Weenering the Hoozers
This sorta a spinoff to an existing pasta, Weener-Hoozers. It is suggested that you read that first, or you may be confused with this version.
So scary. Scarier than version one. Exist now if you are weak and frail, because man oh man, you're in for a wild ride. Too scary. Scarier than something times /x/. Trust me. Do not read. If You Are Easily Afraid O' Things That Are in the Dark.
No, it's not the dark that's scary, it's what's IN the dark ya gotta watch out for. Ever seen 'Lights Out?' Well if not then do not look for it. Weener-hoozers are 100% real and 100% scary. If you are very squeamish and cannot stand a story longer than 8 paragraphs, then exit this page now. Even Sona D 4 and Aganommen haven't dared to view a screening of this story.
So please, this is your last warning.
Weenering the Hoozers
Hello hello everyone. My name is Daemarno — er — I mean Asom. Before you read this terrifying, unpleasant tale, I want you to do me a few things. First, turn out your lights. Open up the freezer so it is extra cold. Pour yourself some liquid sausage — and slump on the living room chair. Make sure it is extra comfortable — and, oh yes — turn off the TV, electronic and cellular devices. Now my friends, we shall get into the story.
I was working back at the ol' button factory for my good manship. Making buttons was my dream job. I had dreamt of it ever since I was a little boy.
(Flashback with echo)
"Mommy, when I grow up, I want to work at the button factory!"
"Okay, sweety, but that is 27 years from now."
—
And, what is most surprising is that MY parents did not choose my name — I did. When I was three years old (Back in the old days, people didn't name their child until they were three-and-a-half-years-old) I had forced my parents to call me Asom, which I thought was Latin for 'button' but they rejected and I threatened them with a frying pain and then a juice strainer. Then they gave in.
A few years later, when I was 7, I had been hired at the button factory as an intern for my degree in buttoning shirts. I also had been given the tour, but one of the most odd things about the Button Factory was how they made the buttons. Since that was my duty, I will tell you.
They start off with a lump of raw melted plastic, then they they mold it into a circle, puncture it with holes and throw it into a plastic bag and ship it off to the market. Sometimes, when they do tours, they will make edible buttons that (in my pertique) taste like raw suage. The man who did the tours was named Steve. Steve Johnny Joe. He acceptionally loved his job — and his actions attended to get him into trouble — a lot. He was very clumsy and dim-witted. But he had his own motto — "I am glad I just get to do what I love."
I had had trouble understanding how he loved to be a tour-guide. Most of his day would be slumping on the Button Factory living room and chugging down sausages. Then when a school bus would roll in the parking lot or a group of tourists, that would be his cue. He would show them all of the jobs and duties here at the button factory, and give out the edible buttons I mentioned earlier.
One day, I was just minding my own button-wax when someone decided to grab my butt. I jumped back and found myself punching thin air. "Who was that?" I yelled out loud without thinking. Steve Johnny Joe looked at me. "What's wrong, Dario?"
"Oh nothing," I said, but really that wasn't nothing. Something had grabbed my butt and I knew it.
"Are you sure?" he said, looking concerned.
"Couldn't be better," I replied before returning to work.
"Are you positive?"
"Yes Stevo," I said passive-agressively, and then I returned AGAIN to work.
But my tools were missing.
"What the heck?!" I yelped.
"Okay, Dario, I know something is going on."
"Since when did you start calling me 'Dario.'"
I was just lying, because Steve had always called me Dario, even though I was really named Asom. "Please just stop talking, Steve, please, Steve. I–"
"You want to confess what's happening?"
"Steve, why don't you go but-out and go make your famous edible buttons!"
"FINE!!!"
"Steve — please — be quiet– my ears are very sensitive to loud noises!"
"Alright." And then he returned to work, factoring edible buttons.
But then he turned back to me, looking less angry. He opened his mouth to speak — but didn't say anything, and simply just turned back.
But then he turned back to me again.
"And one more thing, Asom, a tour of kids are coming and I think they will not want to hear us fighting."
"First of all, since when have we fought, and we are not fighting."
"Well we're arguing, and that pretty much counts as fighting."
"Alright, Steve, you win."
But the schoolbus full of kids had emptied out into the factory.
"Er — kids — How long have you been standing there?" I said shakily. I tried to sound calm, but there was an unmistakable note of panic in my voice.
"Oh, long enough to see the scene," a boy wearing a white T-shirt that depicted two chickens eating fried drumsticks and another saying "Dude, that's just wrong."
"And that is what I was talking about, Dario, now we look bad and kids will hate buttons."
"Oh come on, Stephee, these kids still love buttons."
One of the little kids pulled a button off his fannel shirt.
"I wanted the world to love buttons, so buttons and the world could meet each other and say 'hello, I would like to coparate with you.'"
Then a very pretty girl said, "I still like buttons."
"Me too!" said a kid from the back.
"Me three!" another kid chanted.
Soon there was cheering and laughing about buttons. My mission had been completed.
I looked at Steve and smiled, who looked at me and smiled back.
I yelled over the happy chanting of 'Go buttons go! Go buttons go!' over to Steve and said, "Steve I think our work here is done."
"Me too."
And then I retired from button making.
—
To this day, I still do not know what that thing was that grabbed me. Maybe an employee playing a trick on me? I don't know! But you have to know, this had nothing to do with weener-hoozers, oh, no, this is about my obsession with buttons and for me to share it with you. But whatever that thing was, it wanted my attention, and it got what it wanted. I ended up telling Steve and other employees, and of course, our boss, Mr. Goodman, but none of them believed me! I am starting to think I am going crazy, because it keeps happening to me and none of the other employees! Well, that concludes this amazing story.
Sincerely, Asom, a man who is being constantly pursuited by an unknown entity and works at a button factory.
| Comments • 0 |
Loading comments...
|
