.----------------------------------------------------------------------------. | ___________ __________ | | | |_____| \ | | | . | | . | | | | :_____| ____| | | | | | | ___|_ : | | | |_____| o |_o________/ o | | |____________| | | Really ELiTE Doodz Prezent : | | RED-013.TXT aka | | "Doughboy RISE!!" | | By : Black Francis | | "Better Living Through Stupidity." | : : . . 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.. " 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.. . 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" 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!