The last day of Poopay

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story making fun of some of the more obscure news.

Submitted: November 22, 2016

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Submitted: November 22, 2016



The Last Day of Poopay

  Poopay was a frog-shaped, walking, talking bowel movement. The fool thought he was untouchable solely because he assumed he was intrinsically special like the Nazis told him he was. Poopay’s name not only described his physical characteristics, but also his job. He spread poo for pay, not thinking of whether or not money was going to be worth the massive amount of trouble he’d find himself in eventually.

  That trouble came when Poopay wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, since his stunted mind wasn’t capable of handling that many functions at once. He was thinking, ‘Left foot, right foot, left foot – wait, which foot is that?’ when the van pulled alongside him. It wasn’t until after one of the men in the van pulled him in that Poopay noticed something was amiss. He noticed that shortly after one of the other men in the van had struck him in the head several times.

  “What’s happening guys? Why are you doing this to me?” Poopay inquired through a veil of tears like you can’t even imagine.

  The man who was hitting Poopay in the head informed the little turd, “What is going on is you fucked up, and your buddies fucked up, too.” He changed from the latex gloves to a leather glove with lead shot sewn into the strike zone.

  Poopay tried to use words to ask what they meant, which was difficult enough for him in the first place with all that thinking and whatnot. But thinking became impossible when that gloved fist smashed into his soft, overgrown head. Everything faded away.

  Poopay woke up in a dark, nearly empty warehouse, strapped down onto a toilet in the middle of the room. Poopay again tried to speak but couldn’t force the words through the toilet paper gag in his mouth.

  One of the largely nondescript men got down on one knee to address Poopay. “Oh, poor, pathetic little Poopay. We know you’re a patsy and it’s really the men you’re working for we’re after. We know they manipulated you into spreading their bullshit message, and we’re happy this will be easy. Now, poor little Poopay, just give us the names and you’ll get to die easy in one nice, clean flush.”

  Another man took out a very large knife and ran the sharp edge against Poopay’s face with just enough force to make one long, very superficial cut. If Poopay hadn’t been so mentally dull, he would have figured out  that the sting he felt was from the briny lemon juice on the knife’s edge. Then the man violently cut the gag free, giving our poor little fellow a mild case of whiplash.

  Poopay mumbled some trite words about how this couldn’t be happening, mixed with the ‘Why is this happening to me?’

  “Poopay, like we said, you messed up big time. Playing around with things you can’t understand,” said even another man who was lighting a big, fat cigar. “Sorry, I just remembered I don’t smoke – do we have an ashtray? Oh, no? Oh well.” He did find an ashtray right in the middle of Poopay’s ugly, wrinkled forehead.

  From seemingly out of nowhere, an older and much bigger man came in saying, “ Fellows, the time for fun and games is over. It’s time to get down to business.” The older man loosened but didn’t undo the restraints. Circulation started returning to Poopay’s limbs, and he could feel his hands throbbing to the rhythm of his panicky heartbeat on each and every fracture point in hand bones (the phalanges and metacarpals). “Now, friend, we need the names of everyone you were working with.”

  “No way, I’m not a snitch, and they’ll kill me if I snitch,” said the little turd frogoid.

  “I understand, I really do. You can’t just roll over,” said the older man, who was built like a brick shithouse. “That’s why we came prepared.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” said Poopay

  “Poopay, that toilet you’re sitting on – do you know what country it is from?”

  “No, I have n-n-no idea. Wh-what do you mean?” the hysterical Poopay asked.

  “Well, it’s not an American toilet. Let me just look on the back and see where it was made. Let’s see. Oh, yes, it’s French.”

  “Oh, no, you monster! You wouldn’t!” screamed Poopay, fully aware that they would and they will.

  “Yes, I’ve always preferred bidets. They’re so much cleaner,” said the older man as he turned on the bidet for a brief second.

  Poopay’s screams filled the air as the brief blast of water tore apart chunks of flesh from his bottom. He screamed until he passed out from the pain and horror.

  They woke him by spraying Glade air freshener into his face. “Like we said, it can be a nice, clean flush, or we can do it the hard way.” Poopay wasn’t sure which man said that, as his eyes and nasal passages burnt with floral goodness.

  “O.k., the names, I’ll give you the names. Dump, the Megalomaniac Idiot. Gannon, the Pig Demon. Pilesolo Yackysacks, the Vociferous Hemorrhoid. Alex Johns, the Most Full-Of-Shit, Blue-Faced Porta Potty. They’re the brains of this operation.”

  “Thanks, Poopay, we already knew that. It wasn’t like they could hide their stink,” said the older man who was probably in charge.

  “What? Th-then why did you do this, if you already knew?” a more confused than usual Poopay asked. And that was when he first noticed the video camera!

  “We just needed to show them how easily you cracked, because we don’t have time for these backstabbers to tear each other apart.” Then his tone changed to a philosophical one. “The funny thing is you’ll probably never know who sold you out, but everyone else will.” He paused, getting even more thoughtful. “Do you know how cheap your life was? Less than a thousand dollars, actually.”

  Poopay didn’t see the laxative brick that softened his head to unconsciousness. He was last seen laid out on the front porch of a fecal supremacist compound with a videotape sticking out of his forehead.


© Copyright 2018 Robert Owen. All rights reserved.

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