Archive for August, 2006

Sesame Street: The End

Posted in Random Shit with tags , , , , , , , , on August 28, 2006 by Dan Cheek

Sesame Street: The End
By Dan CheeK
28 August 2006
© Dan Cheek 2006

Burt and Ernie are in their house, playing some mindless game with their toys.  They are interrupted by a knock at the door.  Burt gets up to go answer the door.

“One second,” Burt says as he does his little puppet walk towards the door.  “Gee, I wonder who it could be,” he thinks out loud.

Burt reaches the door and just as he places his silly puppet hand on the door-knob…THE DOOR EXPLODES INTO A BAGILLION SPLINTERS!

“GHAA,” Burt screams in horror.  “What’s going on here,” he again wonders out loud.

He quickly finds his answer.  Standing in the gaping hole that used to be a door way is a very angry, very psychotic Cookie Monster.  His crazy button eyes are filled with rage and he stands there, his body shaking from the psychosis.  His words come in a sharp, animalistic growl.

“Me…want…cookies.  Now.”  Ernie comes plodding over, curious to see what all the noise is about.  Burt is cowering behind a coat-rack.

“Well hey there, Cookie,” Ernie says in his cheery voice.  “Have you come to play ‘Duck Duck Goose’ with me and Burt?”

One of the Cookie Monster’s black jiggle eyeballs focuses on Ernie, the other one just wanders aimlessly about in the big white orb.  A thin line of drool trickles out of the once-passive blue monster’s oversized mouth.

“No,” Cookie Monster says in a low, insane voice.  “Me come for cookies.  Give me cookies now.”

“Well, gee,” Ernie says in his goofy voice, “I’d sure like to share my cookies with you, but, um, you forgot to say the magic word.  Now, what’s that magic word I’m looking for, good buddy?”

The monster’s eyes narrow with rage.  With blinding speed, Cookie Monster lashes out and tears off Ernie’s right arm.  He then throws it across
the room.  “Give me cookies.  Now.”

Behind the coat rack, Burt feints from terror.  Ernie, meanwhile looks down at the fabric stump that used to be one of his limbs.  “Cookie, I think you should apologize.  Ripping my arm off like that wasn’t very nice, now was it?”

A blood vessel inside the Cookie Monster’s brain pops from the raw anger.  A god awful roar rips past his vocal chords and erupts out of his mouth.  He grabs Ernie with both his massive blue hands and starts beating Ernie off of a wall.  “Give me cookies!  Give me cookies!  Me want cookies!”

For several minutes, the insane blue monster bashes Ernie off of walls, floors, furniture, and anything else he can think of.  By the time it’s all over, all that’s left of Mr. Ernie is a small, tattered pile of string and fabric.

The monster then plods off, leaving Ernie’s corpse and an unconscious Burt behind.  The monster will find cookies elsewhere, or he will kill everyone and everything that stands in his way.  Today, Cookie Monster is not in a very friendly mood.

Elmo dances around his living room, looking quite like a lower-level mongloid.  He hums some annoying song in his outlandishly high-pitched voice.  His idiot dance is interrupted by a knock at his door.

“Who’s at Elmo’s door,” the silly red…thing calls out in his cheery voice.  No answer.

Knock!  Knock!  “Again me say who’s at Elmo’s door,” Elmo says.From behind the door, a rough, angry voice answers, “Me want cookies.  Give me cookies!”

“Haha,” the little red idiot giggles, “It Cookie Monster.  Yay!”  Elmo skips over to the door and opens it.  Cookie Monster is indeed standing there in the doorway.

“Hi, Cookie Monster,” Elmo exclaims excitedly.  It seems everything makes Elmo giddy, whether it be unwrapping a new roll of toilet paper or finding a hundred dollar bill on the street.  It’s all the same to him.

Cookie Monster is in a less-happy mood, however.  “Feed me cookies or die,” the hungry, insane monster growls to Elmo.

“Oh, Cookie Monster wants to play game with Elmo,” the silly red moron says excitedly.  “What the name of your game is, Cookie Monster?”

“Cookies or your life,” Cookie Monster blurts out in an angry, impatient roar.

“Oh,” Elmo says in a slightly disappointed voice, “Elmo not know that game.  How do you play it?”

Cookie Monster is more that happy to demonstrate the basics of the “game”.  He reaches down and picks Elmo up by his neck and throws him across the room.  Elmo crashes into a book shelf and hits the floor with a thud, right before all of the shelves’ contents fall on top of Elmo.

“Cookies,” the monster roars in a thundering tone.  He plods in the direction he threw Elmo, closing in on him.  A couch stands between him and the red freak, so Cookie Monster throws the couch out of the way.  He makes his way towards Elmo, who is struggling to his feet.

“Haha,” Elmo weakly laughs, “You’re so silly, Cookie Monster.  Me not expecting you to throw Elmo.”

At this point, the only word the Cookie Monster is looking to hear from Elmo is, “cookie”.  Not hearing Elmo say that, the monster falls back on his next instinct.  He tears Elmo’s head off and eats it.  Cookie Monster then tosses the now-headless body of Elmo to the side as if it were a candy bar wrapper.

The monster turns and leaves behind him a scene of total puppet-carnage.  The house is trashed and Elmo is in even worse shape, being that he has no head and all.  Cookie Monster wanders off, looking tirelessly for his cookies.

A terrified Burt comes bursting into Maria’s little store.  Maria and Big Bird are standing around chatting about nothing important.  Seeing Burt, both stop their conversation and focus their attention on him.  Burt is out of breath, having run all the way from his house.

“Burt,” Maria says, “You look horrible!  What’s wrong?”

“Cookie Monster has gone insane,” Burt blurts out.  “He busted into my house demanding cookies, killed Ernie, and then took off.  I barely escaped with my life.”

“What,” Big Bird asks in his helium voice.

“Pay attention, Big Bird,” Burt screams impatiently, “The Cookie Monster is on the warpath and he’s killed Ernie!”

“Oh,” Maria says with a chuckle, “I get it.  Big Bird, our friend Burt is playing the ‘Pretend’ game with us.”

“Oh, goody,” Big Bird says excitedly, “I love ‘Pretend’.  Ok, Burt, we’re with you now.”

Burt stutters as his gaze shifts between Big Bird and Maria in disbelief.  “Have you both had lobotomies or something,” he demands.  “I’m not pretending.  Cookie Monster killed Ernie!”

Maria winks at Big Bird, “Sure, sure,” she says in a non-believing tone, “But, I’m sorry Burt.  I can’t play ‘Pretend’ today.  I’ve got to watch the store.”

“I can play,” Big Bird says excitedly, “What do you want me to do, Burt?”

“Find a shotgun or something and lots of ammunition.  We need to go slay that deranged monster before he strikes again,” Burt says.

“Will a water gun work,” Big Bird asks.

“No,” Burt says in an angry voice, “A water gun will most certainly not work.  We need hollow tip bullets, shotgun slugs, maybe some grenades.  We need a fucking cannon,” Burt screams.

Maria and Big Bird take a collective gasp.  “Did you just say, the baddest of bad words,” Maria asks slowly, not believing she heard Burt correctly.

“I think he did, Maria,” Big Bird confirms in a stunned voice, “I heard him plain as day.  Burt said a naughty word!”

“I don’t have time for this,” Burt stammers.  He turns to walk out, but Big Bird steps in his way.  Burt stands a little over three feet tall.  Big Bird is just under seven feet tall.  Clearly, Burt isn’t going anywhere.

“Just a moment,” Maria says.  “You said a bad word.  That’s not a good thing, Burt.  Not good at all.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Burt demands.  Big Bird tackles Burt and forces him to the ground.  “When you say a naughty word, you have to get your mouth washed out with soap,” he says as he pins Burt to the store floor.

Maria steps forward with two bars of Dial Soap in her hands.  “That’s right Big Bird.  And Burt said that naughty word twice.  So we need two
bars of soap to purify his foul potty-mouth.  Open wide, Burt.”

There is a muffle scream of horror as Burt has a bar of soap lodged down his throat.  “Give him another one,” Big Bird screams as Maria slams the second bar of soap into his mouth.  “I just love corrective punishment,” the big yellow bird says in a dreamy voice.

The disgusting creature that is Oscar the Grouch is resting inside his aluminum garbage can/home, watching the television that he somehow managed to cram in there.  Whatever show he was watching is interrupted by a “Special News Bulletin.”

“WHAT KIND OF CRAP IS THIS,” the grouch screams at the television.  “Special News Bulletin my anal orifice,” he blurts out in rage.Kermit the Frog, donned in his field reporter outfit, comes on the screen and begins his report.  “Hello,” the Frog says, “I’m Kermit the Frog and I’m standing outside the home of Elmo.  Police tells us that this is
the setting for a horribly unspeakable crime,” he continues.

“Suck my left one,” Oscar yells at the frog.  “The only ‘horribly unspeakable crime’ is having my brainless fill of television programming interrupted by stupid news…stuff.”

Kermit continues with his reporting.  “We are told that inside this house, the headless body of Elmo is the centerpiece of a totaly destroyed home.  We are told that furniture has been turned over, walls have holes punched in them, and everything covered in blood.”

“Shut up frog,” Oscar bellows.  “No one cares, and even if they did, I don’t care.  So get off my TV!”

Back on the television, Kermit walks up to the muppet police chief and points a microphone at him.  “Chief, can you tell us anything more about this awful crime?”

The pudgy looking cop scratched his head and thinks hard for a few seconds.  “Um…nope.  Can’t really tell you anything.”

“Is that because you can’t comment on the ongoing investigation,” Kermit asks.

“Well, I’d like to say that was the case,” the police chief says, “But mostly it has to do with myself and all the fine police officers who work for me being complete idiots.  We really have no clue what we’re doing.”

“Everyone already knew that,” Oscar screams at the TV, “Bring back my show!”

On the television, Kermit continues with his interview.  “Uh, Chief, we’re told by sources that the killer wrote ‘ME WANT COOKIES!!!!!!’ in blood all over the walls of Elmo’s apartment.  Does this provide any clues on who the killer might be?”

Again, the chief pauses in concentration before giving his well-though out response.  “Uh…no.  It tells us nothing at all.”

“That’s it,” Oscar the Grouch stammers, “I’m calling the cable company!”

Kermit’s interview continues as Oscar hunts for his phone.  “I’m sure this murder will have the local populace terrified.  Would you like to say anything that might reassure them?”

The police chief nods and clears his throat.  “Yes.  I would like to say this; it’s ok to be scared.  Actually, you should all be gripped with terror.  Somewhere out there, an insane killer is just wandering around, probably not doing anything except thinking about cookies and killing people.  We, the people who are tasked with protecting you, are incompetent and we can do nothing to stop him.  He could very well kill every last one of you.  Uh…that’s all I’d like to say about that.”

Oscar has found his phone and is now talking to the Cable Company people.  “Yes, my name is Oscar the Grouch and I’d like to file a complaint regarding your service,” he says in his grumpy voice, “I didn’t get cable so I could watch stupid news shows.  I got it for the silly cartoons and music videos.  I don’t like news at all.  So why do you still have news shows on your station?”

There’s a pause as Oscar listens to the Cable Company Rep talk.  “Of course you have no record of me in your customer database.  I have stolen cable.  How else would I have cable television in a garbage can?”

Another couple of seconds of silence while Oscar listens to the Cable person.  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T HELP ME IF I’M NOT A PAYING
CUSTOMER!?!?  What kind of stupid crap is that?  That’s so stupid.  I HATE YOU!  Have a bad day!”  With that, Oscar slams the phone down and hangs

The very, very insane Cookie Monster stomps down the street of some quiet town.  Nobody is really around.  His eyes jiggle around uncontrollably and his limbs tremble from cookie-withdrawal and sheer insanity.  He is fixed on achieving his goal of attaining cookies.  Nothing else matters to him.

Just then, Super Grover drops down from the sky and lands right in front of Cookie Monster.  The landing didn’t go very well for Grover, because he is incapable of doing anything right, so he has to slowly pick himself up off of the pavement.  Cookie Monster just watches the blue idiot dust himself off and straighten the silly little knight’s helmet
that “Super” Grover wears to make himself…super.

Grover clears his throat and strikes a super hero like pose.  “I know what you have done, Cookie,” he says in his warbly Grover voice, “I am here to stop you.  I suggest you cooperate.”

It takes a second for Grover’s words to register with Cookie Monster.  Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes fix and focus on the puny blue moron standing before him.  “Feed me cookies or die,” Cookie Monster finally says.

Super Grover’s mouth drops in disbelief.  “But…what….I mean…who…I am Super Grover!  You can not possibly harm me.  Now surrender and come peacefully.”

“COOKIES,” the homicidal monster booms.  Cookie Monster takes a menacing step towards Grover, daring him to react.

Grover, lacking intelligence, simply stands there.  “May I remind you that Super Grover possesses the strength of…”

The silly super-hero’s monologue is violently interrupted as Cookie Monster grabs him by the throat and slams him off of the street.  Cookie Monster takes a step back and waits to see what Super Grover will do now.  Slowly, Grover pulls himself up from the ground.  He is breathing hard and moans of pain and agony occasionally escape from his mouth.

His once gleaming knight’s helmet is now dented and scuffed. “I don’t think you understand,” Grover says in a raspy voice, “I am, ouch, I am Super Grover.  Ow.  No villain can possibly…”

Cookie Monster lets out an animalistic roar that echoes through the small neighborhood.  He reaches forward and, with one oversized fuzzy hand, picks Super Grover up by both legs and begins slinging him around like a rope.  Screams of piercing agony and terror are ripped from Grover as he is being spun through the air.

“DIE,” the cookie obsessed monster roars.  He sends Grover rocketing through the air with a powerful throw.  The flight is a short one, as Grover’s body slams into a nearby tree.  The sound of muppet hitting solid wood at one hundred plus miles is sickening.

Super Grover isn’t by any means the smartest muppet or the strongest.  He really doesn’t have any super powers and basically he’s just pathetic.  However, he does have one admirable trait.  He is stubborn to the point of recklessness.  It takes him a few moments, but he somehow finds the strength to pull himself back to his feet.  His vision comes and goes and when it comes, it blurred and distorted.  Severe head trauma will do that.  His whole body trembles, threatening to collapse at any moment, and his head wanders about aimlessly.

When his voice comes, it is weak and slurred.  Suffering massive hemorrhaging in his skull, his thought process is a bit off, so some of what he says is gibberish.  Sadly, most of what he said before the head injury was gibberish anyway.  “Cookie Monster,” Grover says, “You can bounce me off concrete and toss me into trees but the rubber ducks I used to have all ate each other and but you see I am supreme and what but just then like I said oatmeal.  Just you try that again you big, um, cookie monster.  Yeah.”

The opponent with a sense of mercy or morals would have just walked away.  It’s an unspoken rule that once you’ve caused massive brain damage to someone, you’ve made your point.  Cookie Monster is violantly insane and lacks mercy or morals of any sort.  So when he walked over and started slamming Grover’s face into the ground, repeatedly, he really didn’t feel all that bad about it.

When the Cookie Monster finally tossed Grover to the side and continued walking down the street, it wasn’t because he was content with the damage he had already inflicted.  It was, rather, because the psycotic muppet monster’s attention span just lost steam and so Cookie Monster reverted back to the only constant thought that he has.  Cookies.

This time Grover didn’t get up.  He really didn’t even move, if you discount the uncontrollable twitches that occasionally passed though his body.  He lay there in the dirt, face down.  His cape was torn and his helmet looked something like an empty soda can after a car runs over it.  However, it takes more than debilitating brain swelling and massive
internal and external bleeding to shut Grover up.  “Come back here,” he says is a weak voice, “I was just about to flog you, villain.  I think my nose fell off.”

Cookie Monster is too far away to hear Grover’s words.  He continues trudging down the road, searching for his cookies.  It’s been a long day already, and while his diseased mind doesn’t fully remember all that he’s done so far, he feels frustrated.  He wants cookies and he wants them now.  I’m not sure what god Muppets prey to, but the next one Cookie Monster encounters had better be in good with their lord, because Cookie Monster isn’t in a very good mood right now.

Scene Six:
All the as-of-yet-not-slaughtered cast members of Sesame Street are gathered around in a circle in the street.  Some are sitting on milk crates and others are just standing there, looking stupid.  In the back, the wooly-mammoth-like Snuffleuffagus towers over everyone.  All their attention is fixed on the guy standing in the center of the circle.  It’s celebrity guest host,  Bob Dole, former Senator and failed Presidential hopeful!

Big Bird comes plodding into the middle, “Hey everyone,” the big yellow bird says cheerfully, “Let’s all give a big, warm, Sesame Street welcome to Bob Dole!  Hi, Bob!”

Everyone in the crowd cheers.  The Honkers, the monsters that are damned to have bicycle horns for noses, honk their affection.  The Count is waving a tiny American flag.  Maria iss holding a sign that said, “I Want To Have Your Love Child, Bob!”  Oscar the Grounch leans forward and throws a rotting fish at Dole, who ducks just in time to avoid a direct hit.  Dole walks over and kicks the Grouch’s garbage can over, screaming, “You rotten mother fucker….”

Big Bird comes over and breaks it up.  “We can all play tag later.  Bob, why don’t you tell us all why you’ve come to visit Sesame Street today.”  Dole kicks the can one more time and spits on it.  Then he walks back to the center of the circle.

“Sure, Big Bird,” he says.  “Today, I want to talk to the children about Communism.  Even as we sit here, those Red bastards are plotting our doom…THEY COULD BE ANYWHERE.  Which leads me to the next subject I’d like to dwell on.  Nuclear Holocaust.”

“COOKIES,” a loud voice belts out from somewhere.  Everyone turns and looks around, trying to see who interrupted the Senator.  Even Dole seems kind of confused as he strokes his pencil that he holds in his crippled hand.  He does that when he’s scared.

“COOKIES,” the loud voice booms, closer now than it was before.  Everyone now seems a bit panicked.  A mangled puppet corpse drops in from the sky, landing at the feet of Bob Dole.

“The hell…” the old Senator stammers and he stares dumbstruck at the dead puppet.

Cookie Monster bursts through the crows, roaring.  Puppets go flying.  “Give…me…COOKIES,” the horrible blue beast thunders as he plods closer and closer to Bob Dole.

“COME AND GET THEM, YOU COMMY BASTARD,” the half-crippled Senator and World War Two vet booms.  He tries to charge at the monster, but because half his body is crippled, he just kind of ends up walking quickly in that direction.  Still, he has his war face on.

Now Burt comes running into the scene, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun.  Soap suds ooze out of his mouth from the oral torture he endured earlier.  “DIE, YOU HOMICIDAL KILLER!”

Bob Dole sees Burt with the shotgun and tries to wrestle it away from him with his one good hand.  “Give me that, you damn puppet,” Dole screams.

“Back off old man,” Burt yells back, “I’m killing the Cookie Monster!”

The shotgun goes off and blasts Bob Dole in the face.  “OH CHRIST,” Dole screams as he falls backwards, holding his face with both hands, “YOU JUST RUINED MY GOOD FACE, YOU SOME-A-NA-BITCH!!!!”

Cookie Monster is now right up on Burt.  He grabs the shotgun and throws it.  “COOKIES,” he screams as he lifts Burt up by his throat.  Burt, a former Navy SEAL, pulls a knife from his puppet-boot and stabs Cookie Monster in the eyeball.  Cookie Monster bellows out in agony and throws Burt into a brick wall, head first.  Cookie Monster stumbles backwards.  A bloody smear runs down the wall from Burt’s face.

Mass chaos.  Everyone is running around screaming.  Bob Dole sits in a corner, stitching up his face with yarn he gathered from a dead puppet.  Cookie Monster is thrashing about, trying to pull the knife out of his eye.

Kermit the Frog steps in, holding a microphone.  “Today’s mass slaughter has been brought to you by the number 4, the letter C, the Diablo tarot card, and the support of viewers like you.”  Kermit’s head explodes as another shotgun blast goes off.


The Jeff Saga – Part One: It Begins

Posted in Puppet Stories with tags , , , , , , , , on August 25, 2006 by Dan Cheek

“Jeff – Part One: It Begins”
By Dan CHEek
25 August 2006
© Dan Cheek 2006

As Sam sat at the kitchen table, he tried his best to rub away the migraine.  Large amounts of pain medication had so far proven ineffective, so he was hoping the rubbing would help.  It wasn’t.  A horrible crash came from the living room.  That wasn’t helping either.

Reluctantly, Sam walked out to see what kind of carnage the Sock Puppets had engineered this time.  He was expecting to see quite a mess.  The Puppets, never wanting to disappoint, had obliged.  As Sam looked at his sofa, which was lodged into the ceiling, half of it coming through the floor upstairs, he shook his head.

All the Puppets were standing in front of Sam.  Bob kept looking up at the couch and then at Sam.  Doctor Sanity, resident evil genius, had a proud expression on his puppet face.  Lost Cause was kind of giggling softly as he did his best not to burst out laughing.  And Goblin was chewing on the carpet.

“Why have you done…whatever it is you’ve just done,” Sam asked to no Puppet in particular.

Bob, as usual, answered first.  “Sam, before you get all upset and make your blood pressure rise, let me explain.”

Sam took a deep breath.  “Okay,” he said in an obviously controlled voice, “Please explain why my couch is now a part of my ceiling.”

“Well,” Bob began, “You wanted to watch the ball game.  We didn’t.  We talked about this, remember?  And you said we could watch the television upstairs.  Remember?”

Sam was now pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting in pain.  “Yes,” he said, “I remember.  And the couch…”

Doctor Sanity interrupted him.  “Well, Sam, there’s no couch upstairs.  So we thought we’d move this one up there.  Unfortunately, the ceiling was thicker than I originally thought.”

“It hurts so bad,” Sam muttered, “Just get the couch out of the ceiling.  Then fix that hole.  And then disassemble whatever evil contraption you used to launch the damn thing in the first place.”

Lost Cause spoke up.  “Sam,” he said in his concerned tone, “If you have a headache, I know a great remedy.”

“Do I even want to know,” Sam asked.

“Probably not, sadly,” Lost Cause answered, “But I’ll help you anyway.  I’ll need a turkey baster and some White Out.”

Sam didn’t even bother responding.  He walked back into the kitchen, shaking his head and was about to sit down when the phone rang.  Grudgingly, Sam walked over and answered it.

“Hello,” he said in a tired tone.  Suffering through a migraine and having your sofa launched through the ceiling will do that to a person.

The voice on the other end was a cross between razor blades and ice.  “Very shortly, your definition of horror and suffering will be redefined as your skin is peeled off, layer by layer.  You shall feel my Hellfire and you will know that…”

“Look, if your from the phone company, I apologize for the late payment, but I can assure you the check is in the mail,” Sam interrupted.

“What are you talking about,” the other voice shot back, “Shut the fuck up and listen, you fleshy sack of sex slime.  And if you ever compare me to a phone company again, whatever the piss that is, I’ll ass rape you through your mouth.  Now, um, what was I saying?”

Sam sighed.  “Something about Hellfire, I think.”

“Ah, yes,” the voice replied, “My favorite part.  You shall feel my Hellfire and you will know that my wrath is upon you and that you and your soul are damned to an eternity of wallowing in pain.  You will beg for mercy, but I will only laugh.  You will cry and you will suffer and you will bleed.  And I will smile.  I shall arrive tomorrow at noon.  If I have to come looking for you, I WILL find you and you can take all that other stuff I said about suffering and all that, and then double it.”

Sam was rubbing his head again.  Obviously, someone was very upset with him.  Considering the chaos the Puppets had been creating, a phone call like this was long overdue.  “Um, can I get your name,” Sam asked.

“I am the love child of hate and pain, raised in a world of endless suffering.  I was schooled in the art of evil and graduated to become that which the prophecies warn against.  I am Jeff.”

Sam nodded.  “Okay, Jeff,” he said in a non-impressed tone, “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes,” Jeff answered in almost a growl, “Tell the Puppets Four that they are equally as fucked as you are.  And please know that all of this is entirely their fault, that I know you have no clue as to what this all about, and that I do not care.  My judgment is final and binding.”  Then there was a click as Jeff hung up on his end.

Sam’s mouth was hanging open and his mind was racing.  This “Jeff” knew about the Puppets.  That could only be bad.  No one, to the best of Sam’s knowledge, had ever known anything about them.  Even with all the bad shit that the Puppets had done, all the explosions, the carnage, and other bad things, no one had ever suggested that four Sock Puppets were behind it all.  Why WOULD they suspect something like that?  Everyone but Sam knew that Sock Puppets were fantasy.  Right?

Sam slowly put the phone back on the receiver and walked out into the living room, mouth still open.  The Sock Puppets were sitting on the floor watching television.  The sofa was still lodged in the ceiling.  Random bits of plaster fell here and there, shattering on the floor.

Bob looked over at Sam.  “Oh, hey Sam,” he said, “Listen, I know you’re pissed about the couch in the ceiling thing, but we just think it’s too dangerous to safely move.  Plus we don’t really feel like doing it.  You can probably just add some spackle and paint and no one will be the wiser, eh?”

Doctor Sanity nodded in agreement.  “If anyone asks, just tell them it’s a French chandelier.”

Sam barely heard them.  “Hey, I just got a phone call from some weirdo who says he’s coming here tomorrow to kill me and then all of you.  He actually mentioned you guys.  Someone knows about you and now I’m fucked.”

Lost Cause didn’t take his eyes off the television.  “Relax, Sam,” he said soothingly, “When this guy shows up, Goblin will eat him.  And then we’ll celebrate over a glass of Windex milk.”

Bob nodded.  “Or something like that, anyway,” he said, “Who is this ass clown anyway?”

Sam shook his head and forced himself to blink.  “He didn’t really say who he was.  But he did tell me that his name is Jeff.”

At the mention of the word “Jeff”, Goblin jumped up and set a new land speed record as he ran away to another room.  Lost Cause, Doctor Sanity, and Bob all sat up and froze.  It was the first time Sam had seen anything resembling fear from the Sock Puppets.  This wasn’t helping calm his nerves about all of this.

“You know this Jeff guy,” Sam asked to no one in particular.

It took a long minute before any of the Puppets spoke.  They stood there, frozen and trembling.  Lost Cause was muttering something under his breath over and over, but Sam couldn’t make out what it was.

“Sam, Jeff isn’t a ‘guy’,” Bob finally said, “Jeff is, we think, The Devil himself.”

It took a while for Sam to absorb that.  “The Devil is coming here to kill me,” he finally said.

Doctor Sanity shook his head.  “Sam, if Jeff comes here, him killing you will be the least of your problems.”

Sam was now trembling.  “I knew it.  I knew you guys really were from hell.  Let me guess, you’re demons who escaped hell and now Satan is coming to bring you guys back and me with you.  Oh, God.”

Bob shook his head and looked up at Sam, “We’re not demons and we’re not, I don’t think anyway, from Hell.  Jeff is, again to the best of our guesses, actually Satan, but we’re not a hundred percent on that, either.”

Lost Cause started hyperventilating and finally past out.  Doctor Sanity looked down at LC, and then over to Sam.  “Are you still mad about the couch,” he asked.

“Shut up about the couch,” Sam snapped.  “We’re fucked.  We need to leave.  Now.  Go hide.”

Bob and Doctor Sanity both started laughing.  “Yeah,” Bob finally managed to get out, “That’ll work.  You’re not too bright sometimes, Sam.”

“I want to know everything.  Now,” Sam demanded.  “Tell me everything about Jeff and why he’s coming here and why he’s going to kill us.  Tell me now.”  Little beads of sweat were now running down Sam’s forhead.

Bob nodded.  “Okay, sure Sam.  Let’s go talk in the kitchen.  C’mon, Doc.”  Sam and the two Puppets walked into the kitchen, leaving Lost Cause on the floor where he lay.

After a few minutes, Lost Cause slowly started to wake up.  He lifted his head slowly and looked around.  “Whahellohuh?” he slurred, still not fully awake.  Just then, there was a creaking sound and then the sofa that was protruding halfway through the ceiling came crashing down.  On top of Lost Cause.

The sound was something like someone hitting a whoopee cushion with a sledge hammer.  A cloud of plaster and dust filled the living room.  After several minutes, from under the couch, Lost Cause managed to eek out a few muffled words.  “Windex Milk.  Lots of Windex, hold the milk.  Ow….”

For almost two hours Sam, Doctor Sanity, and Bob sat out in the kitchen, talking about Jeff and why they were all so fucked.  At the end of that conversation, Sam realized that things were a lot worse than he could have ever thought possible.

Goblin Gets Drunk

Posted in Puppet Stories with tags , , , , , , , , on August 4, 2006 by Dan Cheek

Goblin Gets Drunk
By Dan CHEek
4 August 2006
© Dan Cheek 2006

Sam, Lost Cause, Bob, and Doctor Sanity sat huddled together in the dark.  They were crouched down on the floor, hiding under the dining room table.  Each of them sat there stone cold quiet, all afraid that even the sound of their breathing would betray their position.

Finally, after several minutes of this, Sam spoke up.  “I just want to say,” he whispered, “That it’s things like this that make me hate all of you.”

Bob looked up at Sam.  “Hey,” he whispered back, “You bought the beer.  So this is all your fault.”

“Bullshit,” Sam countered, “You guys are the ones that fed Goblin the entire case of booze.  So this is all entirely your fault!”

An small scale explosion shattered the forced quiet.  A blender could be heard starting up and then was cut off suddenly.  A high pitched shrill cut through the air.

“I think that was the sound of a chipmunk screaming,” Doctor Sanity offered as an explanation.

“How do you know what a screaming chipmunk sounds like,” Sam asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

“Remember the improvements I made to the bug zapper,” Doctor Sanity explained.

“The pilot of that small plane that flew into it remembers,” Lost Cause added.

 “I didn’t think he survived that,” Sam asked, again, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer to his question.

“I’m just saying,” Lost Cause explained, “If he wasn’t incinerated into ash, he would have remembered.  That kind of experience tends to be memorable.”

In the dark, Sam was shaking his head.  “Back to the challenge at hand,” Bob interjected.  “It won’t be long before Goblin finds us.  And being that he’s currently more drunk than Mel Gibson, it might not end well for us.”

“Maybe we should split up,” Doctor Sanity offered.  “No sense all getting eaten and/or horribly maimed all at once.”

“Fuck that,” Sam countered, “You bastards got me into this.  If I’m going to die, at least I’d like to be comforted by the knowledge that you’ll all be right behind me.”

“Amen to that one, Sam,” Lost Cause said in a cheery voice.

“Just so you know, LC,” Sam said to the Sock Puppet, “I hate you the most.”

“That’s sweet, Sam,” Bob interrupted, “But we need to get our game faces on.  Any minute now, a horribly drunken Goblin is going to come flying into this room and then we all die horrible deaths.  Doctor Sanity, do you have any suggestions?”

“Do any of you happen to have an elephant gun with extra ammunition handy,” he asked.

“No,” the others said in unison.

“Then, no,” the Doctor answered dejected, “I’m out of ideas.”

“I have an idea, then,” Bob offered.  “But Sam, your not going to like it.”

“Will it get us out of this alive,” Sam asked.

“Possibly.  But it’s not going to be pretty.”

“What’s your idea,” Sam asked in a depressed voice.  It occurred to him that he hadn’t asked a single question the entire time that he really, honestly, wanted answered.

“Do you have your cell phone on you,” Bob asked.

“Yeah, why,” Sam asked suspiciously.  “Keep in mind that the SWAT Team has already sent me a letter informing me that they are not responding to any incidents at this house ever again.  So I don’t know who you plan on calling that will be a match for Goblin.”

“They don’t have to be a match, Sam,” Bob explained, “Just a distraction.  Who do we know that will ALWAYS come out to the house if we call?”

“The pizza guy,” Lost Cause blurted out.

“BRILLIANT,” Doctor Sanity exclaimed.  “Pizza slave rings the doorbell, Goblin ravages him, and we sneak out the back door.”

“You’d think that the Pizza Place would stop delivering to our house,” Sam thought aloud.

A horrific roar sounded through the house.  Then a toilet flushed and was followed by a horrible crashing sound.  Everyone sitting under the table looked at each other and then shook their heads.  Better not to even try and guess about what that was all about.

“I’d better make that phone call,” Sam said as he pulled his cell phone out.  He dialed the number, which he kept on speed dial, sadly, for emergencies such as this and then waited for someone to pick up.  After a brief conversation, he ordered a plain pizza and an order of buffalo wings and then put the phone back into his pocket.

“We should have gotten pepperoni,” Lost Cause said in a sad voice.

“Shut up,” Sam said quickly, “Doctor Sanity, how drunk do you think Goblin is?”

“Well,” Sanity said slowly, “You figure he consumed two-hundred eighty-eight ounces of beer.  Being a Sock Puppet, he probably weighs about half a pound.  So, roughly, his blood alcohol level is probably near four hundred thousand percent.”

“That hangover is gonna’ suck,” Bob though out loud.

“We probably shouldn’t be around for that either,” Sam suggested.

All nodded in agreement.  Then they all went quiet and sat there in the dark, waiting for their opportunity to make a break for it.  After about a half hour, the doorbell rang.

Upstairs, their was a shuffling sound and then quiet.  Goblin, in his alcohol induced rage, didn’t quite believe what he just heard.  To reassure him, the doorbell then rang again.  All hell broke loose upstairs.  From the sound of it, Goblin was busting through walls and anything else that was in his way in a mad dash to get to the door.

From behind the door, the pizza guy tried to get someone to answer  the door.  “C’mon man, get the door, it’s…”

He never finished the sentence.  Goblin hit the door with the force of a hundred rabid grizzly bears, roughly.  What ensued would probably too graphic to even show on the Internet.

Sam and the Puppets wasted no time.  As soon as Goblin attacked the pizza guy, they bolted.  They made their way out the back door and made a mad dash for the neighbor’s porch.  For the rest of the night, they hid under there.  Goblin remained drunk for the next week, during which time Sam slept at work and the Puppets remained under the porch, living off of dog food.  A few homicide detectives showed up to investigate the case of the missing pizza delivery guy, but they got eaten, too.  After that, the Police Department just kind of gave up and closed the case.

The moral of the story is this: Never Get a Sock Puppet Drunk.  I guess the other moral is that it sucks to get eaten by a Sock Puppet, but I try to only ever include one or less morals in a story at a time.  This isn’t Sesame Street, folks.