a little story i wrote for my friends here in SG

[camper velourium]

i know none of you have the cognitive capacity to read the entire thing, so i don't expect that. just please give my little tale a brief read through and leave some comments. and please DONT MOVE THIS THREAD. i want SG's opinion.

i'm planning on submitting this to the publisher soon, just need to see some friendly thoughts on it. without further ado:

THE CHARLES STORY
BY ANDREY AND JOHNNY



Charles Phillip Shelly/Specht III rolled out of bed and onto the ground, his head slamming onto a sharp toy his homosexual brother had left lying there as a trap the night before. He screamed in pain like a little sissy for a few seconds, then just lay there, huddled on the cold cement floor, crying. Today was a special day for Charles. He would go to lunch with his greatest friend Andrey. And then he would go to lunch with his other best friend, Johnny. Andrey and Johnny had once been friends, but they didn’t talk anymore, so in order to keep both of them as friends, Charles had to pretend he didn’t talk to the other one. It was a crazy plan but it had worked fine. Charles showered, using a very fragrant herbal shampoo for women, which he slapped on his head and rubbed into a rich lather, and then starting bawling furiously because he remembered that he was completely bald. Old habits die hard. He forgot to wash the rest of his body, so he ended up smelling like used condoms for the rest of the day. He donned his usual faded, holey AFI shirt that was covered in dog hair, along with some ugly fuzzy Dickies and his hideous brown loafers which he laced incredibly tight so that all circulation was cut off to his feet. Charles tried as hard as he could to keep his feet unseen at all times. Very, very few people had ever seen his feet, but those who had knew that they were blue, veiny, incredibly sensitive, and almost transparent because they never saw the light. They also glowed with a pale blue aura, which made them useful in dark areas. Charles loved his lamp-feet dearly and concealed them at all costs. He stood in front of his full length mirror and started to brush his hair. After feeling the brush raking the top of his now-bleeding skull, he once again realized he was utterly bald and in his rage, slammed his face into the mirror with all his might, shattering the entire thing and leaving his face bloody and scarred. Peeling shards of glass out of his face, he remembered about his plans for lunch. However, he had to go to work as well. Somehow, Charles would juggle his duties to make everything all right. As Charles remembered about his beloved workplace, he crowned himself with his prized Jamba Juice hat which served the purpose of covering up Charles’ bald. Then it was time to go downstairs.

Charles was basically his mom’s bitch and did ever single thing she ever told him to do, 95% of which was completely unnecessary, but she made him do it because he was a bald loser and she hated him. He was nineteen years old, but because of his deficit of friends, money, ambition, and hair, and his overly fierce homosexual tendencies, Charles still lived at home. So his constantly drunk, unemployed whore mother would use him to do chores and his numerous fathers would rape him as well as steal money. Charles had at least 3 or 4 dads, and all of them molested him and his retarded ape siblings. Anyway, he walked downstairs, where his mom was beating his brother and sister with sawed-off shotgun matches. Charles chirped a peppy, cheery hello to his retarded, fucked up, dysfunctional family and trotted into the kitchen. After a light breakfast consisting of a jello cup and a banana, washed down with a hearty pitcher of one of his numerous fathers’ semen, Charles walked out the door and over to his car. While he was trying to unlock the door, his key broke in half inside the lock. Staring at the half-key in his hand, tears welled up in his eyes and he furiously screamed “WEAK!!!!!!!” Accompanying his girly scream, Charles slammed his malformed fist into the window in a pathetic attempt to shatter it, instantly breaking all his fingers and dislocating his shoulder. 3 hours later, Charles awoke. He was naked, his car had been stolen, and there was mottled dogshit mixed with easy cheese and semen all over his crusty face. He looked down at his horrible gnarledy hands and cried miserably. Later that night Charles managed to get up. He drunkenly staggered around the parking lot and his hawk-vision located a small child sitting down, eating a chocolate ice cream treat. Charles walked up to the lad and called out in a feeble groan, “Hay there…Can I have a bite of your FUDGICLE?” The little boy replied, “It’s called a fudgeSICLE, FAGGOT!!” The kid grabbed a handful of stinging nettle leaves and rubbed them all over Charles’ balls, then squeezed out some poison ivy nectar from a nearby bush into Charles’ dick hole, and ran off screaming for his life. Charles, ignoring the incomprehensibly painful anguish in his genitalia, quickly commandeered the lad's tricycle and made off down the road with it. On his journey Charles hit a tire damage barrier which ended up ripping his feet off. Charles was then forced to sit upside down on his head and pedal with his hands. He had to guess where he was going since he was facing backwards the entire time. He ended up getting run over at least seven times, and only later that year Charles found that he hadn’t actually moved. It was all just a dream. His mangled carcass was still outside in the parking lot. Charles had a feeling in his corns that it might be time for work. After hours of willing his knotted limbs from entropy, managed to flip over and into a huge beartrap. He ignored it and started his fifty mile pilgrimage to work.

A little bit after dawn, Charles approached the intersection where his wondrous workplace was located. Charles worked at Jamba Juice. Charles had just about the worst possible job anyone on earth could imagine. He worked with a bunch of high school dropouts, drug addicts, nymphomaniacs, black lesbians, and other fuckups. All of them despised Charles immensely, but Charles had a theory built up inside his bald head that everyone he encountered liked him and wanted to be his best friend. That’s why all of his AIM away messages said something to the extent of “Partying with J-Ron!! Call my cell!” J-Ron was the incredibly retarded name of an even more incredibly retarded co-worker of Charles, who would never be caught dead hanging out with that baldass no matter how retarded he was. Charles had never, ever been to a party, and he didn’t own a cell phone either. At one point he did, but he never made or received any calls because it cost too much, so he mooched off of other people and usually ended up dead, face down in a steamy pile of bearshit after begging someone to use their phone and getting the shit beaten out of him in return. Anyway, Charles made $3.35 an hour at Jamba Juice, less than the illegal immigrant Emmanuel, and worked 75 hours a week, which was just enough to ensure that he could go to lunch with one of his under-aged friends every day and pay his car insurance. All Charles ever did was sleep, work, be bald, and go to lunch. He came close to being fired every day but insisted that one of these days he would receive a “bad-ass” promotion. Hardly.

Just as Charles was about to walk into Jamba Juice, his boner tingling with excitement of finally arriving to work, he spotted something in the parking lot. It was his car, his beautiful '82 Chevy Corsica. He ran toward it, accelerating with every pounding step his hairy, sole-less shoes made on the pavement. Even from afar, Charles could tell something was wrong with the 'ica. As he approached, he remembered the musty jalopy's origin; Charles obtained the nonfunctional piece of shit through a car auction. He was just a lad then, pliant yet supple at the age of seventeen. Clinging on the back of his crusty she-wolf father kim, Charles imagined himself sitting in a stationary car in complete darkness pretending to rev the engine while making retarded, painful faces. When he realized he had no capacity for deciding which car he wanted, he turned to his man-goose father for advice. Kim sat Charles down on his feeble knee and gained his attention by issuing him a quick series of knife-hands to the ribs. Charles, having seizures and spasms from having all his organs crushed to dust, stared intently into the eyes of his guardian. Kim, whose face was severely disfigured and hairy, had horribly crooked eyes which prohibited any sort of vision.

After pondering for a few epochs, Kim dearly looked into his son’s eyes and muttered under his breath,

"Gotta go east to go west."

"But Qim..."

"I've made my decision, now go"

“But--"

Charles, who was puzzled by the completely retarded, illogical, and irrelevant comment was cut short by Kim, who chopped him in the neck and shrieked "SPAM BLOCK, BITCH!" and proceeded to run away and fall into a tar pit. Depressed, lonely, bald, and very homosexual, Charles wandered into a nearby mysterious, dark, and scary abandoned warehouse. In the center of the obvious hobo commune, Charles stumbled and smashed his skull into something very large. Pulling off his hairy dogs and dog-socks, he unveiled his ungodly foot which proved enough light to illuminate the entire factory. He realized he had bumped into what looked like a car cover. He ran his hand over the cover, wondering what kind of beauty what may lay under it, ripe for his stealing. While wondering what he may do with his new car to be, a troupe of homeless escaped mental patients appeared from under the cover and brutally raped Charles. Charles, made someone's "bitch" for the 10 millionth time, rubbed his crusty anus with a bent golf club as he stumbled out of the ass-pounding zone, noting an elaborate spray painting emblazoned on the wall of the warehouse, which boldly proclaimed “CHARLES IS BALD”.

A few minutes later, after being chased by a drunk white man who kept slapping Charles and screaming “AFRICAN DODGER!!” Charles found his way into another warehouse. On the door was a sign which said, simply, “GTFO BALD.” Charles, being completely unable to read, nodded knowledgably and continued inside. Once again, Charles ran into a large, blunt, fiery object and was knocked backwards onto the ground. He managed to get up, every bone in his body letting out a metallic screech from the effort, muttering, “A familiar feeling is coming over me…I feel like a HORSE’S ASS.” He once again fired up his lamp-feet and observed yet another car shaped object, covered by a ratty purple blanket. He swept it off and uncovered a truly marvelous thing. It was some sort of vehicle and in great condition. It appeared to be an ’82 Chevy Corsica, the vanity plate of which declared “B4LD F4GG07”. Every one of the cars murky windows were shattered, it had no tires, doors, seats, engine, or roof, there were large gashes and dents all over it’s rusty body, there was a strong odor of kerosene around the car, and it was covered with what seemed to be crusty semen and several hundred pounds of bird shit. Charles marveled at the car’s utterly hideous and monstrous appearance.

[camper velourium]

“Dogdamn…” he muttered. “This car is hella-jacked up!”

“But I know how to make it better,” he said.

With one quick, easy motion, Charles tore off his orange shorts, which were covered with buttons, knobs, dials, gauges, rip-cords, hundreds of pockets, and had twin exhaust pipes coming out of the sides, and unleashed a cosmic shit all over the car’s windshield, adding to the already righteous amount of defecation covering it. Then, with the speed and agility of a velociraptor, he leaped onto the hood and started smearing the load around with his crusty, veiny, toothed anus. After he had wrapped up his prodigiously pniggapnarledy pugnacious Cleveland Steamer, Charles jumped into the car, and finally fulfilled his lifelong dream. He closed his bleeding eyes, sank deep into plush, jagged, cold steel of the car’s seat-less interior, gripped an imaginary steering wheel with his pnarled stump-like ham hands, contorted his shit-filled expression into one of pure defiance and triumph, rocked back and forth, and made engine-revving noises. The amount of extreme happiness this act brought Charles made his face look like this:




That day was a few years ago. Charles had long since fixed up his Corsica and added on tons of cool accessories such as a beat-up, sperm-encrusted toy turtle which he shoved into his asshole and massaged with his colon when he felt lonely as well as a custom “HEPH.NET” logo on the back window. He also adorned the driver’s side window with a decal of a headless person wearing a fancy suit and tie, to make it look like it was actually him who was wearing the suit. This fooled others who might look over on the freeway and make them think that he was some kind of distinguished gentleman on his way to a luncheon or business meeting. In reality, the only thing Charles was wearing while driving were some wicker sandals and a pair of women’s prescription sunglasses. He also paid upwards of 800 dollars a month on insurance. Charles had been duped into buying “Dashers” insurance, which was completely unnecessary because he was the safest driver in the universe and avoided danger at all costs. Charles always insisted on going at least 30 miles beneath the speed limit. If the speed limit was equal to or less than 30 mph already, Charles went in reverse until he slammed into a brick wall, activating the airbag, which punched him in the face over and over and sent him into a month-long coma. He would constantly get cut off and hit from behind and flipped off and screamed at because he went so goddamn slow, but he was always the winner in his mind because all those people that raped him on the road suffered “some severe tire damage” later on. Unfortunately, those people led happy, successful, fruitful lives, unlike Charles. Anyway, he was standing in the parking lot and staring at the Corsica.

Charles walked up to his pniggaknarled car, which was now in worse condition than it had been when he found it, and on fire, and slowly began sobbing. Gallon after gallon of hot salty tears poured out of his eyes, arced, poured back into his mouth, and then out of his eyes again, forming a cycle which lasted for several hours. A black man ran up to Charles and beat him in the spine with a baseball bat, shattering his glass skeleton, and sending him sprawling into an open manhole. After sucking a sewer alligator’s dick, Charles emerged into the street. He was then promptly hit by a car.

Three weeks later, Charles woke up. He was lying in the street. He was once again completely naked and all of his possessions were gone. He had been saving up his paychecks to buy the new Linkin Park cd, and was on his way to buy it after work, but that money was now gone. Charles began sobbing loudly, pounding the ground with his hairy fists like a big retarded infant. Finally, he got out of the street and walked towards his car, which was still on fire, but now covered with thousands of traffic tickets, which were all conveniently sprayed with fire retardant. Charles would have to borrow money from one of his elusive fathers to pay for that, and that meant getting raped again to return the favor. On the way toward the ‘ica, literally hundreds of people gathered to surround him. They pointed at his miserable, shriveled, crooked, malformed weiner and laughed uproariously. Charles barely managed to get inside as a group of deranged riot police showed up and ran in his direction, waving their clubs and shooting pepper spray at him. As he pulled out of the parking lot, they ran beside him, beating the car and shattering all the windows. He drove home to change into a fresh pair of purple cargo pants and a weezer shirt. He then remembered he was supposed to go to lunch with Andrey.

He called him up on the phone and, forgetting that several months had gone by, pretended everything was normal. He arranged to pick Andrey up and go to Burger King. Andrey was at the time taking a furious shit and the reminder of Charles made him unleash an even more furious shit after he hung up. Several shits later, he was ready to go. Charles rang on his doorbell, which was answered by Andrey’s dad, who was also bald, but showed no kinship to Charles and hated him immensely. He opened the door and Charles flashed a toothy grin, instantly shattering all glass within a 10-mile radius. The sudden image of row upon row of green, brown, and olive colored teeth laced with several pounds of metallic shards made Andrey’s dad recoil in horror, stammer backwards into a wall, and start sobbing like a little girl. A few minutes later, Andrey and Charles were on their way to Burger King.

Andrey didn’t want to go to lunch with a bald faggot like Charles, but he was a little bit hungry so he decided to mooch off of him anyway. He could get Charles to buy him almost anything, so lunch was never a problem. Charles thought that Andrey actually appreciated his conversation, which consisted of talk about revamping hephNet, Charles’ worthless shitass web server, how he shut down the AOL network, or news about the elusive Derrick, Charles’ alter-ego who caused trouble and owned hundreds of nuclear weapons in his garage. All this retarded gibberish was backed by a constant blast of Linkin Park or Weezer. Charles claimed to listen to decent music such as Coheed and Cambria although the only thing he’d ever heard by them was the last 4 seconds of one of their songs, which was a guitar riff fading out, making them his favorite band. Charles was the lead singer of a terrible band called Hoodwinked, so he didn’t have time to listen to inferior music. After creeping along on the freeway at 6 miles per hour for 45 minutes, they arrived at their destination.

Charles did a horrendous parking job as usual, which would ensure that someone would get angry and beat the shit out of his car with a baseball bat. Andrey got out and slammed the door, which fell off and instantly exploded. As soon as Charles got out, he sprinted towards the restaurant, leaped inside, and raced into the bathroom where his overactive bladder flushed several gallons of steamy urine in uneven spurts in every direction out of his throbbing, pulsating penis. Charles was an old man and couldn’t aim his wiener very well, so he usually ended up pissing all over someone’s leg, which also usually ended up being a huge black man who raped him against the sink for a few days. This time, Charles was alone and his load was sprayed onto the floor, walls, and ceiling. He got out of the bathroom, and went to go order his food. On his way to the front of the restaurant, Charles walked by a hot scenester babe. He knew right away that he had to do everything he could to have sexual intercourse with this woman. He could feel his penis desperately try to muster up an erection, fail, shudder, and fall off into his shoe. He worked up an expression that he hoped made him look as charming and desirable as possible, which looked like this:



When the girl saw his face, she threw up in her mouth, reached into her handbag, pulled out a can of Mace and sprayed Charles in the eyes for a good fifteen seconds. She then ran for her life, calling Charles a “bald fucking faggot”. The pain was so unbearable that Charles collapsed into a corner and lost consciousness. A few hours later, he was able to bring himself together and stand upright.

Charles walked up to the register and spotted a slimy Mexican man who was busy stuffing fries into his mouth. Charles whistled to him, or rather tried to, sending all his pnarled teeth shooting in every direction, killing everything they came in contact with. Charles opened his decaying asshole of a mouth and desperately tried to communicate his desires.

“Uh, yes, I’d like a king sized order of chili cheese fries with extra guacamole, and then could you take some more guacamole and put it in a little dish and put that on the side, and then, uh, put some guacamole in a turkey baster and squirt the guacamole into your anus and then shit it out all over my food and make that all Super-King-Sized with the combo deluxe option and uhhhh extra ketchup packets and uhhhh chicken tenders….guacamole…..haougugehlblebhsebh…...”

The Mexican jumped up onto the counter and ejaculated all over Charles’ face, then ran into the kitchen to prepare an order that Burger King didn’t serve. Several hours later, Charles’ food was ready. He went to go sit down at the table where Andrey was pouring salt and pepper into his eyes out of boredom. Trying to ignore the Parkinson’s, Charles began shoveling the steamy guacamole fries into his face, missing his mouth completely and splattering all over the rest of his crusty-ass self. He then tore his shirt in half, grabbed the cup of extra guacamole and drizzled it on his bare chest, moaning in ecstasy. He then started smearing the guacamole on his neck, chin, ears, and forearms with his hands. Andrey retched onto the floor in disgust. An old man walked by and slipped in the puddle of vomit, broke his back, and died. Hours later, they finally left. On the way home, Charles noticed that he was experiencing the utmost excruciating pain in his stomach, similar to being impaled on a tetherball pole. His keen bodily awareness combined with his spider sense told him that he needed to shit. So he dropped Andrey off at home, then did a few chores around his house because he was everyone’s bitch, including Andrey’s mom. After he finished scrubbing piss off of the upstairs toilet, he was able to leave. Andrey’s mom shit all over his hairless, dome-like skull and threw him out the door, where he collapsed into a very sharp plant. Seconds later, several rabid dogs jumped on top of his writhing corpse and began ripping into his tough, sinewy flesh as his body flailed and seized on the ground like a marionette.

Charles drove as fast as he could home. However, this meant he could only go 15 miles per hour, maximum. He arrived at his “pad” in Tustin about 6 hours later. It was now beginning to get dark. Charles remembered that he had to masturbate before he could go to bed, otherwise he would have dreams about getting raped about his man-goose she-dad Qim. Charles walked in the house, sat down, and started the long, arduous task of removing his bad-butt footwear. Charles had purchased his shoes at Target about 14 years ago. They were completely brandless and lacked soles, laces, and tongues. Charles desperately tried to take his shoes off, a task which took several hours. A little after 9 pm, he was finished. He trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom, where his ass blew chunky shit all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. After cleaning up the several thousand pounds of orange and green shit while wearing a German maid outfit, Charles was ready to go to bed.

[camper velourium]

He opened his purple laptop but as soon as his musty penis-like finger touched its surface, it instantly made a fatal error and crashed, breaking completely and turning itself into a useless vegetable. Charles was forced to use his mom’s desktop computer, which was so large it took up 3 rooms out of their 2-bedroom house. It was called EPICAC and was constructed sometime in the 1960’s. Its most intense tasks included simple reasoning and multiplication. Charles zipped open his pants and fished out his scaly, mangled wiener, which, according to him, wasn’t “huge, but a good healthy six inches of COCK.” He squinted at the 3.5 inch cathode-ray tube and logged onto the internet, or “hephNet” as he liked to call it, and then onto his favorite pornographic site where he viewed image after image of balding old men sucking each other’s dicks while getting fucked in the ass by tentacles that belonged to a giant mechanical octopus monster. After Charles’ stumpy penis shot a load of sawdust into his hands, he was able to retire to bed.

The next morning, Charles awoke at around 3 pm. He was deathly ill with the stomach flu. He figured out that it was caused by bad guacamole that he had eaten the previous day. What a bald loser. So, Charles lay in bed and wondered what to do. Then, he had an idea. He opened up one of his numerous back-up cd’s, which contained nothing but family photos of Andrey and his parents, which he had acquired after stealing their digital camera while they weren’t home. He then took an image of his face and replaced it with Andrey’s face in every single one of the photos. Thus, he became “part of the family”. He then spent 5 hours practicing writing “Charles Grabarchuk” all over everything he owned, and fell asleep, happy and content. During the night, Specht’s house was shelled by nuclear bombs. Luckily, because of the amount of lead surrounding his room, he was unharmed. However, his family had been incinerated by the blast, and Charles himself had suffered deadly amount s of radiation, turning him into a hideous, bald mutant.

The next day, Charles opened his spermy barnacle-encrusted eyes and looked around. The radiation had transformed him into a megatard. He tried to raise his left arm to feel the top of his head in case any hair had sprouted during the night when he realized there was something wrong with his hand. His right arm had been mutated into an umbrella; it jutted out uselessly at his side, providing no protection from the elements. Charles waved it in small circles and sobbed quietly. His left arm had been transformed into a fiery cactus. He leaped out of bed and instantly shot down to the ground, breaking through the floor, flying down 700 feet into his house’s basement, breaking every bone in his body and crushing all his organs into a useless shit-like paste.

Charles suspected there was something wrong with his legs. He ran his umbrella over his left leg to see what the trouble was. It had been mutated into a 300 pound boat anchor, leaving Charles incapable of moving at speeds above that of a Hotwheels car. His right leg was now a rusty pipe, heavily corroded and barely able to support the immense weight of the mixture of defecation and sperm covering Charles's entire body. As he struggled to move, he realized that he would never be a normal, healthy girl again. Charles looked up and understood that his house had been obliterated. He knew that he had to find a new place to live. Charles rubbed his chin with his cactus-hand, tearing apart his face with its spikes, and pondered where he could go now. Perhaps he could live at his friend J-Ron’s house. Charles sighed and began the long journey up the basement stairs and out into the street.

Months later, Charles was outside and lying on the sidewalk. He gasped for air in ragged breaths, exhausted. He looked through his shattered glasses and spotted a person a few yards away from him. It was a man of about 20 years of age, talking on a cell phone. Charles slid his retarded corpse closer and used his supersonic bat hearing to listen to the man’s conversation. This is what he heard:

[camper velourium]

“Well, I’m here at your house to drop off the CD you wanted.”

(a pause)

“What? You’re not home? Hmmmm…What’s that? You say I should just drop it off in your mailbox? Perfectly legal? Everybody does it? Well, alright!”


The man then went up to a mailbox and tossed a CD case inside. He then walked away, his hands in his pockets, whistling happily. He turned a corner and continued walking into the horizon as a rainbow appeared over him and created a golden paradise of beautiful flowers and chirping birds. Charles scowled at the man, looking something like this,



and muttered furiously, commenting on the heinous mailbox act, “…Felony.” Suddenly, a meteor fell from the heavens and landed on Charles, killing him instantly.

900 million years later, Charles awoke once more, now in the future. He looked down and saw he had been vandalized and beat-up severely over the years. Charles’ body was heavily damaged and covered with graffiti, most of which said “BALD” and “FAGGOT”. Charles lay in the gutter, completely naked and ravaged by time. His circuitry was very archaic and he was running on the sheer solar power collected by his dome. He focused all of his remaining power on his robotic eyes, looking for any orifice in which he might be able to slam his load into. As he looked around, he realized he was about to be demolished by a humongous incoming space vehicle. He focused his power into his leg modules, looked at the vehicle, looked at his legs, looked at the vehicle, looked at his legs; realized he just might make it, with the proper trajectory, and no...he died.

35 billion years earlier, Charles awoke. He opened his reptilian slits and looked around. He got up to walk away, but realized he had no limbs and was forced to bathe in the primordial goo of his placenta for the next several eons as he slowly and painfully evolved from a basic yeast. Over the next 34 billion years, Charles would develop from a basic molecule into a retarded, half-reptile, half ape beast. Suddenly, a pterodactyl flew by and took a huge shit into the dark pit where Charles was writhing around. Because of his tiny brain and very basic lungs, he quickly suffocated and died.

It was all a dream. Charles opened his sunken, bleeding eyes and glanced around. He was still lying on the sidewalk. His head and his anus were throbbing with pain. What had actually happened is this: Charles had been brained with a golf ball shortly after he had witnessed the guy on the cell phone walking away, and while he was knocked out, one of his retarded child molester neighbors passed by, and, seeing Charles helpless and unprotected, took the opportunity to infiltrate his back-door. After he spurted a chunky mess of semen in Charles’ fuselage, he got up and made sure no one had seen what happened. Then, as he was about to walk away, he decided he may as well go back and shit on Charles’ face. When he had finished he got in his car and drove away. The hot shit flooding Charles’ mouth as well as the searing pain in his asshole caused him to wake up. Even though all the clues were blatantly staring him in the face, he had no idea what had happened, which caused him to bear an expression of confusion, shock, and disbelief. He looked like this:




Charles, reflecting upon his tattered ass and the person who massacred it, mumbled “Weak…”, and then wondered what to do next. He figured he could probably go back to Jamba Juice and ask J-Ron about the living situation. Though Charles’s flaccid wiener had fallen off while he was out having lunch at Burger King, the stump still tingled a little bit at the thought of his beloved workplace. Suddenly, Charles remembered the plans he had made several months ago. He had gone to lunch with Andrey but he had completely forgotten to go to lunch with Johnny! Charles was disgusted with himself at forgetting such a thing, and once again muttered, “Weak”.

Charles hadn’t slept in weeks, and was exhausted, but he needed to piss and shit badly, and the only place he could do that was at a fast-food establishment. Charles imagined dreamily how he would once again go to Burger King and go to the bathroom twice, thrice, maybe even four times before leaving. So, Charles decided he better contact Johnny. Charles had to find a phone and call him, but he didn’t know where. He turned around and looked back at the ruins of his house. Wait a minute… he thought. He saw something glinting in the sunlight within the crumbling shit-hole his house had become. Could it be…Yes! Charles dragged his boat anchor leg over to the object, which turned out to be…a phone! Yes, the blast had destroyed absolutely everything except the phone. How convenient. Hold on, thought Charles, there’s more… Looking to the right of the phone, Charles saw that EPICAC, his mom’s giant computer, had also survived the nuclear attack on his house. Charles maneuvered his hideous umbrella hand, and, forming it into a hand-like manifestation, picked up the phone and dialed Johnny’s number.

Johnny, meanwhile, was at the time smoking a fat bowl with Andrey. Yes, the two had once again become friends after deciding to work things out and go to 7-11. They later on found out about all of Charles’ lies and then teamed up against him. However, they hadn’t heard anything from him since Andrey had eaten lunch with him all those months ago. Anyway, Johnny was in the middle of a pugnaciously pniggapnarledy hit when the phone rang. He finished the hit, waited a bit, then exhaled a thick white fog of reefer smoke into Andrey’s face, who took a deep sniff and collapsed backwards onto Johnny’s bed. They were both stoned out of their minds at this point. Johnny completely forgot about the phone until it rang again. He snatched it up, pressed the “ON” button, and said,

“Hello?”

On the other line, Charles had a raging orgasm when he heard Johnny’s voice. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He gulped for air like a fish out of water, swallowed chunky gobs of spit and tried to form words. His tongue was flopping around in his mouth, prohibiting him from saying anything.

All of a sudden, his mind reeled to a day about six months before, when he had seen Andrey and Johnny at Jamba Juice while he was walking to his car after a hard day’s work of making shitty, chunky, icy, smoothie-like food. Andrey had screamed “HEY CHARLES” at him, and Charles, being completely flustered and unprepared, let out a retarded and gnarled cry, before slamming into a parked car and breaking his collar bone. At the time, he was so flabbergasted that he didn’t even realize that Johnny and Andrey were together, though they were at the time supposed to be enemies. Now, Charles, unable to think of any other thing, proclaimed the retarded cry once more:


“HAEOAUGHBLALALA!!!”

Johnny had to pull the phone away from his ear, the sound was so pniggapnarled. He looked over at Andrey and said, “Uhh…I think it’s Bald.” Andrey sat up, thought a second, and then started laughing wildly.

“AHAHAHAHHAHAHHAAHAH...Charles is calling??? Ohhh man. What a bald faggot. What does he want this time?”

Johnny put the phone back to his ear and said, “Uhm…who is this?”

Charles stuttered, and, his voice cracking harder and harder with every syllable, said,

“Hay there, it’s Charles! What’s up, noob?”

Johnny furiously punched a hole through the wall when Charles called him a noob. He covered the phone with his hand and said to Andrey, “Oh god, it really is him. He’s fucking killing my buzz.” Andrey laughed even harder. This is how Charles and Johnny’s conversation progressed:

[camper velourium]

JOHNNY: Uhh…not much.

CHARLES: Fun.

JOHNNY: No, not really. What do you want?

CHARLES (surprised and alarmed): You okay?

JOHNNY (annoyed and pissed off): Um yeah. What is it you want again?

CHARLES: Just calling my best bud (Johnny cringed at these words). You sound kind of weird, you mad?

JOHNNY (furious): NO. WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT YOU BALD PIECE OF SHIT.

CHARLES: Hey, I think my phone is dying, it got all staticy and I didn’t hear what you said.

JOHNNY: I didn’t say anything.

CHARLES (hurt): Oh. Well, anyway. Do you want to go t…

Charles was cut short by the sound of gurgling bong water on the other line. Andrey was taking a hit off the chronage.

CHARLES: What’s that noise?

JOHNNY (stifling laughter): Umm… the bathroom sink is clogged up...or…something. Hold on a second.

He turned to Andrey and said, “Shut up, dumbass. I don’t want him to know that you’re here. He doesn’t know we’re friends yet, remember?”
Andrey started laughing, but was still holding in the hit, so he finally exploded and smoke went flying everywhere. “Oh yeah…” he said. “Well, aren’t we supposed to tell him at some point?”
Johnny replied, “Well, yeah, but not right now at this exact second. So shut the fuck up.”
Suddenly, Andrey sat up and said, “Woah, I just got the best idea!” He ran into the other room and grabbed the phone, then went back into Johnny’s room and jumped on the bed. He turned on the phone was now able to hear their conversation.
Johnny saw the idea and performed the “No Drooling This Time” grin. The conversation continued:

JOHNNY: Ok, back. So…yeah. What’s going on?

CHARLES (pretending to be cool and nonchalant): Oh, not much. I was just bored and wondered if maybe you want to go to lunch or something. I know we planned it a while ago, but I kind of forgot.

JOHNNY: Yeah, that was like eight months ago.

CHARLES: Oh yeah, I’ve been hella-busy working on HephNet. We just upgraded to new forum software, and we’ve gotten fifty million hits in the past week! We get twice as many hits in an hour as Google gets in a year!

When Andrey heard this utter bullshit, he couldn’t help himself and screamed “BALD FAGGOT”. Johnny didn’t bother getting mad at Andrey because he was on the verge of saying it himself.

CHARLES (wary): What was that?

JOHNNY: Uhh…my computer. I think it has a…virus, or…something.

CHARLES (excited): Hay! Maybe I can come over and help you get rid of it! And then, we can work on HephNet!

JOHNNY (utterly disgusted): Um, yeah…that’s…great. Uh, you know, I have a lot of chores to do and…

He was cut off by Andrey screaming “DEWD I NIGGANARLED MY MATH TEST!!!!!!” behind him.

CHARLES: Hey, is someone else over th -

JOHNNY (interrupting Charles): Shit, Charles, I can’t hear you very well (he started making hissing static noises), transmission’s breaking up, something is -

At that point, Johnny ripped the phone cord out of the wall. He and Andrey both collapsed in fits of hysterical laughter. However, they were cut short by the IM sound coming from Johnny’s computer. It was Charles. He had probably believed Johnny about the transmission breaking and already logged on to AIM as an alternate way to bother him. Johnny screamed in rage when he saw the IM on his screen. Here is what it said:

WTGremlin: Howdy! …What happened?

Johnny sighed dejectedly and slowly typed out a reply.

ktzblgr: nothing

WTGremlin: Fun…. : P

ktzblgr: no it isn’t, actually

WTGremlin: …You ok…?

Johnny warned Charles on AIM, sending his warn level skyrocketing to 100% and kicking him off the server. He and Andrey once again started rolling around, clutching their sides in laughter. A few minutes later, Charles signed back on and sent an IM to Johnny saying,

WTGremlin: …Dogdamn…AIM is hella-buggy!

ktzblgr: you’re a bald faggot, charles shelley, and I hate you with a passion

WTGremlin: wthecklin…???

ktzblgr: wrong IM

WTGremlin: Oh… LOLZ! Hey… did I tell you about HephNet? I’m beefin’ up the server! And I bought a new-fangled floppy diskette “drive”! It reads 3 kb of data per minute. Blazin’!

ktzblgr: jesus christ you’re bald.

WTGremlin: LOL! Wrong IM again, huh? JJJJJJ!!! I was just reading some chats I had with the HephNet Bot last night at 4 in the morning after I realized how pathetic my life was and, in a manic depression, tried to kill myself by overdosing on aspirin… It loves the cock!

ktzblgr: uhhhh brb

WTGremlin: …No problem, best bud….In case you were wondering, I’m reading your buddy info right now over and over and over again.

Johnny turned away from the computer and took another hit off the bong. The bowl was pretty much dead, so he and Andrey packed another one, and after that one had been toked, they went downstairs to prepare a plate of nachos and watch TV. A few hours later, they went back upstairs. They had both completely forgotten about Charles. Johnny went to go use the computer and saw that Charles had typed out several hundred IM’s about how lonely he was and how he was wondering where Johnny went. Johnny laughed at how bald Charles was, even on the internet, and continued the conversation.

ktzblgr: back

WTGremlin: Bad-ass! I was just reading people’s Buddy Info again... Have you read Gunnar’s? He’s such a gaylord! LOL! JJJJJJJ!!!!1111

ktzblgr: charles phillip shelly specht you are a cock-smoking homosexual

WTGremlin: wt……..?

ktzblgr: sorry, wrong IM again. there’s a bunch of people messaging me

WTGremlin: LOL… Are they chix?

ktzblgr: ummm no just guys from school

WTGremlin: Dude… they want your cock!

ktzblgr: um ok

WTGremlin: LOLZ! So…stuffed any bitches lately?

ktzblgr: i think i have to go now

WTGremlin: Wait…don’t you want to go to lunch…you okay?

ktzblgr: brb

Johnny turned to Andrey, who was reading the conversation.

“God I don’t want to go to lunch with that bald bastard. What should I say?” Andrey shrugged. “Hold on,” Johnny said, getting up. “I have to take a massive shit.” He walked out of the room and into the bathroom. Andrey, chuckling uncontrollably, messaged Charles and said,

ktzblgr: yea go ahead and come over. let’s go to BK

WTGremlin: Bad-ass! Be there in a few! G’Later! Love ya! Bye! Cya! G’Night!

Charles was so happy that he would finally be able to shit at Burger King that he looked like this:

[needmoney]

Too long, didn't read.

Hey, i won't be the only one to say it.

[camper velourium]

With that, Charles signed off. When Johnny returned to the room and saw what happened, he smothered Andrey with a pillow for 20 minutes but eventually calmed down. The weed was starting to wear off, so they made two joints and smoked them while waiting for Charles to get there. They also had to think of what to tell Charles when he saw that the two were hanging out again. They figured he would freak out and be a fucking drama queen like he always was.

About an hour later, Charles rung Johnny’s doorbell. Andrey and Johnny were in Johnny’s room, listening to music and spacing out. Johnny sat up and said, “Fuck…the bald-ass is here”. Andrey laughed half-heartedly, still pretty high. Johnny stood up and muttered, “Well, I guess I have to go answer the door. Stay here.” Johnny walked down the stairs and opened the door, revealing a dilapidated Charles-like creature, sobbing silently and quaking with rage.
“I…was waiting outside…for FIFTEEN….SECONDS…” he choked out, his robotic screech of a voice dripping with absolute horror and anguish. Johnny laughed and slapped Charles in the face with an empty P’Zone box. A few seconds later, he and Charles were walking up the stairs. Charles walked into Johnny’s room and spotted Andrey. Instantly, all his bodily functions shut down and he could do nothing but stare at the person sitting there on Johnny’s bed. Charles’ pathetic bald mind couldn’t comprehend the situation. Everything he knew told him that this was impossible, after all, he had made sure that Andrey and Johnny would never become friends again, but here he was, in Johnny’s house. Wait, Charles thought, Maybe there’s an explanation. At that moment Andrey shouted,

“Hay there SPECHT, how’s it hanging???”

Charles was dumbfounded. He was awestruck. Bamboozled. Flabbergasted. Hornswoggled. His mouth creaked open, revealing three or four rows of disfigured, brown, crooked teeth. He gasped for air as a tear appeared at the corner of his eye. It dropped, fell through the air, and splashed on the toe of one of his ugly brown loafers. He took a deep breath, instantly filling the house with a rancid stench that emanated from his cave-like gaping maw. He couldn’t figure out what to do next. Andrey stared calmly at him, surveying Charles’ attire. He was wearing the only shirt he owned, which was a ratty black AFI shirt, covered with dog hair and several sizes too small. For pants he had donned his usual orange Bugle Boy cargo shorts with at least fifteen pockets, a hammer-holder, bungee cords, and blinking lights for safety. His remaining tufts of hair sprouted out of the sides of his Jamba Juice hat, also covered with dog hair. Charles was going bald. Very, very bald. Andrey could see that Charles hadn’t changed a bit, except he had clearly lost about 90% of the hair he had when Andrey last saw him, and had gotten at least twenty haircuts.

Charles was still standing there, having small shuddering spasms as his heart tried to start up again. He finally choked out,

“Wh…wha…what’s…going on…?”

Johnny said, “Well, we started talking again and became friends. Andrey just came over to hang out. Then we decided that all three of us should go to lunch. Is that ok, CHUCK?” He slapped Charles on the back, causing several pnarley teeth to fly out of Charles’ mouth and land on the carpet, where they sizzled and sputtered like acid.

Charles was having difficulty breathing. He had forgotten how to swallow, so his mouth was filled with rancid spit, and when he tried to answer, it dribbled out of his mouth, down his chin, and all over the front of his shirt. Andrey and Johnny cringed and whispered “God, what a bald faggot”. Charles weakly replied, his voice cracking uncontrollably,

“Su…Sure. That sounds……..bad-ass…..”

A few more tears dropped onto his hideous dog-feet. Charles was clearly having some sort of severe mental breakdown. Everything he had worked to preserve had been shattered by Andrey and Johnny talking to each other again. It was as if the last year of Charles’ life had been completely wasted. Little did Charles know, his entire life was a meaningless waste. Anyway, after Charles had fired up his weak, frail baboon heart again and collected the shattered remnants of his pathetic mind, he was able to walk downstairs, out the door and over to where his car was parked. Andrey and Johnny, following him, continued commenting on Charles ratty attire and utter lack of hair. They even thought of a new way to describe Charles’ “disability”, which was “follicularly vacant”. Anyway, when they got to Charles car, Johnny and Andrey started laughing yet again, while Charles yet again started crying. The utterly shitacular pniggapnarled condition of his “car” was such a disappointment that he almost blacked out. Actually, he did black out, and fell into the gutter, where he flopped and seized around like a swordfish that had been harpooned with a rusty pole-vaulting javelin. After Charles revived his wet, dirty, soggy, shit-stained corpse and got up, he tried to unlock the driver’s side door to his car. And once again, his key, this time a new one, broke in the lock. Charles was furious, and yet he knew he was too gay to do anything about it. The car wasn’t even a living person, so there was no chance of Charles going to one of its friends and talking shit about it behind its back, like he usually did when he was mad at someone. He couldn’t even pose as Derrick and abuse it over the internet. He stood there, quaking with rage, his hairy man-fists balled up, still clutching the broken shard of a key, which dug into his palm and cut apart his useless ham hand. He turned to Andrey and Johnny, who were sitting on the curb, chuckling, and said,

“Hey, guys…Well, Dogdamn, I guess I need a new key. But I want to go to lunch with you two noobs hella-bad, so I figure I’ll need to bust up this blazin’ window. Oh yeah, I forgot to ask Andrey…stuffed any bitches lately??”

Andrey looked at Charles, then at Johnny, then at Charles, and then at Johnny, and slowly and sadly shook his head. Johnny nodded, understanding that the power of Charles’ homosexuality had dumbfounded even Andrey. Andrey cleared his throat, and said,

“No.”

Charles’ expression looked like he had been shot in the groin several times. He said,

“What about that one girl that has a locker next to you? I thought you said she wanted your cock! You even said she came up to you one day and said ‘Andrey, I want to fuck you hard-core!’”.

“Ummmm, no sorry, you pathetic pile of rhinoceros shit. Nobody in the entire history of time has ever said that except you, and if they did, I certainly would never ever tell someone like YOU about it.”

When Andrey said the word “you” he furiously pointed at Charles, who received the gesture as another shot in the groin. He scratched the back of his furry neck, the only place where he had any remaining hair, then readjusted his Jamba Juice cap and started the long process of trying to break his window. Charles decided that his rusty leg pipe would be a good object for “busting” the window. He stood on his hands and swung the pipe at the window, where it bounced off and somehow bent impossibly to hit Charles directly in the hairy face. Charles pulled his green shards of teeth out of the pipe and said,

“Dogdamn! Why did I buy bulletproof plastic windows?! WEAK!”

One of Johnny’s bloated, drunk redneck neighbors walked by at that moment and saw what he knew was the ugliest, dirtiest, most tragically hideous human being he had ever seen struggling with his car window. He walked up, put out his cigarette in Charles’ Jamba Juice hat, and pulled on the door, which opened. He snickered at Charles, broke the beer bottle he was carrying over Charles’ head, and walked away, muttering, “…four-eyed faggot…” Andrey stood up, surveyed the situation and said,

“Why yes, Charles, you stupid bald faggot, it seems as though your ‘bad-ass’ leg pipe was no match for a fat pile of shit who was so drunk he could barely stand. Your door wasn’t even locked, you nigger.”

He and Johnny both got in the car, grumbling furiously about the worthless shit strewn about the car, composed mostly of failed tests from Charles’ general education college math course and erotic photos of men, as well as the mysterious mustard stains all over the seats. But Charles was still in shock. Luckily, a gust of wind blew him into the car and shut the door for him, as well as simultaneously tearing out and blowing away all the hair left on his head region, leaving him completely, utterly, 100% BALD.

While they were driving, Andrey lit up a cigarette, gave on to Johnny, and then decided to offer one to Charles, knowing full well the hilarious possibilities this might lead to. Charles, who had never even seen a cigarette in his life, took this opportunity to act “cool”. He looked at the cig and said,

“Aw, hell yeah! Dogdamn, I’ve had this hella-bad craving all day. I was just about to get my own pack and light up a fag!”

Andrey already knew that Charles had never smoked, so he said,

“Oh, I see. Hmm, yes, well, what brand do you smoke?”

Charles panicked, looked in the rearview mirror and tried to see if Andrey had left his pack out to read the label and use that as his own brand, but alas, Andrey had already placed it back in his pocket. He then started looking around, hoping to god that he would see a cigarette ad somewhere outside, but there was nothing. Charles said, his voice stuttering,

“Uhh…What do YOU smoke?”

“I asked you first, bald-ass.”

“Ummm…” Charles desperately searched his brain for any instance where he had heard a brand of cigarettes, but the only thing his mind could come up with was a type of miniature cocktail sausage produced by Hillshire Farm that he had received as a Christmas present six years ago.

“…Lit’l…Smokies…?”

Andrey and Johnny exploded in laughter. They didn’t say anything more about the subject; they already knew everything they needed to. Charles knew that he had said the wrong answer, so he pounded the steering wheel in frustration, which caused the car to swerve uncontrollably, and muttered, “Dang!” When Andrey had calmed down, he resumed asking Charles.

“So…do you want one or not?”

[camper velourium]

Charles could feel his fragile baboon heart beating furiously and his palms sweating. He was getting dizzy and feverish at the very thought of smoking a cigarette. He knew this might be his only chance and that he might never be able to smoke one again. His life flashed before his eyes, all the things his retarded fathers and whore mother had told him about smoking. His mind flew back a few years when his abominable man-father Kim had knelt before him, guzzling a bottle of ‘Tussin and crushing Charles’ testicles like a handful of ripe grapes. Kim was lecturing him about the dangers of smoking, all the while smoking five cigarettes simultaneously and blowing the smoke into Charles face. Kim then threw up all over his son, rubbed liquid soap in Charles’ eyes, and left him to die. Charles snapped back to reality, where a delicious, toasty Lucky Strike was awaiting him. He reached over, keeping his beastly robotic eyes on the road, his hand trembling, and took the cigarette in his grimy crab-like pincers. He held it backwards and let Andrey light it for him. Charles heart was beating so hard that his entire shirt was pumping and throbbing from the effort. Sweat ran in buckets from his bald head, showering his entire body. The thick fur on his forearms stood straight out from fear and anxiety. Andrey knew that Charles was smoking it backwards, but he didn’t say anything. He tried to light the filter, while Charles sucked in as hard as he could, and even though he didn’t inhale any smoke, he started coughing uncontrollably. He started swerving the car while he coughed up his bald lungs onto the dashboard, as well as the rest of all his internal organs. After he had thrown up everything inside his body, he was able to relax and say,

“Dang…that was weak. Do you smoke lights or something?”

This by itself was so gay that neither Johnny nor Andrey bothered to reply. Charles tried to take another drag on the cigarette, still holding it backwards, and said,

“Dude, is this thing still on? Hella-gay!”

After a few minutes of silence, Johnny decided to order Charles to go to In N’ Out instead of Burger King, because Burger King sucks ass. Then Charles decided to strike up another conversation about his wonderful website. He kept going on and on about how many hits HephNet got and how many people can’t live without it and how pretty soon he’s going to be raking in millions of dollars because of its success. Then Andrey said,

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea for HephNet. Why don’t you take that awful piece of shit and shut it the fuck d -”

But Charles, being a bald queer, interrupted Andrey and screamed, pointing to the right at an abandoned electronics store,

“HAY!!!!! WE SHOULD TURN THAT PLACE INTO A NIGHT CLUB!!!!!” he shrieked, and then let out a shuddering, wheezing chuckle. Andrey, infuriated, called Charles a stupid faggot and said he hoped Charles would die in a fire. Charles, however, being deaf and severely retarded, misunderstood and thought that Andrey had said, “I love you Charles. Let’s be best friends forever.” He then had such a powerful orgasm at the thought of this that he swerved and flew into a tire damage barrier. How ironic it was, that Charles himself had finally endured some “severe tire damage”.

When they arrived, they ordered their food and waited, while Charles flew into the bathroom and shit for 40 minutes. Andrey and Johnny both got double-double meals, while Charles desperately argued with the cashier to make him guacamole fries. A few minutes later, the manager, a huge black man named Willie, came out and beat Charles into a bloody bald pulp. While they were eating, Johnny casually asked Charles if he smoked weed. Charles was once again flustered, not knowing what to say. He decided to play it cool and say,

“Hell-yeah! Dude, this one time I was driving on the freeway and I saw a marijuana sticker on the back of some guy’s car, and I got high for 3 weeks! And this other time, I was at a party (Charles had never been to party and never will. No one would ever invite a bald loser to a party, nor does Charles know anyone who has parties) and some guy who smoked weed 15 years ago breathed on my face and I got so high I went into a coma and woke up in a hospital six months later! The only word to describe that experience is…Blazin’!”

Once again, the incomprehensible gayness of Charles’ words left a heavy silence between them. Charles stood there, his mouth gaping open, hoping to get a response such as “Bad-ass!” or “Hella-tight!” or maybe even a small “You go, girl!” but neither of them said a word. Charles felt dejected because his pathetic shitass lies weren’t working any more. Both Andrey and Johnny knew that everything Charles said was a blatant lie and that there was no point in listening to anything he said. In fact, they planned to never speak to him again after they finished lunch. Charles decided to take another shit, and when he got back he turned the “conversation” to news about the mysterious and dangerous Derrick.

Derrick and everything about him amounted to about 85% of all of Charles’ bullshit, and was probably his most grandiose lie. Supposedly, “Derrick” was Charles’ Russian best friend who could do anything he wanted and was incredibly rich and didn’t have to go to school or get a job and was constantly on the run from the cops because he was in America with an “illegal visa”. Good one, Charles. Anyway, every time Charles saw Johnny or Andrey he would feel the need to remind them of how he and Derrick met, which was utter bullshit as well. Apparently, one day Charles was skateboarding (Charles sucks horribly at skateboarding) down the street at 90 mph and lo and behold, coming towards him was Derrick, also skateboarding. Then, miraculously, they somehow crashed into each other and because of this got into a “fight”. Charles, of course, being awesome and having a huge penis, beat the shit out of Derrick for a while, but eventually they started laughing and then, obviously, became best friends. At that point, Derrick didn’t speak any English, so Charles taught him that while Derrick taught Charles Russian. Charles doesn’t understand a word of Russian. Speaking of which, Charles sucks at everything. In fact, he sucks at life. He sucks at skateboarding, at computers, at talking to girls, at living, at growing hair, at EVERYTHING. Every single thing Charles ever tried to do, he sucked horribly at. Anyway, this is what Charles had to say about Derrick,

“So…did you guys hear about Derrick’s latest stunt? He blew up El Modena High School while drinking a bunch of vodka and hacking the AOL network and fucking three girls at the same time and brushing his thick golden locks! Then he went home to his perfect family of one father, one mother, and a straight brother or sister to tell them that they suck and that he’ll never do any chores again and that he’s going to buy his own mansion. Then he went to a ‘bangin’’ party and got drunk with his hundreds of friends. Then just as he was about to leave some girl who loved his beautiful thick head of hair gave him a free lapdance. Oh, that Derrick. What will he do next?”

As you can see, Derrick did or was able to do everything that Charles couldn’t and wished he could. Derrick was smart and funny and popular and not a virgin and had plenty of hair. He was also Russian and had a huge penis, Charles always said knowingly. He had a normal family and a big house and was rich and basically led the life that Charles always wanted. This way, Charles could live out his sick fantasies by creating a fake identity. Andrey and Johnny both knew at this point that Derrick did not exist and that he was just a fictional character that Charles made up who did bad things to them. You see, Charles was just about the biggest pussy you could ever find, so even when someone four years younger than him made fun of him or told him he was bald or made him mad in any way, he couldn’t actually do anything about it himself. That’s why he made up Derrick. This way he could express his rage towards the person he was pissed off at without taking any responsibility for it, usually by doing something really gay like pissing on their garage door in the middle of the night or throwing a rock at their window. This way it was all Derrick’s fault, and whenever Johnny or Andrey got suspicious, Derrick would simply move away to Russia or go undercover to “hide from the cops” or some other bullshit lie.

When Andrey and Johnny looked back on it, they were disgusted with themselves for not realizing the truth sooner. After all, there were blatant clues in all of the chats they had with Derrick, such as how Derrick was obsessed with Charles and always praised him. For instance, one time when Charles was really mad at Andrey and wanted to use Derrick to take out his anger, he staged a chat and said, as Derrick, “You’re a real prick. You should thank your stars that you have a wonderful friend like Charles to put up with you.” Clearly, Charles was using every opportunity to praise and compliment himself, mainly because no one else ever would. And another time, “Derrick”, for some reason, asked Johnny what he was going to get Charles for his birthday. It was obviously a cry for attention and a hopeless effort to receive a gift on Charles’ part, because neither Johnny nor Andrey nor his “parents” had ever given him any sort of gift. Anyway, it was miraculous how Charles kept his incredibly large web of lies running smoothly and without and mix-ups happening. Then again, when you’re a bald 19-year old loser who has a shitty job and no friends and nothing to do, you would probably have a lot of time to plan all your fake stories.

[camper velourium]

Anyway, they finally got back to Johnny’s house. As soon as they got out, Charles immediately invited himself over for the rest of the day and the night, so Johnny couldn’t tell him to leave. Charles instantly made himself at home, stretching out on the sofa, watching TV, taking his shoes off. He even ordered a soda from Johnny. Johnny was so furious that as soon as he got back to the living room he hurled it at Charles’ plastic hip. Charles saw the soda can flying at him, hoarsely screamed “FOHCK”, and sprung into action, but it was too late. The soda can pelted him in the hip, crushing his pelvis and paralyzing him for the rest of his life. Approximately 4 seconds after he was hit, Charles skipped in an effort to dodge the soda can. Sadly, his reflexes weren’t catlike enough, and he was owned. Andrey and Johnny laughed at him for at least 40 minutes afterward. To try and act cool again, Charles casually noted how huge his penis was, which made Johnny and Andrey laugh harder. Charles got fed up and left.
His spider sense told him that perhaps his two best friends didn’t like him anymore, but his tiny peanut-sized brain couldn’t figure out why. After all, he had a thick head of rich chestnut-brown hair, incredibly large genitalia, cool clothes, a hot scenester girlfriend, a bad-butt ride with a pimp-ass paint job and to top it all off, he was a leet hacker. What was the problem? Charles was just a little girl, alone and afraid of what would happen next. He figured it was time to find a new place to live, seeing as his dwelling of sorts had been obliterated. He crawled under his car and climbed up through the floor, which was completely torn off. He sat down, spearing his anus on a rod of rusty steel where the seat should have been. He sighed in pleasure as he swiveled around on the rim of his pooper, settling in comfortably. He thought it would be appropriate to now utter some sort of incomprehensibly cool catch phrase before he drove away into the sunset, now being a rogue outcast who was flying solo. Charles racked his floppy disk brain’s index of all the things he had ever said, and finding nothing unrelated to men’s asses, HephNet, or guacamole, he sneered and whispered/grunted, “…Lock and load…” Charles pushed on the gas pedal with his boat anchor foot gently, making the Corsica overheat and instantly burst into flames. Charles rumbled down the street at eleven miles an hour in the direction of Starbuck’s.
Charles had no money, at least not in the conventional sense. He had his own form of currency, consisting of Pogs “slammers”, bottle caps, rubber bands, pieces of lint and dental floss. Whenever he tried to pay for something, the cashier would instantly press the panic button under the register, and the SWAT team would rush to the scene. They would beat Charles half to death with nightsticks and then throw him in jail for a few months, where he would be butt-fucked in the mouth 24 hours a day. So because he was so broke, Charles turned to Starbuck’s free wireless internet as a means of getting online. Since Charles spent 90% of his waking moments on AIM, reading people’s buddy info or cruising around eBay looking for used condoms, he was constantly at Starbuck’s, mooching off them like the nigger he was.
Charles walked into Starbuck’s and up to the counter. He tried to order a drink he had never heard of as smoothly as he could, and as a result got sprayed in the face with boiling coffee. He screamed and leaped backwards, tripping over an ottoman and toppling into the fireplace. He waved his arms and let out a long robotic beep that decreased in pitch as his skin melted away. When Charles had crawled out of his fiery prison, half of his face had been burned off, revealing his metallic skull and red Terminator eye. His vision was now composed of a red-tinted pinhole viewing screen with a crosshair in the middle, surrounded by completely trivial crap like bar graphs and Winamp visualizations and arbitrarily scrolling code. Charles locked his sensor on a table and sat down. He pulled his laptop out of his bright green My Chemical Romance “I’m not okay” handbag and opened it using one of his snaggle-teeth like a hook. He squirmed in content when he saw his wallpaper, a picture of Andrey that he had taken when he wasn’t looking, tiled over and over again. He fired up Compuserve and placed a personals ad for anyone looking for a roommate. The ad read:
“Young, handsome bachelor needs roommate for a short time, possibly several decades. I am a youthful lad with plenty of hair, a huge penis, and amazing computer hacking skills. I would prefer a prepubescent boy with a great ass as a roommate, but do not insist. Drinking and drugs are fine by me, as I love to party! :P :P :P :P :P :P :P LOLLOLOLOL. I am looking to pay very little to nothing for rent. I have a few “habits” that some could consider bothersome, but that I think are quite charming. High speed internet access and full-stocked guacamole bar are a must. Call 436-BALDFAGGOT696969 to make arrangements.”
Several months later, Charles received a message from a person named Annie, who told him that she had a spare corner in her basement. Annie was a nigger, meaning she was a human being that was black. She was also a lesbian, which meant she was a carpet-munching, rug-eating, muff-diving dyke. She wore dungarees, had short hair, a firm handshake, and some hair on her upper lip. She lived in a two-bedroom shithole shack next to a Korean laundromat in the meatpacking district of Garbage Grove. Her roommates included a 55 year old man who broke through her window one night and fell asleep on her couch and died, a methamphetamine addict who lived in the ceiling vents, and a huge horse-sized black dog who shit all over everything.
Annie had been single for a few months after her last girlfriend accidentally killed herself. She was sitting on top of the refrigerator, naked, masturbating with a broom handle, when she lost her balance and fell off, impaling herself through the vagina. The only reason Annie called Charles was because she thought he was a lesbian looking for a relationship. She had gotten extremely drunk one night and stumbled upon Charles’ ad, but because alcohol made her partly blind, she thought that the ad was by a 300 pound truck driver dyke in her mid-thirties who loved Wrangler jeans and bass fishing.


Charles decided he might as well go to Jamba Juice and ask J-Ron if he could live at his place. Charles dragged his boat anchor leg over to his car and climbed in through the window. He then drove over to his workplace.

Charles parked and got out of his car, then walked over to the door of Jamba Juice. As soon as he walked in, his instincts jumped into action. His raisin-like testicles coiled up and his weiner shot sweaty sperm all over his legs as a powerful orgasm rumbled through his body like a logging truck. He couldn’t help it. He just loved Jamba Juice that much. His bulging fly eyes looked around and his infrared scanning told him that J-Ron was standing at the cash register. He started walking towards him when a nearby police officer ran into the Jamba Juice and started tazing Charles. Charles fell to the floor instantly, his face landing first, sending his malformed metallic teeth shards all over the floor as he pissed and shit himself involuntarily. The cop immediately ran into his car and drove away before providing an explanation. Charles stumbled around blindly, since his glasses had fallen off too. After a couple days, the horribly disfigured chucktard had collected all of his disgusting, brown, pnarled teeth. He reattached them all, and only later figured out they were all misplaced and upside down, meaning he could never speak normally again. With his useless ham hands and bloodied face, Pnarles continued the search for his glasses. Following a loud whirring sound Charles thought might be his glasses; he got excited and quickly slid into the noise. He then found out he had actually slid into one of the new industrial size blenders, which left his entire malformed head ragged and mangled. Because of the immense pain, Charles passed out.

A few days later, Charles got up. He looked down and saw a huge Charles-shaped puddle of blood, littered with pubic hair and teeth, which he had been laying in. He looked around drunkenly and patted his head. Once again, his self-esteem plummeted after he realized there wasn’t any hair. Desperately ignoring the Alzheimer’s, he tried to remember what he was doing there. J-Ron was still standing at the cash register. Suddenly, Charles remembered his task. He walked up to him and said,

“Howdy, J-Ron! What’s up?”

J-Ron laughed hysterically and beat Charles in the mouth with a cat shelf. Charles ignored the searing pain and said,

“So anyway, my house was destroyed and I need somewhere to ‘crash’. Can I hang out at your place?”

“Fuck no. Get out you bald loser. You’re fired.”

Charles’ head exploded and he died.
*
THE END

EPILOGUE:
Charles had been fired and dead for fifteen years, but because of a glitch in the payroll department, he had still been getting paid, his paychecks getting sent home to his mother. Paying no attention to the fact that her oldest daughter was dead, Charles’ drunk-ass mother spent all of his paychecks turning his room into a storage area for all of Charles’ homosexual brother's hooty and the blowfish albums.

[needmoney]

Worst. Ending. Evar.