Pleatherface
Growing up back in my hometown of Bakers, Texas there was a story that my grandpa would tell me. He called it the legend of Pleatherface. Basically, there was a poor man that wasn't able to afford his house because he was laid off from the chocolate factory. Disgruntled that he was going to lose everything, he went to the factory late one night and jumped into a vat of molten chocolate. They didn't find him for 3 days. When they pulled him out his skin had turned a rough brown color that resembled the pleather that was popular in 90's cars. Because of this, he adopted the new moniker Pleatherface.
They say he survived those 3 days because he was able to drink the molten chocolate causing him to have SOOOOO much diabetes and ouchie boo boos on his tongue and in his tummy. His penis turned into a Cadbury creme egg, his asshole a Hershey Kiss. Now I'm not a smart man, but I had a feeling that the story was an allegory to teach me a lesson about friendship and the importance of American engineering, but he swore to me on his deathbed that the story was true, and I should never set foot in that old, abandoned chocolate factory. I promised him that I never would.
I kept that promise for 34 minutes, the length of time between him dying and me driving to that chocolate factory. When I parked, I saw a man matching his exact description down to his Cadbury penis and candy asshole. But I was still unconvinced. It was probably just a coincidence. So, I went inside.
The inside of the old factory was exactly how you would picture a factory that was closed down for close to 50 years. There were model trains and deflated basketballs scattered about the floor. Huge flatscreen TVs hung on the doors and my mom was there cooking up a batch of her famous chili.
"Hey Mom," I said.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY HEROIN?" my mom screamed pulling out a switchblade.
"Mom, when did you turn into a six-foot man with a crippling heroin addiction?" I asked.
"I'M NOT YOUR MOM AND I NEED HEROIN," mom said loudly.
"When's dinner?" I asked looking around. My mom stabbed me hard in the liver. As I lay there bleeding, Pleather face walked out from a room across the factory. He turned on one of the flatscreens on the wall and sat down on one of the model trains.
"CHOOOOO CHOOOOO," he yelled loudly and drove the train into my mom.
"Oh no, you killed my mom!" I yelled leaking blood from my mouth.
"But you learned the true meaning of American ingenuity." Pleatherface said. He was right too. For the rest of my life, I only bought American made cars like Hondas because they have such funny names. HON-DA. Lol. Now if you will excuse me, I have 97 more hits of acid to take and you know what they say, you have to 23 skidoo or the acid hits you. Goodbye George Washington, it was nice talking to you. I always enjoy our chats.
Credited to terriblestoryman
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