Weenering the Hoozers: Difference between revisions
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Thermometer (talk | contribs) (Created page with "{{Note|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...") |
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{{Note|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,
No,
So please, this is your last warning.
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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
(Flashback with echo)
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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
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 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.
But my tools were missing.
I was just lying, because Steve had always called me Dario, even though I was really named Asom.
But then he turned back to me, looking less angry. He opened his mouth to speak — but
But then he turned back to me again.
But the schoolbus full of kids had emptied out into the factory.
One of the little kids pulled a button off his fannel shirt.
Then a very pretty girl said,
Soon there was cheering and laughing about buttons. My mission had been completed.
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I looked at Steve and smiled, who looked at me and smiled back.
I yelled over the happy chanting of
And then I retired from button making.
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To this day, I still do not know what that thing was that grabbed me. Maybe an employee playing a trick on me? I
Sincerely, Asom, a man who is being constantly pursuited by an unknown entity and works at a button factory.
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