Phantom Limbs, Happy Meals, & Back Shots. Oh My!
Lube Me Up with Fry Grease part 7!
Whew Chile, what a week! Gig of the Damned: Slay the Competition is a week old already & boy are her boots barking. I’ll get to updates on that soon, but we are here to talk about some nasty, greasy, musty McSmut. I allowed myself the weekend off to celebrate but it’s time to put a big ol’ mushroom stamp on these sesame seed buns as we draw nearer to the steamy, moist finale.
So where did we leave off? Oh yeah…the adult baby known as Carl Jr. The first in the line of McSmut episodes that I felt physically dirty after writing. Who knew I had boundaries? Won’t my therapist-and the one you will inevitably need by the time you get to this series finale-be proud. So yeah, the thickery dickery docking crew is all trapped in the colonel’s torture chamber. The colonel is asleep by 8pm, and the sour stench of day old diaper is on the wind as the “cleaner” draws near.
The colonel crinkled his nose as the scent of week-gone-bad-meatloaf-sandwich on crusty-febrezed-Monday-panties-and-it’s-now-Thursday-bread in a hot-car-full-of-White-Castle-farts hit his nostrils. “Whew, I say, whew doggie! Somebody open a window in here before the stank warps my fine mahogany molding.”
He trained his flintlock pistol toward the clown and the “reformed” burglar as they fastened each other’s shackles on the colonel’s orders. They struggled but the white-haired southern stereotype didn’t budge, just motioned with his Smithsonian-Museum-relic’d weapon to keep it moving. The two struggled to clamp Ronald’s wrist cuff shut as their [fry] tips brushed each other, sending a shock of carnal static between them.
The colonel rolled his aged eyes and stepped forward to lock them in place.
“Save it, I say, save it for the honeymoon on Fire Island, Bert & Ernie,” he snickered pointing the gun at Wendy cowering in the corner. “Try anything stupid and this Filet-o-fish becomes just a set of sticky buns. Got me?”
The shackled trio huddled together in several states of undress while the geriatric-poultry-peddler exited stage left. His Jitterbug loudly played the theme to the Family Feud, indicating he had an obnoxiously large-texted Whatsapp message.
GuGuGaGaBbyBoy: ETA 20 minutes. How many targets?
FngrLcknGud69: 2 Yankee Doodle dandies, leave the redhead be. The natural redhead. The one with the boobs. Do you know how to work a OnlyFans?
GuGuGaGaBbyBoy: I can take a look when the job is done. Keep these lines clear til I arrive.
FngrLcknGud69: LMBO.
GuGuGaGaBbyBoy: Plz don’t send me tiny pixelated memes that are older than me.
######
The Dodge Grand Caravan shot gravel across the driveway as it came to a screeching halt. Pastel Baby keys and a rattle dangled and swayed from the rearview mirror, catching the young juggernaut’s gaze. His eyes momentarily glazed over as a line of drool dribbled down his cherubic chin. He began to fondle himself through his pants as his eyes filled with child-like wonder 7 lust. Then his phone pinged, knocking him out of his infantile stupor.
FngrLcknGud69: What’s good for the goose is good for the gander!
Carl Jr. groaned, adjusting his adult diaper and retrieved his weapons cache bags from the back hatch. After donning his Tyvek white suit, he swung both duffles over his wide ivory shoulders and slammed the hatch shut. The [M4M4SBOY] license plate reverberating as he approached the plantation. Colonel Sanders opened the grand entrance, adjusting his western tie on his way out.
“Second door, I say, second door at the top of the stairs. Take a right when you smell belly button fondue and the underside of an onion in a hobo’s ass.” They both winced. “Anyhoo, I got a Rooti-Tooti-Fresh-&-Fruity Breakfast with my name on it. Then I’m going to go stand around at the post office for no reason at all and then go feed some ducks. Toodleoo!” The jaunty geezer high-stepped his way to his Lincoln Town Car, leaving Carl Jr. to his own devices.
Carl Jr. wedged his already wide form with full duffel bags up the stairs. True to form, a whiff of underboob cheese, bus-driver-seat, and earring-backs slapped the young man across his defined jaw. He squared his hips to the door and kicked it square in. He blinked through the eruption of dust and splintered wood, confused by the appearance of towels and other assorted linens.
The disembodied phantom voice of Henrietta came-and-went in his ear “Carl! Ya Idjit! He said the second door!”
Startled by the abrupt declaration from his unbeknownst-to-him-dead-mother, he stared off into space.
“Mama? Go on back home, I got a job to do!” he said, knitting his brows together.
“You stupid ox! I can’t move on until you kill that damned clown and avenge your dead daddy!” she forcefully whispered with venom.
The lummox sauntered to the next door, appearing to talk to himself in the colonel’s cameras.
“Where you moving to ma? Can I come too?”
“You can’t go where I’m going my sweet little jackass. I’m going to the upper room! Goin to be with your Pa finally. Once you kill that damned clown.”
Confused, but happy to hear his dear ol’ ma was moving soon, he kicked the second door in. Huddled gasps and chains rattled within the darkened room as the door crumpled to the ground. Carl Jr. attempted to walk through the threshold, but was stopped by the width of him and his rucksacks full of killing machines.
“I warned you about that thick ass of yours! Turn sideways and GIT IN THERE!” He listened to his sweet ol ma, still perplexed by his lateral width. In a tantrum-like display, he dropped his weapons before huffily asking, “wait are you dead mama?” The specter slapped her transparent forehead, and focuses her phantom energy into a final push, sending his overgrown haunches through the entryway.
He was thrust forward, still contemplating if they even had an upper room when he stood face to face with the Ronald. Shock, hesitation, and eventual slow contemplation registered on his face.
*brain siren*
“GO KILL THAT FUCKING CLOWN YOU BOOTY DIGGIN’ IDIOT OR YOU GET NO MONEY!”
*brain siren*
“NO MONEY”
*brain siren*
“KILL CLOWN”
*brain siren*
By then 30 seconds had passed, and the three captors were mouthing words to each other when Henrietta finally was able to get through to her thick-headed cretin of a son.
“THE CLOWN WHAT KILLED YUR PA”
A moment of clarity washed over the bumbling baby boy as the Hamburglar came around from behind him and slung his chain shackles around his thick neck, pulling back with all his weight.
“MY BOY!” Henrietta shrieked in her weakened, fading state.
“ROBBLE ROBBLE!” [My sweet vengeance!]
“MY CONSCIOUSNESS!” wheezed out of Carl Jr. as he slowly crumpled to the ground, his face a sickening shade of baby blue.
Passive-aggressively Yours,
Phrique