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red-013
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| ___________ __________ |
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| | :_____| ____| | | |
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| |_____| o |_o________/ o |
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| Really ELiTE Doodz Prezent : |
| RED-013.TXT aka |
| "Doughboy RISE!!" |
| By : Black Francis |
| "Better Living Through Stupidity." |
: :
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WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!
Wether you know it or not, the Pilsbury Doughboy had just commited suicide
on December 25th, 1994. This is after a brief killing spree which began on
December 21st. He had been in hiding since then, and his body was discovered
on the 26th by a door-to-door salesman who happened to see him through his
front window. This is his sad yet true story.
WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!
The stomach poking had drove him mad. He couldn't take it any longer. He
would get them back one day. He knew he would. The chronic stomach aches,
the bruises, the endless taunts and ridicule from his fellow trademark pals.
It was enough to drive a man mad, and it had taken it's toll on the Pilsbury
Doughboy.
It had been a tough life for the little lump of dough. He wasn't
born with a silver spoon in his mouth like that asshole Tony the Tiger. Fuck
him. He could take his damn cereal and shove it up his feline ass for all he
cared. It had been an especially rough few years for the dough boy. His only
true friend, Captain Crunch, had od'ed from a small stint with heroin. His
mother had accidentely been poked right through the heart, and his fathers
alcohol problem was causing more problems than ever.
"Pilsbury! Pilsbury! You little fucker! Get in here!" he shouted. He
was a frail old man. Age had not done him good. The alcohol was killing him.
"Yes, father?" he asked.
"Get me another bottle of whiskey! Now!" he screamed. His voice crackled.
"I refuse, dad. You've had enough."
"Fuck you! I haven't had enough until I pass out on the carpet in a pool
of my own vomit! Do you see me hugging the toilet?!"
"No."
"THEN I HAVEN'T HAD ENOUGH, STUPID!" he shouted. And with that, he tossed
an empty whiskey bottle at Pilsbury, shattering it against his mushy head.
Pilsbury ran out of the house as fast as he could. He could hear his dad
screaming for him in the background. The screaming become more faint until he
could not hear his father anymore. After about two minutes, he collapsed on
the ground. He couldn't run anymore. His stomach problems had gotten the
best of him, and he passed out.
Running was never his strong point. He had always been overweight, and
when he ran, pebbles and other debris got stuck in his foot. He had always
been the butt of every joke in high school because of his weight. Gym was the
worst. He would dread it. At first, he would just cut gym until he got
caught, and his parents started checking to see if he went every day.
"Pilsbury, you have to go to gym. It's good for you. You need a more
physical workout so that you can maybe slim down a bit." his mother used to
tell him.
"Mom, I'll never get in shape. Look at me!! They make fun of me!"
"Honey, just ignore them."
"I can't, mom! That may be easy for you to say, but I just can't do it!
I try. Trust me. I try. Shower time is the worst. They snap their towels
at me and.. and.. <sniff>" and that point he just broke down.
His mother had accepted what Pilsbury was going through and pulled him out
of gym class and enrolled him in band. This didn't help the teasing one bit.
All the teasing stopped when he had been picked up by a famous advertising
agency. His line of commercials were so popular that he had to be pulled out
of school to keep up on the filming. Pilsbury had become a star of the small
screen! His face was recognized everywhere! This had been what Pilsbury had
always dreamed of. Fame. Fortune. Women. But, it quickly began to fade
away and he soon grew tired of his fame.
When Pilsbury woke up, he began to walk home, but his stomach still
bothered him. He flagged down the next taxi he saw. He hoped the $4.35 he
had in his pocket would be enough for the trip phone.
"Where to, mack?" asked the cabbie.
"32 East Maple Street." he mumbled.
"Hey. Ain't you that little fat guy in those commercials?" asked the cab
driver.
"No. You must have me confused with someone else." sighed Pilsbury.
"Nah. I know it's you. Hehe. Can I poke you in the stomach?" he asked.
Pilsbury could feel his temper boiling. He just tried to ignore the man.
"You know.. I used to love them commercials.." as the cabbie continued
rambling, Pilsbury drifted off into a day-dream again.
"I get poked in the stomach?" he asked.
"Yeah. It'll be great. The guy'll come and poke you, and you just giggle
like.. you're real ticklish. It'll be a hoot!"
"Alright then." This was Pilsburys first commercial, and he didn't want to
get on bad terms with the director, so he just decided to take the bullet and
get poked. It didn't really seem that bad at first. It was just a short
stomach poking. Pilsbury shrugged it off and read the rest of the script over
again for good measure.
"Are you ready, Pilsbury?" asked the director. Pilsbury looked up and
nodded. The director looked exactly like Pilsbury expected him to. Goatee.
Those little tiny oval glasses tinted blue. Chain smoker.
"Then let's get going. Time is money, boy!" he said with a smile. He then
lead Pilsbury into the studio. It was huge. Frightening to Pilsbury. The
director screamed something, but Pilsbury was too nervous to notice what he
said, and just took his place. He started to break out in a sweat under all
the hot lights, and a chill ran up his spine. He looked over towards the
director.
"Take one!" he shouted. This was it.
"Don't screw up now, Pilsbury." he thought to himself. The giant finger
inched closer and closer to him. His feet went cold.
"Ouch!" he screamed as the finger finally lunged into his stomach.
"What's the matter Pilsbabe?" asked the director.
"That thing hurts!!" he shouted. The director put his hand on Pilsbury's
shoulder and nodded.
"I gotcha, babe. See, we have to do this, though. This is what the
compant wants. We gotta do this if we wanna get paid. Ok? Here, this is
what happens, finger pokes you - you giggle - bam! We're done! Alright? We
could be done in 3 minutes, just go with me on this one." he sounded very
convincing.
"Alright." Pilsbury sighed. The director went back to his place and called
out for the cameras to start rolling. Again, the giant finger came down from
above and hit Pilsbury in the sore spot left by the last poking. Trying as
hard as he could not to let the excruciating pain get to him, he giggled.
"Tee hee!"
"Alright.. CUT!" the director screamed. The director approached Pilsbury.
"That was great! Let's try it again. This time with a little more
feeling. 'K?" he said. Pilsbury nodded. The director returned to his little
corner of the room. The camera rolled again.
Take 17 - Things just weren't going well. By now, the makeup crew was
called out to disguise the giant bruise left on Pilsburys stomach.
Take 34 - By now, Pilsbury was feeling extremely nauseous. He kept
reminding himself he was being paid by the hour.
Take 67 - Pilsbury had thrown up on the floor three times already. He was
beginning to lose his voice, to boot.
Take 95 - After throwing up on the floor 13 times, passing out twice, and
having three pounds of makeup applied to his stomach, the shooting was over.
Unfortunately, for Pilsbury, the commercial was a sucess, and he was called
back for more. Since his family was becoming more poor by the day, Pilsbury
had no choice but to continue the commercials. He had become a huge star, but
nobody really knew about how much he had hated it all.
The day his mother died was the worst day of Pilsburys life. She had been
accidentely poked through the heart during the filming of a commercial which
started Pilsburys whole family. There were stars galore at her funeral. It
had become a social event rather than a final goodbye. This pretty much
didn't sit well with Pilsbury. That is, until while sifting through the
hors de vours, he met Betty Crocker. She was everything he had ever wanted
in a woman. She was beautiful. She was rich and famous. She was smart. An
extremely good business woman. He had to meet her, but his high school
experience scared him. He was afraid to talk to women. But, somehow, he had
to meet her.
It had been the straw that broke the camels back. After years and years
of looking and hoping, he had finally asked Betty Crocker out on a date. With
sweaty palms, the Doughboy approached Betty. She was with her Aunt Jemima,
who the Doughboy had not particularly liked. He swallowed the lump in his
throat and spoke up.
"Hello, Betty." he choked.
"Hello, Pilsbury." she said. She turned back around and continued talking
to that bitch, Jemima.
"Uhm.. <choke>. Betty?"
"Yes, Pilsbury?" she asked.
"I was, uh, just wonderin'.. if.. uh.. maybe if you weren't doing anything
tonight, we could.. uhm.. go out to dinner or something." as he said it, he
envisioned his life with Betty. Their mansion. Their kids. Their pets. No
more stomach poking for him.
"I'm sorry, Pilsbury. I could never date you. Don't get me wrong. You're
a nice guy and everything." she chuckled. Just about then, Pilsburys stomach
kicked in, and he tossed his cookies all over her nice shoes. He broke into
tears and took off, not caring where he ran to.
"Hey! Mack! Wake up! We're here." screamed the taxi-driver.
"Oh. Thanks. How much?" asked Pilsbury.
"That comes to.." he reached towards the box on the dash, "$4.25." Whew.
Pilsbury was relieved he had enough as he pulled the loose change from his
pocket.
"Here you go." he said as he stuck his little hand out. The cabbie reached
back and grabbed the change, then spontaneously poked Pilsbury in his stomach.
The cabbie snickered. Pilsburys eyes rolled into his head. The pain was
unbearable. He tried to scream but couldn't.
"You.. stupid.. mother.. fucker!" he gasped. The cabbie looked stunned.
"Pardon me?" he said. Pilsbury shoved his doughy fist in the mans mouth.
It was obvious the man couldn't breath. His blood boiled and he shoved his
fist even further down the mans throat.
"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU! YOU WANNA FUCKIN' POKE ME, DICKHEAD?! POKE
ME NOW MOTHER FUCKER!!!" he screamed. But the man was dead. Pilsbury yanked
his hand out of the mans mouth and what he had just done hit him. He once
again got those fimiliar chills up his spine. He darted out of the cab and
ran into his house. While he felt guilty for what he had done, he felt some-
what vindicated. He ran into his bedroom and grabbed the small revolver from
under his bed and hoped into the cab which was still in front of his house.
He stuffed the dead cabbie in the back seat, and began driving for Betty's
house. He knew well where it was. He had walked there on several occasions
when he was feeling extremely lonely. He approached the front door with an
evil look on his face. One that nobody had seen before. He rang the doorbell
twice, the second time holding his finger on the buzzer. The butler answered
the door.
"May I help y<BLAM!>" he didn't even finish the sentence when Pilsbury had
shot him point blank right between the eyes. He continued into Betty's room.
Luckily she was there.. getting dressed.
"Pilsbury!" she screamed. With a tear moving it's way down his face, he
shot her three times in the chest. He felt strangely uplifted. During the
next three days, he had killed five more people.
Jack Armstrong - the high school jock who had more than once given Pilsbury
a wedgie that drew blood.
Snap, Crackle, and Pop - who Pilsbury always though were after him. And
finally, Pilsbury returned to his childhood home and had killed his father,
who had never treated Pilsbury or his mother right.
Once he learned that the police were after him, he baracaded himself in
his house, with his revolver pointed to his head. He knew what would happen
if they caught him. Once again, his stomach started to act up, and without
hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
When a door-to-door salesman had informed police that he had seen Pilsbury,
they quickly rushed to his house, not knowing he was dead. It took them two
hours to break through the self-made baracade. They called in his good friend
Mrs. Butterworth to indentify the body, which was found with a box of Betty
Crocker Sprinkled Cake Frosting laying by his side.
Pilsburys funeral was two days later. Only a small handful of people had
showed up for the service, including the man who had poked him for so many
years. No tears were shed as he was lowered into the ground, where he would
remain forever. Through the many flowers left by his gravestone, you can
barely make out the words that are inscribed on it:
__________________
/\__________________\
|\/ \
| | Pilsbury Doughboy |
| | 1971 - 1994 |
| | Tee Hee |
/________\/____\/________|_|___________________|_\/__________\/____\/_____\/__
The End.
WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!
! Copyright (c) Black Francis and ReaLLY 3LiT3 d00Dz! 1995 !
! All rights reserved, but two wrongs don't make a right !
WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!WaReZ!
