Chuckley Knuckling?
I never thought we would be following in the dog shit encrusted footsteps of dear old daddy Gwarble, sat picking our arse and conjuring up this shitrag again. Sadly though times are hard and the Barble, Tribune, Knuckle has to eat, lest it begin to follow the pattern of interaction in MafiaReturns and shrivel up and die without so much as a whimper.
Unfortunately for the Knuckle, we're more partial to steak dinners than we are to piss soaked bread, which is going to make this increasingly difficult. Let's face it, we're only concerned with you fine, snigger, gentlefolk turning over your not-so-hard earned cash and depositing it into our scruffy pockets. In exchange for those pennies, I've dredged the depths of Desperation Lake and scraped the bottom of just about every barrel I could find and produced this delectable dollop of tittle-tattle and nonsense. Hopefully I'll be able to pay for the aforementioned steak dinners on the back of it. Provided you aren't expecting much.
I supposed I should begin by addressing, the enormous stupidly titled elephant in the room - and for once that isn't an introduction for you AlabamaWorley - "The Chuckle Knuckle". You may notice remarkable similarities it has to both the former toilet paper, The Gwarble Barble and the slightly short-lived, former chip wrapper, The Mafia Tribune. You may speculate why these similarities exist, but let me tell you, the Knuckle doesn't care less what you think (we totally do, $$$$), the Knuckle couldn't care less whether this bothers you (we totally do, $$$$), and the Knuckle couldn't give two shits whether you're offended by our predecessors either (God, we couldn't actually care more than we already do about whether you're offended, you guys mean the world to us, $$$$), so there.
You may also have guessed that we managed to get ourselves fired from the MafiaTribune; why else would we be out here begging from you chumps, heroes, right? I suppose that development isn't all that surprising; I guess if you don't turn up for work 200 days in a row after leaving Bob Liar to get increasingly fat and senile and allowed to get up to increasingly disturbing and illegal things, upon your bleary eyed return, there is going to be someone held accountable. In this case, it was yours truly being tossed out on his ear and left to fend for himself. Due to my incapacity to do that whole distasteful 'fending for myself' thing, I'm brought full circle back to begging about steak dinners. I really am hungry here fellas.
Anyway, back to our story and without our plush offices in City Hall, the former reporters went their separate ways. Gwarble went rather hilariously to his death; Craig had obviously been around Colin too long and caught an incurable dose of laziness that just about finished him off; Bob Liar reputedly ate himself into an early (although certainly overdue) grave; shelly had fathered/mothered a child with Evangeline and Hoopi hadn't been seen since Mittens had filed for divorce, citing irrevocable differences - possibly that he was a cat and Hoopi was a woman, although that is just speculation. You can learn more about the stories of each of these disasters in each passing issue, but let's be honest, who really gives a shit about that gaggle of bastards? Not me, that's for sure.
Without a team of writers to deliver their usual ill fated attempts at humour, complete lack of insight and quarter truths, the Knuckle was left in a bit of a pickle. How to go about living the life of luxury without any real skills to achieve it, connections to facilitate it, or more depressingly, the body to sell for it? Unlike its predecessors though, the Knuckle was made of stern stuff, it wouldn't balk in the face of the tough task and it certainly wasn't above a long bout of grovelling for your dollars. If you say anything for the Chuckle Knuckle, say it has class.
Rather disappointingly the charity amongst MafiaReturns, as you might imagine, isn't all that great. It might have gone a little bit better if the Knuckle hadn't spent the first 3 days harassing a robot, who studiously ignored all attempts we made to part him from his automated credit, but still, live and learn. With that fiasco behind us, we went to see a crazy man in Las Vegas who fancied himself as some sort of seer. Incredulously that mad clown gave us $50,000 and a lifeline, who would have thought it?
We knew this was a huge opportunity. This was our chance to make a name for ourselves. We had to be responsible, intelligent and hard working. We seized the day and stepped up the task before us, ready to tackle the world.
After blowing that $50,000, waking up in a gutter eleven days later and being right back to square one, we acquired ourselves some equipment, recruited ourselves some staff and viola!
We've returned. Er. We're back. No, no, no. We're here.
For totally the first time. And that.
...Yeah.
Seamless sign off - check.
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Horrorscopes
by Knuckle
Capricorn
I see nothing but good things for you this week Capricorn. You'll meet your new lover. They are a rather fetching gazelle by the name of Bubbles. I should have said, good compared to last week.
Aquarius
Ever wondered why everyone hates you Aquarius? It's because you're a bellend. The only way to change that is to eat 300 pounds of fast food. Then you'll be a fat bellend.
Pisces
Something in your life is going to change. It isn't for the better. You're such a cretinous disgrace at the moment, Pisces, that even to me this is tough to believe, but it will. Maybe you'll lose a limb? Fingers crossed.
Aries
Lots of famous people have been Aries. They're all dead now and you're going to join them.
Taurus
Watch out for a tall man bearing a bouquet of flowers. He hasn't been to a funeral and nobody is going to die, don't worry, he is going to rape you though.
Gemini
I see a change in career on the horizon for you, Gemini - you're going to step up in the world. You can clean the BIG toilets this week! Go you, you plucky little winner, you!
Cancer
Cancer, the skid mark of all star signs. Nothing big is going to be coming near you this week. You're going to end up in bed with Camazotz.
Leo
It isn't too much of a stretch to say that you've got all your ducks in a row, Leo. Unfortunately, getting your ducks lined is a sign of latent homosexuality and Falcon's been watching you with hunger in his eyes. Get on the blower to the parents, you're coming out!
Virgo
Thursday is going to be epic. Friday? Monumental. Saturday? Colossal. On Sunday you're going to die. Three great days first though. Live it up. Do a petty.
Libra
When you reach the crossroads, take the left fork. Danger is to the right, whereas only imminent trouble is on the left. Get moving.
Scorpio
Look out Scorpio! Something terrible is going to shatter on your face. A mirror. After you ram your head through it, when you see what an ugly bastard you are.
Sagittarius
Nobody loves you Sagittarius, not even Jesus. God's flock doesn't need another prick. Do one.
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Outfoxxed, but not Outzombied
by Chuckle
We nearly fell off our chairs.
SOMETHING FUCKING HAPPENED!
I'd begun to think that it was impossible, but apparently not! It is official - people can actually still do things besides petty crimes in MafiaReturns!
"What happened, Sir?" I hear you ask. Well, it appears that all was not well. Reports began to flood in to us from Los Angeles (yeah, we have sources, fuck you) that mobsters from New York, possibly having been rendered mute given what they've commented on this or any other issue in the Streets lately, had entered the city with murder in their hearts. Gunfire and pillow fights followed. It all seemed extremely competent and...dull. Still, at least it was something! It didn't involve a petty crime or a jail bust, so it was easily the most entertaining thing that happened since Gazman clarified his popularity with an appeal for bodyguards and his "Protected" status.
With the exception of foxxy, the Los Angeles leadership lay dead and it was the survivor who came before us and delivered a concise summary of events. She cited several rather boring instances that caused the rift between herself and the rest of the Los Angeles hierarchy. I'd repeat them, but to be honest, they aren't amusing and I have no idea whether they are true or not. You would need a real reporter to deduce the truth from the bullshit, but our talents lie much more in the latter than the former, so...here's something she did say that may or may not be bollocks:
As a Los Angeles crewleader, I could not sit idly by and watch the leadership of Drexler run this city into the ground. I can assure you all that this decision was not taken lightly, and it saddened me greatly to make this choice. However this choice was for the greater good, by sacrificing a few I have saved the city from swallowing itself whole - foxxy, Consigliere, Los Angeles.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Shortly after this announcement, Roman took the decision to ban all members of Los Angeles from Chicago. Rumours that this stemmed from fear that any sort of movement might awaken the many zombies impersonating mobsters littering the decaying remains of the city remain unconfirmed, but widely believed. We pitched this to Godfather Roman who was unavailable for comment citing his busy schedule eating brains as the reason, but we nominated ThomasHarrow as spokesperson for Chicago instead and he said this:
Zombies? You reckon we've got zombies in Chicago? Laughable. Why, there are plenty of fine individuals like myself making our living here! Just look at me and PizzaTheHut, do we look like zombies? Ok, maybe not that fat knacker, but me, I'm fine! - ThomasHarrow, Capo, Chicago.
A city-wide conflict between New York and Chicago reared its head and bayed at the moon. Roman appeared with silver bullets and shot the baying foxxy stone dead, announcing it was the consensus of the talking heads of the Cities. It would seem that the New York support for the removal in Los Angeles was self serving. As fate would have it, foxxy had indeed allowed the city to swallow itself whole and despite her claims to the contrary, she had managed to sacrifice everyone in the process. Ah well, she was nearly right and she actually did something, kudos from the Knuckle for that. Something less shit next time please.
With the death of the fox (not FOX and that shit quote oddly), Roman was quick to dispel any rumours of disparity between the remaining powers that be. He concluded that the drama was over. The cities could resume their peaceful sleep. Activity peaked, surging into life, but has subsequently been laid to rest once again.
We hope the channels with ThomasHarrow, the epitome of activity in Chicago, remain open.
(The full story about the destruction of Los Angeles can be found in foxxy's announcement here and Roman's here)
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The Great Names of MafiaReturns
by Chuckle
I like to take a stroll down the Streets sometimes. Not in a gay way you understand, I'm not prancing or anything, we leave that sort of thing to Crawford and his guitar. No, a manly stroll down the Streets, that's the path the Knuckle strikes and people cower in fear. Well, not so much cower, but studiously ignore, pot, kettle. It is all the same to us.
On one of our manly strolls, we noticed that a lot of people have some rather - let me just phrase this using the correct terminology - shit, there we go, names. The ratio of quality titles to terrible ones is about 709:4. The first of these 4 triumphant names, is undoubtedly 'Chuckle'. Nothing quite encapsulates the class, dignity and downright hilarity of the man better than his appropriated name. Well done Chuckle.
Luckily Chuckle isn't alone in the 'Great Name Club' and it has some other prestigious members. I've decided to honour these delightfully named people and give them all the attention they deserve below.
Third Greatest Name
JewishJake - You can't mess with a classic. Little black dress, cheeseburgers, laughing at old people - the list goes on. JewishJake is a classic name, let down only by the funboy picture.
Second Greatest Name
PizzaTheHut - A magnificent specimen of a name, hindered only be the bloated sack of shit it is wasted on. Still, the chump-like nature of the owner has no effect upon the glory of the name. Fine work.
The Greatest Name
JihadJerry - This has it all. Religious overtones, holy war, alliteration. My heart beats a little bit faster, especially when coupled with a witty quote like 'durka durka durka'. Beautiful.
Honourable mentions also to TWENTYCHARACTERLIMIT and DeepThroat, but these are primarily for the pictures. Pretty dreadful names.
(If you believe that you've seen better names than these, feel free to send your suggestions to the weakly named Clarence-Worley, with the title of 'My stupid opinion of who has a better name'. We'll be sure to confirm just how stupid and wrong you are.)
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Beverly Hills Bumjob
by Duke Earl
The Chuckle is never far from the vibrant epicentre of any news and this week our sources in the cities have been rumbling even more than usual over events in Los Angeles. The normal spirit crushing boredom of mafia life has been punctuated by some eye catching and bizarre behaviour from those wacky sun baked mobsters of the west coast. We sent our man Duke Earl down there to see what was shakin'. After he dug himself out of the bottom of a young asian gentleman, he trotted off.
Duke got wind of rumours that Drexler and some of his other cohorts had been into some strange things around town. He headed down to a well known boutique restaurant in Beverly Hills to check it out. Meeting with the owner Maurice Paratee (real name Edward Stokes) our man sat at one of the fine tables and soaked in the ambience.
Duke: Ed, nice place you have here. Thanks for this sit down.
Maurice: Ok dick-head look, its Maurice. When you are here, my name is Maurice, Capiche?
Duke: Oh very nice, I like what you did there. Anyway, to more important names. I am told you had Drexler and his cohorts here as regular customers?
Maurice: That guy was one crazy motherfucker you know? I mean, I know he was the Godfather of the city but Jesus, the way they all carried on was too much. Sometimes I'd have to close the restaurant.
Duke: Really? Whatever could you mean? What were he and his friends doing that was so offensive?
Maurice: Oh brother, you wouldn't believe it. It was obscene! I mean, I got nice couples, decent people here enjoying a nice meal and they have to watch as Drexler gets it up and starts having sex with one of his flunkies right on the table. I mean seriously, I wanna accommodate the guy, he's the godfather and all that but man... How are these people supposed to eat a romantic steak with two huge men having sex on the table in front of them? It's impossible!
Duke: That certainly sounds like an issue!
Maurice: If it was a onetime thing I'd have let it slide you know, but every week those guys would come in here. He'd be balls deep in one guy or another, they'd be doing drugs on the tables, making a real mess. Him and his main guy FrankMartin came in on a few occasions. Man, they were the worst, when him and Frank went at it, it was murder. They would scream like cats in the alley. It was sick. Grown men, screaming and shrieking like that. It was disgusting. They'd be all over the other customers too, trying to buy more men from the other couples eating in the place. I tell ya, I've seen more than a few women dragging their men out of this place to safety. It nearly shut us down!
Duke: Remarkable. Who knew he had such.. tastes? Did you see any of the other family heads connected with Drexler's organisation, or was it just him and his people?
Maurice: No. Now don't get me wrong there were some people that worked for him that seemed more normal but only slightly. Foxxy used to come in here now and then. She'd usually be dressed real suggestively and entertaining some high flyer from out of town. She seemed to have a thing for the east coast mob. I never said nothing obviously but she used to drop her fork quite a lot and she'd be under the table a long time looking for it, if you know what I mean. Let's just say I was glad we have dim lights around the joint. Classy broad though, real looker.
Duke: That's certainly interesting stuff. So you could say you were glad to hear the news that they had all been, ahem, removed, from their positions? Surely now you can get back to some sense of normality.
Maurice: Are you kidding? Three of those guys got mowed down with machine guns while they were having sex at that table right over there! It was like some fucked up scene from Caligula, with machine guns, and shit. Man there's an image I'll never get out of my head. Don't get me wrong I've had a hell of time here with this place but I've been giving it some thought and I've decided to buy myself a boat and do some fishing. The quiet life. You know? I'll be turning this place over to my cousin.
Duke: Indeed I do. Well Ed, thanks for your time.
Maurice: Any time kid. Don't slip on the way out.
(The full story about the destruction of Los Angeles can be found in foxxy's announcement here and Roman's here but the scoop on the sexy time is all us.)
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'My stupid crew have been informed, Sir'
by Chuckle
I've only been here a cool seventeen days and already this is grating on my nerves. What could ever grate upon the ever so beautiful nerves of the Knuckle, I hear you ask? I'll bloody well tell you!
The responses to protection announcements.
Why does every Tanda, Dick and Harry who's strapped themselves on the brilliant bolds this morning have to come out and announce that they are first of all "Sorry for your loss" and have secondly "Informed *insert stupid crew name here*"?
I've mulled over the many reasons for this and I can only conclude several things. Perhaps you are so brought to tears (get the tissues, oo-er) that you felt the need to express your grief through the use of some extremely hollow platitudes in the Streets? I considered this and then rejected it. If anyone actually gave a shit, they would have paid the deceased a worthwhile eulogy, rather than dishing out the old 'sorry for your loss' nonsense. Therefore, I'm going to disregard any aspect of genuine concern as the reason behind it.
This leaves me with two remaining options, either your crews are too stupid to notice the protection notice for themselves, which is entirely plausible but not something that really needs to be advertised, or, this is some sycophantic attempt at point scoring. Everyone knows that a mass mail to all the leaders has probably gone out, an announcement will have been made in the crewleader speakeasy and, most importantly, any individual who defies the protection notice is going to end up in a body bag, regardless of whether you slumped into the streets to announce they've been informed.
You have rules against shooting the members who've recently become unsponsored, no? You have rules against shooting without the hierarchy's consent, no? Good. So please, save the one sentence declaration of garbage about losses and informed crews.
It really isn't required.
(You can see the type of ridiculousness I'm talking about here)
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New and totally well known and totally not the first time we've ever heard of them, leaders
by Chuckle
As a certain Mark_Sanchez rather sycophantically phrased it, MafiaReturns is cyclical. Despite his infamous idiocy, in that he was correct and in the wake of any casualty, new individuals come forward to take their place. Our life must continue and business must remain paramount; the Knuckle is certain of that and the Knuckle is certain of so few things in these troubled times. Did I say troubled? Excuse me, I meant placid. And the Knuckle is certain of lots of things. You can put your house on that. Or donate it to us. Either or. Your call. Donate it. Don't be selfish.
Anyway, regardless of whether you decide to donate your house to our empty treasury, which is not so much a treasury per se as a dank, empty closet in Chuckle's appropriated shack; MafiaReturns is undoubtedly cyclical. Did I say that already? I think I may have already said that. Oh well, it is true even if was an infatuated moron like Mark_Sanchez who wrote it as part of his homage to his hero CrazyNine. This circumstance has presented itself inevitably before us with the removal of Drexler in Los Angeles and as sure as night follows day and that Randy Savage is dead, we've had new leaders step forward to take his place.
I know you may point out that none of these auths are actually in Los Angeles and question the relevance of this introduction in light of this observation. In response to that, I hastily put my fingers in my ears, start shouting "LALALALALALALALALALALALALALA" and refuse to acknowledge the truth of said observations. Ner Ner.
New Auths
-BostonGeorgeJung - Undoubtedly the biggest appointment of the lot, -BostongeorgeJung (BJ to his friends) has become Godfather of St Louis. RoRoG came to the Streets to tell us a delightful story about a jazz flute, but unfortunately that bastard Egwene stopped him. He then went on to talk about something entirely less interesting, yada, yada, yada. We never did get to hear anymore about that jazz flute, fist shake, but BJ is the Godfather of St Louis. We wait to see what he does with his city, wagging our tail like an eager puppy, yet to have the reality of the world beaten into them.
Batman - Fresh from fighting crime, the caped crusader has begun The Wayne Enterprise. Whilst we held high hopes for Batman and his venture in St Louis, I mean he is fucking Batman, we quickly felt those hopes extinguish when we discovered that Batman had worked with Falcon in the past. It is difficult to resist the poisonous stupidity of Falcon and we feel it is inevitable some will have leaked into Batman from their tumultuous time together in New Orleans.
Athyna-Grinz - The Grin in your name is definitely to your credit. Excellently named RHM to boot. Below old Chuckle on the 60 seconds list, pretty amusing. Called your crew The Others...ooo. It was going well until then as well.
SalvatoreMaranzano* - Hailing from Chicago, this organization has quickly swelled to 20+ members. This is faster than any of the others, but luckily Salvatore has destined himself for death with the appointment of ginger village idiot, Gazman, to the Left Hand Man position. How Salvatore has managed to recruit so many people in such a short space of time is something of a mystery.
*That last one may actually not be a new auth, but as he is so rarely seen in The Streets, I thought it best to alert you all to his presence in case you forgot.
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Obituaries
I've decided that no publication of any sufficient calibre is complete without an obituaries section. In our walk of life people die and they will be honoured in this section. Unfortunately in our walk of life some people don't die and we wish they would have. They will also be honoured in this section.
People who have died
...can be found here.
Lazy bastards.
People we wish had died
They gathered around the bloated corpse of Bob Liar. With a swift efficiency, they carved him open and spread his entrails on the floor before them. They took his liver and made the incision. Much muttering ensued, they considered what the omens meant as the blood flowed freely from the body. They continued to dismember the corpse, examining each organ in turn, contemplating upon what they saw. The divination took some time, but it was clear what had been seen. The Death Wish List was composed.
insane_killer
There are a lot of things the Knuckle will hold its hands up to not being. We eat steak dinners rather than salads, we know better than to read instructions and we can open every jar ever invented, thus concluding we're definitely not female. Equally, the Knuckle isn't winning any medals as a pioneer of breaking news, more likely a consolation prize for bothering to enter the game at all. But, one thing the Knuckle does pride itself on is the quality of its high brow humour. I know, who could ever doubt it, right?
Wrong. Old insane 'lets report drug prices and not do our petty codes' killer here decided that the Knuckle was less than amusing:
From: insane_killer
Subject:
are u trying to be funny, because if your are your not funny at all
The Knuckle is a sensitive beast, the delicate flower struggling in the wind and when people insult it, well, we get downright angry. Amidst much foot stomping, cursing and throwing of toys, we decided that we are trying to be funny and if someone thinks we are 'not funny at all', well, by golly, there is only one thing we can do! Inaugural entrant to the death wish list, here you go.
AlabamaWorley
AW: "Hey man, I'm doing myself a crime and was wondering if you would like to help us out?"
CK: "Sure, I would certainly be interested in that."
AW: "Really? Great! Let me just send you an invite."
Chuckle attempts to accept invite.
CK: "There seems to be a bit of a problem, I can't join in?"
AW: "Hahahahah! Fuck you, you can't be involved in my crime. Gotcha! Done it fucking without you, fagchops!"
Tantalising, mincing, bastard. Death Wish List.
Egwene
We sat. We waited, our breath baited, our attention, fixed, waiting for the scene to unfold. All we got was "so there was this guy playing jazz flute...". Then? THEN?! You had to cough. You ruined it for all of us. What did we get instead? A poxy auth announcement. So what? Who cares about one slumbering giant walking from one city to another? That isn't fucking news! I want to know about this guy playing the jazz flute!
That's what people, really care about.
Aalyshah
MY EYES! MY PRECIOUS EYES!
What. On. Earth.
I was left nonplussed by your terrible, terrible, quote. You nearly slipped by the DWL this week, but just as we went to sweep away Liar's remains, we spotted a hint of something. A small, subtle wish, because the DWL is never vulgar. Callous? Certainly. Deadly? Undoubtedly. But vulgar? Oh no, we leave that to lesser beings, like iGotStupidName. That subtle wish was undoubtedly your demise. Despite our earlier reluctance, one glance at that train wreck of a quote and our faith in the DWL is fully restored.
Off you pop.
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Knuckle's Competition
Early on, we did a gag about SalvatoreMaranzano being newly authorised because he's so anonymous. It wasn't until we started crafting this side splitter that we realised just how many names we could have used in that space. Seriously, click the crew list and check.
With this in mind, we've tossed this delightful little number together and would appreciate your thoughts on the topic of Who is MafiaReturns most anonymous crewleader?.
Amusingly, I'm letting you do this anonymously, but if you feel like you want to share your view with me in mail, provided it is funny, I won't oust you. We'll laugh about it instead. Hell, for everyone who enters and sends me a mail confirming they voted and who for, Katarina will give them $1,000.
Have your say!
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What happened to Bob Liar?
Earlier I mentioned that you could find out what befell the former writers of the Barble and Tribune. You can. I wouldn't recommend it, but you can. We'll start off with that fat bag of balls, Bob Liar.
As he pushed open the door, hanging loosely from one rotten hinge, he was immediately assaulted. The first was by the overpowering stench, unmistakably sweat ridden poverty; the second by a monstrous cat, so fat that its tiny legs struggled to carry it's colossal bulk. The cat hissed at Chuckle, before pawing madly at his shins, desperately encouraging him to spare it some food. Chuckle was less than impressed taking in the dank surroundings and he struggled to overcome the stagnant sense of failure that clung to the hovel.
"You've fallen a long way Mittens" Chuckle quietly admonished the cat, which had the dignity to look sheepish. A lifetime away from Hoopi and his horrific advances had taught it that much at least. It attempted to scarper off, but quickly gave up and collapsed into a heap of rubbish. Chuckle sighed to himself and gazed at the fat mess on the floor, being strongly reminded of Colin, but he couldn't say why.
After several moments of quiet reflection, he decided to proceed with his mission. He squinted in the gloom, the dim light coming through the broken doorway was the first that had breached the inside of the apartment for some time and Chuckle had to fight the urge to vomit from the smell emanating from a room at the back. He brushed past the reticent animal on the floor and fought his way through the mounds of litter, discarded tissues and women's clothing. He moved towards one of the windows and drew back the dark, heavily stained, curtains to allow the sun some much needed access. He tried to open the latch, but it had been glued, at least he hoped it was glue, tight shut and it wouldn't budge. Nothing he could do about the stale air.
He moved away from the window and walked towards the desk in the corner of the lounge, battling not to gag at the squelching sound his footsteps made on the carpet. An object was sitting on the desk, buried in scrunched up paper snowballs. He brushed them aside, wondering what treasures might lay beneath, half hoping but still half expecting some sort of long outlawed sex horror to present itself. Instead as he peeled away the paper cover, he realised with relief and excitement that he was fast uncovering the ancient Remington Portable #1, the infamous typewriter used by the Barble. His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon the magnificent beast, the folding type-bar mechanism with adjustment to a 45-degree angle still gleamed in the sunlight and the scrawled inscription 'Evangeline has a horseface' sparkled as if it was carved into the metal only yesterday.
A noise caught his attention, a low weak wheezing coming from the room to his left. The same room, Chuckle noted with some trepidation, that the decaying smell was filtering out from. Marshalling his strength, he approached the sound, ignoring the crayon scribbled warnings on the wall and the several juvenile penis drawings. The breathing continued to rattle with increasing distress from the room beyond.
"Who's there?! Mittens? Is that you girl?!" The voice was afraid, carrying the pathetic, startled, alarm of a 12 year old caught in his bedroom with his pants around his ankles as the door handle started to turn. Chuckle thought he heard the sound of a whale thrashing on the shore, but assumed that must be his imagination.
"It isn't Mittens." Chuckle answered, stifling his pity. "It's me, Chuckle."
He waited for a response, but even the breath had stopped its horrible grate. Mustering his courage that threatened to unman him in the face of such an odour, he sauntered through the doorway with all the jaunt he could muster, which in the circumstances wasn't much. He was met by a hideous sight in the bedroom beyond.
Before him lay the former Barble reporter, Tribune correspondent and wanted sexual deviant, Bob Liar. The once universally hated inquisitor lay on his back, his tremendous belly vulgarly protruding from his mammoth frame. His tree trunk legs lay still, for which Chuckle was eternally grateful. He had no wish for the sea of flesh to begin its horrible jiggling, a horror that was being displayed most vividly by Liar's enormous breasts as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to maintain his dignity through a surprised coughing fit. Only his arms retained any of their former power, looking ludicrously toned for his meaty body and Chuckle speculated this was for his world renowned passion for Dutch Ruddering, something not even time could kill.
"Look at the fucking state of you." Chuckle mused more to himself than the creature on the bed in front of him.
"You!" He hissed. "What're you doing here?" His face took on a look of suspicion. "The Cap'n didn't send you did he?"
"That old bastard?" Chuckle smirked. The Cap'n had never forgiven Bob Liar for running up a tab so large that it was said even the famous size of Iota paled in comparison. His face was thunderous when he had found out, after calling time on Liar's debt, that the tubby wretch had done a runner half way through one of his customary 16 hour Dutch Ruddering sessions - a flight that was rumoured to have caused Liar more pain than the Cap'n.
"Well? Has he sent you to finish me off?" Chuckle cringed as Bob Liar tried and failed to keep the gay preening invitation out of his voice.
"What? Christ, no." He shuddered at the thought. "No. I came to speak to you about the Barble."
"The Barble? That shit rag?" Liar snorted. "Why did you want to know about that? It's gone. Good riddance too."
"I was thinking. God, I'm not sure. I don't know what I was thinking" Chuckle tried to breathe, forgot about the smell of rotten pumpkin that radiated from Liar like failure from Camazotz and gagged violently.
"Ha!" The whale squawked, mirth and fat combining into one. "You were thinking about bringing it back weren't you?!" He squawked again, the malice in his eyes. "HA HA! You silly little tart, Barble's dead. I'm fucking glad of it too. Besides, I'm too big boned now to do the real work I used to."
Finally managing to recover from the smell assailing his senses, it was Chuckle's turn to laugh. "Too big boned? You fat wanker, you looked like you've eaten Colin!"
"Don't you say that name to me!" Liar roared, mustering all his anger into something resembling a kitten.
"Shutup. Anyway, I didn't come to offer you a job. I came to take the Remington."
"What!?! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!" Liar tried to struggle his way off his enormous back, but he could do little more than flail like an upturned turtle, gigantic limbs crashing into the bed. "CHUCKLE, I'LL FUCKING, FUCKING" Pant. "FUCKING" Pant. "KNUCKLE WILL HEAR OF THIS, YOU DIRTY" Pant. "THIEVING" Pant. "BASTARD!"
He knew this was his big moment, so did his best to stroll away. Instead Chuckle staggered into the lounge with the grace of a dog running on a tiled floor, leaving the bloated corpse of Liar behind him, alternating between spitting his fury with decreasing breath at Chuckle's back and laughing at his calamitous exit. Chuckle ignored him, gingerly picked up the Remington Portable #1 and smiled to himself. He was in business.
I did warn you.
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Acknowledgments
Well, well, bloody, well.
I've made it through to the end of this and it remains to be seen whether old Chuckle will be snuffed out before we make it to produce another. Who knows, right?
This is usually the part where I will praise the contributors who invested their time and effort into this, but as I had to cajole the only other contributor and edit what he did manage to piss out so heavily that I practically wrote it, I'm not going to bother. This means I can just gloss over this section all together. Instead, I'm going to leave my violin case open and hope that you all throw your coins in. I'm hungry and I would like to hitlist Knuckle sometime in the near future, so all contributions are welcome.
I might even hold off from abusing you if you do. I might give you a glorious spot in my quote. I might just even love you a little bit. Maybe.
Oh and here's hoping that this DWL has all the success of the last one.
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Something like a disclaimer
If I've taken a pot shot at you in this, it is because I think you're big enough to handle a joke and may find it funny yourself. If I've thought wrongly and you aren't big enough to handle that, I'm an extremely dainty Goomba, usually found in Philly, even though I can't even nail top petty there and I certainly can't afford a steak dinner yet, let alone a flight. RIP Chuckle.
Have you missed this?
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