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