Drew Fanart
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NSFW WARNING
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This is a fictional joke story written by DaveTheUseless. Don't take it seriously, fellas.
Drew Fanart was having a really bad day. He was bald, fat, 45 years old, and he lived with his parents. He had just finished eating his favorite dish, vasoline on toast, when he walked over to the window to retrieve his mother's laundry from the clothesline dangling outside of his low-rent high-rise apartment. However, as he tilted his head to reign in the heart-enamored pantyhouse...
"Ha ha ha! More like Drew Fart!", some bratty little school children who were playing hookey from the local junior elementary shrieked up at him from below. "Come downstairs if you're not coming downstairs!", shouted his mother, for some unknown reason. He took it as an invitation to put up his dukes and battle the schoolchildren for his dignity, his honor, and also their lunch money, so he stormed down the steps as fast as his prosthetic Mickey Mouse logoed plastic leg would allow him. Unfortunately, he fell down the steps. Fortunately, he fell on his mother. His mother was suddenly very quiet and her flesh turned a blistering violet, but Drew Fanart had much more urgent concerns.
He opened the door. They were a-waiting, red backwards baseball caps, brass knuckles, and all. A swing to the left! Drew Fanart had missed! He got back up off his back and up from the gravel, but it was too late. While he was laying down like an earthworm on its flabby little belly... he had sustained the ultimate dishonor, to both him and his family.
He had been pantsed.
"I guess nothing else really matters anymore", Drew Fanart sighed. The children laughed and threw pineapples at his head, but it was no use. Little did they know that he drew Sailor Moon fan art, and this brought him sheer joy. His mother was still a brilliant shade of eggplantish purple, and her eyes had become rather bulgy and highly, highly veiny. Perhaps he should have asked her how she was doing. But no. Drew Fanart had more urgent plans.
Drew Fanart drew a picture of the 19 year old girl who had beaten him up. Smiling a full-toothed grin that would send a shiver down a bloodhound's canine spine, he plotted his sinister, awfully awful revenge. Right above her blonde-haired head, he wrote it in. He really.. really wrote it in. 'Sugar Tits', he had written in. 'Sugar Tits'. This was O.K., because she was 19 going into 20, so Drew Fanart was allowed. Still, it was quite rather rude. He considered drawing a psychedelic mix of puss and plasma splurting out of her breasts, but he decided enough was enough. Besides, puss and plasma was not what sugar was made of—as far as Drew Fanart was aware, anyway.
Drew Fanart hung the picture on the clothesline at night. He shined his Camp Lazlo nightlight on it and drifted off to bed. Could this lovely little masterpiece of his be the moment he had always wanted? Perhaps it truly was—because, when Drew Fanart woke up, there was nothing going on downstairs. No commotion at all. It hadn't even disturbed his mother, who had remained wide-eyed and purple and appeared to be tending to the household rats who lived in the musty old walls at this point. Drew Fanart had finally seized the day! Why, he could do the grocery shopping, pay the family bills using his friend's stolen credit card, or even go hang-gliding in the air! But alas, it was not to be... for Drew Fanart was suddenly stricken with the most horrible of grief.
Because after Drew Fanart opened the door and headed outside... he noticed a giant mound of white glucose powder hidden underneath the front step...
With a set of youthful, dismembered nipples dipping into the mound...
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