Do you need your squob twiggled? Call Disco Clown Services, where every employee is an expert in twiggling squobs, and we guarantee the best experience and professional results. I smashed my fist into the radio and shifted the ice pack on my throbbing squob. "EXPERTS, MY ASS!!!" I pulled into Disco Clown Services headquarters and readied the C-4. "WELCOME to Disco Clown Services headquarters. My name is Mark may I take your... SWEET MOTHER OF GAWD!!" The explosion sent off a rain of confetti. My revenge was nearly complete. The disco clowns were going down. They were giving us traditional clowns a bad rap. Much like sparkly vampires did to the real blood suckers. I smiled at the 2nd explosion-revenge shots that were plastered all over the 9oclock news. We'd sent a message to the rest of the clowns when we pipe bombed that orphanage. We were not to be fucked with, we were the OG clown-killers. Professionals. The Grove Street Families had been nothing more than a Los Santos street gang before the Clownpocalypse - but now we stood for something a little more : we are now the Doll Hunters! Zombies, clowns, dolls, geez, what'll God throw at us next? It was at that point a colossal pie came flying at us directly from the heavens. We, the once-mighty Doll Hunters, scattered like roaches in a dirty sink. Blueberry goo exploded noisily, coating everything. I slipped in delicious blueberry goop immediately and gave myself a hard blueberry whack on the noggin. Dazed, I lay there, on my face, and wondered if I'd found my thrill here on Blueberry Hill. Yes, I decided, licking myself from head to toe, then diving right back into the blue goo again. I woke with a start! My BACON! Burned.

 

Comments

1 KieferSkunk's photo

No clowns were harmed in the making of this FoldingStory.

2 Woab's photo

...but the bacon. Oh, the bacon…

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