your table. He's carrying a large, ornately decorated urn. When he puts it on the table, you peer over its edge and see a bright green swill softly bubbling inside it.

You nervously pour some into your glass. The liquid seems to react with the thin layer of water at the bottom of your glass that wasn't quite as clean as you'd have hoped. A soft hissing sound is heard as smoke rises up from your glass, until it suddenly stops after around six seconds.

Jeremy looks at you expectantly.

You raise the glass to your lips, and take a sip. Immediately, every mimepriest in the kitchen turns their head to stare at you through those dark holes in their metal masks.

It tastes like bitter strawberries, and you have considerable trouble choking the gunk down. Once you've finished your glass, you notice a faint honking sound in the back of your mind. Was it always there?

You shudder. You grab the menu again, and feel a little more relaxed now that you know that the clown juice wasn't pure poison. At least, you think that's what's making you feel more relaxed.

You order today's "Surprise" menu. You tell Jeremy you are allergic to peanuts. He says he knows. He winks at you. You don't wink back this time.

Jeremy shouts something to the kitchen staff. Immediately, they start howling and screaming, running around clanging pans together and generally making a fucking mess. A blue-level clown puts his cutting board on a wall and starts chopping up his own fingers. A red-level slips on some steak drip and smashes his head in against a stove, and is quickly whisked away by a mimepriest.

Eventually, a permaclown manager comes into the kitchen, shoes squeaking on the almost sterile floor. He lets out a loud, pained wail that seems to reverberate in your skull, and the clowns change their behaviour. They start to actually cook stuff instead of vomiting black sludge into the sink.

A loud honk is heard, and Jeremy quickly walks up to your table, carrying a bowl of... nothing.

"Bon appetit."

You look at the bowl, and then look back at Jeremy. You notice that Jeremy is crying.

"Excuse me, Jeremy... what is this?"

"Mime soup."

"There's nothing in the bowl."

"Yes. Eat."

You nervously bring your spoon down into the bowl, and scoop up a nice spoonful of nothing. You bring it to your lips, and carefully sip up the mimesoup. You open your eyes after some time, and note that Jeremy has left.

You waste no time in grabbing the bowl and emptying it in a nearby potted plant.

After a couple of minutes of watching the clowns at work, Jeremy returns, this time carrying a plate with a large ribeye steak on it.

After some scepticism, you slice off a chunk and pop it in your mouth. It's... It's...

It's alright, you guess. I mean, it's hard to fuck up a good cut of meat like this. Maybe a little underseasoned. Perfectly acceptable, though. You are already confused as to what kind of review you should give this restaurant on yelp.

The young man at the table next to you has stood up, and walks over to your table. He leans down, and hisses the phrase "Remember the Rancid Aeon" in your ear.

Everything goes black, and the last thing you feel is your mashed potatoes, which you have just smashed your forehead into.

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is overwhelming pain in your chest. Your eyes are open, yet you see everything through a blood-red fog. You look down at your chest. A large chef's knife is embedded in it.

You look at your left hand. A peculiar mark that you don't remember ever getting is burned into the flesh of your palm. It is a stylized mask with a large crack through the left eye.

You look at your right hand. You are clutching a large CZ805 BREN, with an empty magazine.

You finally look infront of you, and note that everything has gone silent, except for the shell casing loudly bouncing on the tiles below you.

You are standing in a blood-smeared kitchen, surrounded by corpses. You are wearing a smooth, white mask. Behind your eyeholes, nothing resembling human eyes would ever be found by anyone, ever again.

Reasons Happy Days Stopped Being Good After the Fourth Season

Everyone loves the wacky antics of Arthur Herbert "Fonzie" Fonzarelli. However, most people agree that Happy Days, after the infamous fourth season, REALLY stopped being fun to watch. Here's a couple of reasons.

1. Fonzie screwed up the shark jump and got eaten
2. Chuck Cunningham came back but no one acknowledged his existence and he didn't do anything other than sit on the stairs and spin his basketball
3. Richie Cunningham won a million dollars in the lottery and bought a gun
4. Arnold's Diner got bought out by Alfred "Al" Delvecchio
5. Arnold's Diner got rated "not so good" by the entire band Weezer
6. The entire Full House cast came to live with the Cunninghams
7. Richie's Mom died in an industrial accident
8. Secret whispers from beyond the stars in the theme song
9. The jukebox at Arnold's Diner got repaired by an actual mechanic instead of by a shoulder bash, and subsequently could only play numbers stations
10. Potsie vomited up black sludge at the end of every episode
11. Fonzie came back, but changed his catchphrase to "Yoooo!"
12. Potsie and Ralph were offscreen beating up a homeless man for the entirety of season 7
13. Drip-Fed Fred became mayor of the town
14. The Cunninghams became homeless vagrants
15. Richie's friends got sex lives
16. Season 9 was just Fonzie staring into the camera, eating a bag of peanuts and loudly quoting scripture
17. Archie came to town and was subsequently strangled by Ralph
18. Every episode in season 8 was called "Fonzie's Funeral"
19. Richie and Ralph left to join the military and were replaced by Fonzie's annoying cousin
20. Fonzie's annoying cousin's name means "penis" in several languages