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Pringlexmonopy By foxstrats It was a particularly chilly evening in the dead of December; A nippy winter gale sweeps through the valleys, rustling and quaking the moonlit flora in its path. A full, white moon lies situated in the midst of an oily black, its gaze surveying the land like a father watching over his kin. The world is trapped in a kind of poetic silence-- one which touches not the ear, but all other senses in an almost-overwhelming, romantic kind of way. It is the signature of a fateful eve, one which will nestle itself into the minds of its witnesses for days, weeks, months, years, decades and centuries to come. It’s the kind of night which forges a special covenant with itself-- an agreement to never not be a stranger, to never repeat itself. “Oh, gently caress me.” Milburn Pennybags fumbles for his keys in his coat-pocket, but they aren’t there. He checks his other coat-pocket, his slacks and even a small compartment under his hat, yet they’re nowhere to be found-- they’ve simply disappeared. He checks for the spare key beneath the mat, but it’s not there. That’s the key he’s just lost He steps back from the large maple conduit into his home, as it’s now more an ornament than anything else. He looks to his left, then to his right, then begins walking to the east side of his house where a small window sits, usually locked-yet-smashable around this time of year. Milburn gauges the thickness of the glass with a small tap on the brittle glass with his index finger. “Why me?” Mr. Pennybags muses. Looking around himself, Milburn spots a large rock just by the foot of a tree not even twenty feet due east. He sheaths his hand with a dingy white glove, picks up the stone, then returns to the window. Nary a moment passes before a cacophony of broken glass and fleeting manhood shatters the peace of an otherwise peaceful and sleepy winter night. Taking care to remove residual glass shards from the frame beforehand, Milburn pulls himself up onto and then through the frame. He falls onto a freshly-scuffed oak floor in the kitchen of his home. As he gets up, he brushes the dust and glass from his person. Milburn looks back at his handiwork, not necessarily displeased, but still a little put-off by his own brutish behavior. “Take me to jail”, he mutters to himself. Without much hesitation, Milburn turns on the kitchen lights; “I’ve already proven myself to be a brute; no sense in being a caveman, however.” Milburn chuckles to himself as a yellow glow fills the room, chasing the dark out. Milburn advances through the west doorway into the main foyer, the place he should have been several minutes ago. A kind of sourness fills his mouth as the thought of tonight’s complications and their coupled agitations run through his mind. He sets his winter coat and hat upon the rack just beside the front doors and heads up the stairs, stomping his way like an embittered adolescent. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, a slight breeze hits the back of his neck, sending a chill down his spine. He cringes in discomfort, then looks behind him. The front door is slightly ajar. “What are these games?” Milburn mumbles to himself in his displeasure. The door’s deadbolt was inactive, apparently. The door’s knob-lock could have been jimmied Milburn supposes, but by who? Milburn has neither the patience nor interest to muse on such a thing. Milburn figures that even coincidence has a keen sleight of hand, and excuses the event as some weird culmination of several small, almost asymptotically-insignificant factors. It’s nothing, probably. Milburn heads back up the stairs, retreating to his quarters to rest. He’s had a long day of fixing property rates and mortgages while bankrupting the competitors, and he figures he’s not only in need, but is owed a restful sleep. After Milburn removes his loafers, socks, slacks, under-slacks, button-up shirt, under-alls and back-up under-slacks, he sits in bed and falls into a reverie concocted of exaggerations of today’s events. He not only bought up an avenue, but evicted all of those terrible miscreants who had infested it. “Middle-class? More like Middle-last”, Milburn jokes to himself. After a light, vaguely-exhausted chuckle, Milburn rotates into a sleeping position and sets his head upon an unpleasantly turgid pillow stuffed with the hair of other tycoons whose capital empires he’s summited. As his eyes begin to close, he hears a stir just outside his door and down the hall. “By Boardwalk’s name, what is this?” Milburn reaches into a set of drawers which lie adjacent to his bed and pulls out a torch; he flicks it on and gets out of bed. Milburn walks up to and carefully pushes his bedroom door open, being careful not to reveal his being privy to the intruder’s presence; he sees nothing. Milburn emerges from his bedroom, shining his torch down the hall and onto the doors which lie at its end. None of them are open and nothing seems to be out of place, but Milburn is far from convinced that he’s alone in his home. Milburn retreats to his bedroom to retrieve a nine-iron from the closet, then returns to the hall where nothing seems to have changed. Milburn begins approaching the opposite end of the hall. As he nears the doors, he can hear a faint crunching, almost like the crunch of bones under a corporate foot; a kind of warmth fills his heart at that thought. As he gets closer and closer, the crunching grows louder and louder. Milburn presses his ear to each of the doors as the crunching seems to be coming from behind one of them. He gets close to one door, nothing seems to be unfolding in the room behind this door. He presses his ear to another, nothing seems to be happening behind this door, either. He idly looks upon the third door, knowing full well what he’ll discover if he tests this door-- he decides to skip a step. Bursting through the door into the connecting room, Milburn is surprised to find nothing out of place. Even the soundscape has been purged of the crunchi-- *CRUNCH* “Wh--” *SLAM* Milburn spins around to discover that the door has shut behind him *TH-LUNK* Milburn steps back a few steps before stumbling over a piece of furniture and falling to the ground, landing on his rear-end. A disembodied, faded voice speaks to Milburn: “Pennybags, Pennybags, what have we here?” “An old, decrepit goblin held stiff with fear?” “Pennybags, Pennybags, what have we there?” “A sweaty, stiff pillow, filled with human hair?” A chill runs down Milburn’s spine. He knows this voice too well, even if it’s projected through a spectral filter. “Pennybags, Pennybags, what had we then?” “A loving brother who’s been drowned in the fen?” “Pennybags, Pennybags, what have we now?” “Actually, I can’t finish this poem, could you show me how?” The room begins to shake violently, rocking Milburn from his seated-position into a doubled-up position on the floor. “Pennybags, Pennybags, what’s wrong with thee?” “I’ve given you options! Several! Can’t you see?” The frequency at which the room shakes slows, but each quake is more violent than the last. With each rock of the room, Milburn is thrown further into the air each time. He worries that his death is near. “PENNYBAGS, PENNYBAGS, YOU’VE BUT ONE RECOURSE--” “SO LISTEN CLOSE, AS MY VOICE WILL GO HORSE--” “BUT I WILL EXACT MY REVENGE, IF NOT BY VOLITION, THEN BY FORCE” The shaking stops, the door is unlatched. *TH-LUNK* The door opens to reveal a familiar face  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Milburn?” “Y-- You’re dead! Just like your stocks and net income!” “I’m only as dead as I wish to be, Milburn. I have ascended.” Mr. Pringles approaches Milburn with a kind of motivation and chilly fervor only the betrayed could know. “How did I die, Milburn? Could you refresh my memory? It’s been so, so long since I left the realm of the living. How did it happen?” “I-- You-- Ho-...” “Stop, Milburn. I know exactly how it happened. And believe me: it’s okay. I understand! I really do! I know why you did what you did and why you still do it, even after I was lowered into the same shallow soil you planted a tulip-patch in last spring.” Mr. Pringles pauses, then continues: “Was that unsettling to you, by the way? Seeing my warped, rotting corpse under a rich brown blanket of worm-infested soil? Or did it stir your appetite for competition? Am I trophy to you, Milburn? Why didn’t you hang my head up above the hearth with the rest of your trophies? Was I not worth the wallspace, Milburn?” Mr. Pringles accosts Milburn, wrestling him and pinning his limbs to the ground so he can’t resist Mr. Pringles’ will. Mr. Pringles turns Milburn over in one fel action and wrestles both his undergarments and under-undergarments from his body. Milburn can feel the cold, dead hands of his long-lost camarade, friend and brother wrap around his waist with an iron grip. Mr. Pringles’ wispy mustache brushes against Milburn’s ear as he draws closer to whisper, “Would you like my death to be a metaphor, or shall this?” Chip-man stuffs his not-so-empty can into Milburn’s yielding rear end in a top hat. It throbs and quakes in between his greasy cheeks as it slides in and out. Mr. Pringles slides an empty chip-can to Milburn and says, “bite this, honey.” Milburn complies. Mr. Pringles continues to reap his retribution for the next several hours, climaxing several times, even changing flavor on occasion to suit Milburn’s taste. “Would you like Pizza or Sour-cream and onion flavor?” Mr. Pringles would ask. Milburn wouldn’t answer, he knew Mr. Pringles knew. Mr. Pringles always knew. 
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Dec 6, 2016 00:15
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 01:58 |
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you should have done the family matters thing that might be funny
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Dec 6, 2016 00:34
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once you pop you can't stop
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Dec 6, 2016 00:35
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i read every word of that
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Dec 6, 2016 00:45
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monopoly man hosed a chip monster lol
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Dec 6, 2016 01:32
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I wrote a Sesame Street fanfic when I was like 11. One of the muppets was a serial killer or something. This was before the internet, thank god.
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Dec 6, 2016 01:35
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Sweet sassy molassy
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Dec 6, 2016 01:35
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Nefarious 2.0 posted:i read every word of that im just kidding you guys I didn't read a fuckin word lol
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Dec 6, 2016 06:45
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... ... 
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Dec 6, 2016 06:55
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I approve. Now let's get law and order svu and dragonball z together. Alternatively... actual excerpt posted:pewdiepie was going over to tobuscus's house today to play some games with him...3mins later pewdss arrived at tobys house and knoked on the oor " uh just a sec!" peewds heard toby move stuff around and say something he didn' understand " uh to-" toby opend the door and was too close to his face he was sweating " uh hi soory it's been-kinda buisy so uh come in" pewdie walked in and loked around 'hmm it loks clean why didn't he want me to come in? ' pewdie frowned ' maybe he dosen't like m' toby noteced ' 'why does he thnk i don't like him? '' " uh pewdie what do you want to play ?" pewds nnotecd ttobys frown and felt a bit ba ' so he dosen't like me .' " you know what ever you want ehee" toby looked at him again ' he thinks i don't like him..' he read it oh no not now ...we just got to play some games then he'll leave ...then i won't change' " ok i got a new game called simss" toby said nervousley.. why is he acting s weird? thought pewds and walked over onto the couch toby went over and set up the game..pewdie noticed he was a bit twitchy toby walked over and game him a controler .. " ok let's play some sims.." " ya sure " pewds smiled making toby blush and try to hold back a twich..
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Dec 6, 2016 06:59
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hth posted:... 
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Dec 6, 2016 07:30
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I did as I asked, and that's enough for me.
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Dec 6, 2016 07:52
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seriously this thread just makes me want to do a speedball and put a gun in my mouth...well done op
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Dec 6, 2016 08:06
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 01:58 |
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i got banned from gbs for posting slash fic about riker and wesley loving and one of the lines was "'Surprise!' Riker said as he boned young Wesley up the rear end" just thought i would share
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Dec 6, 2016 08:19
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