Drunk Nerds posted:

I also enjoyed the mod-frustrating paradox, where closing the thread due to no new content would make doobie do something content-worthy.

Drunk Nerds posted:

I also enjoyed the mod-frustrating paradox, where closing the thread due to no new content would make doobie do something content-worthy.

Dely Apple posted:

Whatever happened to Colombian parallel Doobie and his dog shack, I assume he actually paid back all his loans and is a fixture in Colombian Reform

Microwaves Mom posted:

I kind of want to open up a hot dog stand now.
Would you guys kickstart me?

I know nothing about hot dogs, owning a restaurant, or other poo poo. But I finished high school and got a bachelors in a useless degree.

SaltLick posted:

The fact you finished high school already put you ahead of doobie. Consider yourself funded

SaltLick posted:

The fact you finished high school already put you ahead of doobie.

Melmac posted:

When are we gonna find the dirt Doobie has on Lowtax?

When are we gonna find how much the quarterly (oddly specific) payments are?

Thank God I screen capped that now that he officially killed the Facebook.

Melmac posted:

Much like a Youtube of a music video, Doobie IP blocks filthy foreigners.


you missed some stuff

Pekinduck posted:

If I'm reading this right did this Cindy construct his bathroom for free?

ShaqDiesel posted:

Has anyone gotten their quarterly check yet? Lowtax is usually so punctual.

Romes128 posted:

He's busy trying to get star citizen to work.

Bonzo posted:

so how is the automotive business going? Did he close that too?

Cromulent posted:

The fact that Doob and Tasha still earnestly refer to anyone here as a "frogger" is hilarious to me.

FuhrerHat posted:

i think they're substituting it for another word which unfairly stereotypes gay men as bundles of sticks

VikingSkull posted:

FuhrerHat posted:

im probably super late on this but:

holy hell the wikipedia page (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reform,_Alabama#History) for reform is the best ive ever seen
it has a legitimate citation, so until somebody from alabama figures out how to spell wikipedia, this true fact will remain there until the end of time:

HISTORY

In May 1968, a mule train, part of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference sponsored Poor People's Campaign, stopped for two days in Reform before heading to Tuscaloosa, Alabama on its way to Washington, DC.


whoever did this... im... wow... i am really impressed here wow

etalian posted:

Chinatown posted:

the only thing dumber than giving a literal moron from alabama money to open a hot dog stand is to donate money to a politician

ArbitraryC posted:

I don't get why some goons seem so upset with the decision to fund albama hotdog man. This was 2+ solid years of entertainment plus giving one person a legitimate shot at doing something different for their lives all for the price of like 10 bucks per person involved. sure the money could have gone to a more worthwhile person but the lack of screening is sort of the charm here, no point in targeting an already viral project with this sort of thing. 14k is ultimately a drop in the bucket, the tropes vs women in gaming series kickstarter got literally 10x that to make a handful of 10 minute youtube videos, doob went on a 2 year journey with all sorts of highs and lows for a fraction of that budget.

Pekinduck posted:

If I'm reading this right did this Cindy construct his bathroom for free?

Heath posted:

"Pastor John, can't you speak to him?"

Pastor John brought the car to a halt just out front of Wayne Robinson's home in Reform. With his usual methodical care, he pulled up on the emergency brake lever and turned off the engine. The words rang loudly in his head, for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. As the only pastor to graduate high school in Pickens County, John Marten was in high demand for his services. His calm, respectful demeanor had earned him many friends, few foes, and all the respect that comes with the position.

The passenger seat was occupied by Derek Valance, a slight young man of just 17, and aspiring youth pastor. Sensitive, bright and a little timid, but a man of Christ down to the littlest bone of his pinky toe. John knew that Derek would succeed him one day. Derek fidgeted a bit, his hands wringing the handles of a black leather bag in his lap.

"Pastor John," he said in the dull rumble of the engine dying. "I'm honored that ya brought me with ya t' see Mr. Robinson, but I must admit that somethin' feels ..." He simply trailed off. John blinked slowly into that Wednesday morning sunrise, pondering how to console the boy. He saw evil in every shadow, poor thing.

"Derek, when your parents came to me two years ago with concerns about yer ..." he waved his hand in a loose ellipse, "'preferences,' I took you under my wing to teach you the finer points of ministry, and look at ya now. Y've come a long way, but it's time to know that one of the hardest parts of bein' one of Christ's soldiers is that sometimes you gotta help people through some real difficult times."

Derek shook his head. "It's not that, I mean somethin' feels ... I dunno, weird." He glanced around the neighborhood suspiciously through the windows. "An' you havin' me bring then exorcism kit ain't exactly inspirin' confidence either." He lifted the leather bag, causing its contents to jingle within.

Pastor John opened the door to his car and began to step out. "I've had several people come to me talkin' about these things Wayne an' his wife been sayin' and I'm just errin' on the side o' caution. C'mon now."

A swift knock on the front door of the house brought no response. Pastor John tried to peer inside a window, but all of them had the curtains drawn. A second, harder knock and the door slowly opened. A young boy, one of Wayne's sons, stood before them silently, making healthy progress on a foot long hot dog with no bun. His hands and feet were stained with dirt, as though he hadn't bathed in days. The overpowering odor of fry oil wafted out from behind him with a hint of cat urine underneath. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Well, howdy, little man. Where's yer papa?"

The boy stared up silently into John's eyes. He could hear Derek fidgeting with the bag behind him. The child simply turned on his heels and walked into the darkened house, leaving the door open.

John half turned to Derek. "I suppose we'll let ourselves in."

Not a single light on in the house. The fry oil stench invaded all senses, including sight -- there seemed to be a pungent smoke in the air. The only light came filtered from the edges of heavy curtains covering every window.

"Wayne?"

A muffled response came from the direction of the dining room. The pair stepped over discarded condiment bottles and other miscellany -- remnants of the dog shack's unsold inventory, no doubt. They stepped into the dining room and saw Wayne sitting at one end of the table, shrouded in near darkness in spite of the early hour. He wore an unearthly grin behind tented fingers.

"Pas-tor John! What brings ya by? Wait, wait, it doesn't even matter. I know why you're here."

John blinked in surprise and straightened himself, adopting his pastoral authority. "Well, I haven't seen you at church in over a month. Some of your neighbors have asked me t' stop by 'n make sure everything is on the up-and-up. And Wayne, I know it must be hard havin' to close up sh--"

"Pastor, please! Call me Doobie."

"Doobie. I know it must be hard for you havin' had to close up 'n all, but I want you to know you have the community's full support."

"Pastor," said Doobie, a manic gleam in his eye. "Tell me... Do ya like frog legs?"

Frog legs. Everyone who had spoken to him had mentioned something about frogs. He considered his words carefully. "I rather do, Doobie."

Doobie suddenly arched his head back and hooted loudly, laughing. "Great, because you're just in time for the feast!" Doobie grabbed the edge of a checkered tablecloth draped over something on the table and yanked it back with full force to reveal a massive party platter of deep fried frog legs. The platter was only about two thirds full, and the lack of grease on the clean part seemed to suggest that Doobie had either run out of frog legs or had simply stopped cooking them. Couldn't be sure. In the center of the plate was a tin container of thick red sauce that looked like ketchup.

"Dig in!"

Pastor John and Derek looked upon the frog legs and their incomplete circle gleaming in the dim light. Southern hospitality dictated that they should take a bite. Common sense dictated otherwise.

Doobie's eyes seemed to sparkle in the haze. "I said, 'dig in.' You two ain't ... 'Bad froggers,' are ya?"

Pastor John was quickly becoming worried. Derek was visibly shaking.

The boy can sense evil like no other, thought Pastor John. He's my canary, here. Maybe I should oblige...

Pastor John selected the best looking leg, a challenge in itself. He dipped it in the sauce, which did in fact turn out to be ketchup, stale and watery. The leg had the consistency of a tire.

Doobie's eyes wouldn't leave Derek, whose own eyes were focused on something behind Doobie. John followed Derek's gaze. Through the darkness, John could barely make out the details of what looked like a statuette of a man, solid coal black, standing erect with one hand in the air before him as if in a grotesque mockery of the Statue of Liberty. His extended hand held a strange baton of sorts. Looking at it, John could swear he heard the faintest whispers coming from every corner of the room.

"You like it?" Doobie inquired with a sly tone. "Found it under the shack when I was installin' the plumbing. Eat the fuckin' frog leg, kid." He pointed at Derek with a particularly ugly example of the newest venture in hot, cheap snacks.

Derek clutched the exorcism bag to his chest and began to take a step backward, lip quivering.

Doobie's already manic expression took a sudden wicked delight, a Jack Nicholson visage of murderous intent. He slammed hard on the table, sending frog legs flying. "We-HELL, lookie here!" He turned toward the darkness, toward the basement door. "Ta-SHAAA!! We got us a queer frogger in our midst! C'mon an' git'im!!"

Derek began to whimper while Pastor John reeled. Were the frog legs drugged? The whispering became deafeningly loud, overpowering every other sound and sense except for the violent banging and scratching on the basement door. Pastor John tried to yell, tried to run, but nothing in his body was under his power anymore. The basement door exploded open, unleashing a black mass of movement so fast that it was impossible in this darkness to comprehend what was being seen. In a matter of a few seconds, the creature darted onto the ceiling and grabbed onto a light fixture with all four limbs and arched its back downward.

In one motion its powerful jaws opened and slammed shut around poor Derek's head with a sound the combination of a grunt and a gorging rhino. The shockwave of enamel hitting enamel sent Pastor John to his knees. Derek's head severed cleanly off but for a single long string of sinew that the creature sucked into its mouth like the gooey end of a cheese stick.

Doobie jumped in the air, cheering, "Snap into a Slim Jim, am I right? Hahaha!!"

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling, hanging from a thick black glob of some sort and caught what remained of Derek, lowering him gently onto the ground. She began to feast.

Doobie came up behind the frozen pastor and helped him back to his feet. "Woo-ee son, she's gotten fast. Look, Pastor John, y'know very well that I can't let ya leave here alive after havin' seen this, so I'mma give ya a choice. I'd say Tasha's got a good, mmm," he paused, glancing over the carnage, "a good ten minutes before she finishes with the kid and gets hungry again. You can either wait it out, or you can turn to ol' Doob to see ya through."

Pastor John felt something cold and metal pushed in his hand. A sportsman and lifelong enthusiast, John knew it instantly - a firearm, a revolver. By sheer force of will, he was able to place the barrel just under his chin. Once he felt the cold ring pressed tightly into his jaw, tears streaming in agony, he exercised every bit of willpower he had to pull the trigger.

Click.

Pastor John opened his eyes. Doobie stood in front of him, chuckling softly, a hollow ring between the scarfing sounds behind him. Pastor John's eyes came into dim focus on the strange arcane statue, and it became clear to him that it held not a baton aloft to the heavens, but a footlong.

"See, now, the gun's on ol' Doob. But I'm afraid that if you want the full meal, yer gonna have ta... Upsize it." A plate materialized out of the darkness in Doobie's hand. The daily special. It was all there - a Coke in the bottle, a high pile of Doobie's bold fries, .50 worth of ice on the side and the piéce de resistance: a toasted bun acting as a bed for a single bullet.

Pastor John reached limply for the bullet, moving evermore out of his reach as Doobie pulled away.

"What do you want from me?" John's voice gargled over the creature sucking the marrow from Derek's thigh bone.

An apron had materialized on Doobie's sturdy frame. With that same manic Alabama grin...

"That'll be $9.95. Plus tax."

Heath posted:

"Pastor John, can't you speak to him?"

Pastor John brought the car to a halt just out front of Wayne Robinson's home in Reform. With his usual methodical care, he pulled up on the emergency brake lever and turned off the engine. The words rang loudly in his head, for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. As the only pastor to graduate high school in Pickens County, John Marten was in high demand for his services. His calm, respectful demeanor had earned him many friends, few foes, and all the respect that comes with the position.

The passenger seat was occupied by Derek Valance, a slight young man of just 17, and aspiring youth pastor. Sensitive, bright and a little timid, but a man of Christ down to the littlest bone of his pinky toe. John knew that Derek would succeed him one day. Derek fidgeted a bit, his hands wringing the handles of a black leather bag in his lap.

"Pastor John," he said in the dull rumble of the engine dying. "I'm honored that ya brought me with ya t' see Mr. Robinson, but I must admit that somethin' feels ..." He simply trailed off. John blinked slowly into that Wednesday morning sunrise, pondering how to console the boy. He saw evil in every shadow, poor thing.

"Derek, when your parents came to me two years ago with concerns about yer ..." he waved his hand in a loose ellipse, "'preferences,' I took you under my wing to teach you the finer points of ministry, and look at ya now. Y've come a long way, but it's time to know that one of the hardest parts of bein' one of Christ's soldiers is that sometimes you gotta help people through some real difficult times."

Derek shook his head. "It's not that, I mean somethin' feels ... I dunno, weird." He glanced around the neighborhood suspiciously through the windows. "An' you havin' me bring then exorcism kit ain't exactly inspirin' confidence either." He lifted the leather bag, causing its contents to jingle within.

Pastor John opened the door to his car and began to step out. "I've had several people come to me talkin' about these things Wayne an' his wife been sayin' and I'm just errin' on the side o' caution. C'mon now."

A swift knock on the front door of the house brought no response. Pastor John tried to peer inside a window, but all of them had the curtains drawn. A second, harder knock and the door slowly opened. A young boy, one of Wayne's sons, stood before them silently, making healthy progress on a foot long hot dog with no bun. His hands and feet were stained with dirt, as though he hadn't bathed in days. The overpowering odor of fry oil wafted out from behind him with a hint of cat urine underneath. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Well, howdy, little man. Where's yer papa?"

The boy stared up silently into John's eyes. He could hear Derek fidgeting with the bag behind him. The child simply turned on his heels and walked into the darkened house, leaving the door open.

John half turned to Derek. "I suppose we'll let ourselves in."

Not a single light on in the house. The fry oil stench invaded all senses, including sight -- there seemed to be a pungent smoke in the air. The only light came filtered from the edges of heavy curtains covering every window.

"Wayne?"

A muffled response came from the direction of the dining room. The pair stepped over discarded condiment bottles and other miscellany -- remnants of the dog shack's unsold inventory, no doubt. They stepped into the dining room and saw Wayne sitting at one end of the table, shrouded in near darkness in spite of the early hour. He wore an unearthly grin behind tented fingers.

"Pas-tor John! What brings ya by? Wait, wait, it doesn't even matter. I know why you're here."

John blinked in surprise and straightened himself, adopting his pastoral authority. "Well, I haven't seen you at church in over a month. Some of your neighbors have asked me t' stop by 'n make sure everything is on the up-and-up. And Wayne, I know it must be hard havin' to close up sh--"

"Pastor, please! Call me Doobie."

"Doobie. I know it must be hard for you havin' had to close up 'n all, but I want you to know you have the community's full support."

"Pastor," said Doobie, a manic gleam in his eye. "Tell me... Do ya like frog legs?"

Frog legs. Everyone who had spoken to him had mentioned something about frogs. He considered his words carefully. "I rather do, Doobie."

Doobie suddenly arched his head back and hooted loudly, laughing. "Great, because you're just in time for the feast!" Doobie grabbed the edge of a checkered tablecloth draped over something on the table and yanked it back with full force to reveal a massive party platter of deep fried frog legs. The platter was only about two thirds full, and the lack of grease on the clean part seemed to suggest that Doobie had either run out of frog legs or had simply stopped cooking them. Couldn't be sure. In the center of the plate was a tin container of thick red sauce that looked like ketchup.

"Dig in!"

Pastor John and Derek looked upon the frog legs and their incomplete circle gleaming in the dim light. Southern hospitality dictated that they should take a bite. Common sense dictated otherwise.

Doobie's eyes seemed to sparkle in the haze. "I said, 'dig in.' You two ain't ... 'Bad froggers,' are ya?"

Pastor John was quickly becoming worried. Derek was visibly shaking.

The boy can sense evil like no other, thought Pastor John. He's my canary, here. Maybe I should oblige...

Pastor John selected the best looking leg, a challenge in itself. He dipped it in the sauce, which did in fact turn out to be ketchup, stale and watery. The leg had the consistency of a tire.

Doobie's eyes wouldn't leave Derek, whose own eyes were focused on something behind Doobie. John followed Derek's gaze. Through the darkness, John could barely make out the details of what looked like a statuette of a man, solid coal black, standing erect with one hand in the air before him as if in a grotesque mockery of the Statue of Liberty. His extended hand held a strange baton of sorts. Looking at it, John could swear he heard the faintest whispers coming from every corner of the room.

"You like it?" Doobie inquired with a sly tone. "Found it under the shack when I was installin' the plumbing. Eat the fuckin' frog leg, kid." He pointed at Derek with a particularly ugly example of the newest venture in hot, cheap snacks.

Derek clutched the exorcism bag to his chest and began to take a step backward, lip quivering.

Doobie's already manic expression took a sudden wicked delight, a Jack Nicholson visage of murderous intent. He slammed hard on the table, sending frog legs flying. "We-HELL, lookie here!" He turned toward the darkness, toward the basement door. "Ta-SHAAA!! We got us a queer frogger in our midst! C'mon an' git'im!!"

Derek began to whimper while Pastor John reeled. Were the frog legs drugged? The whispering became deafeningly loud, overpowering every other sound and sense except for the violent banging and scratching on the basement door. Pastor John tried to yell, tried to run, but nothing in his body was under his power anymore. The basement door exploded open, unleashing a black mass of movement so fast that it was impossible in this darkness to comprehend what was being seen. In a matter of a few seconds, the creature darted onto the ceiling and grabbed onto a light fixture with all four limbs and arched its back downward.

In one motion its powerful jaws opened and slammed shut around poor Derek's head with a sound the combination of a grunt and a gorging rhino. The shockwave of enamel hitting enamel sent Pastor John to his knees. Derek's head severed cleanly off but for a single long string of sinew that the creature sucked into its mouth like the gooey end of a cheese stick.

Doobie jumped in the air, cheering, "Snap into a Slim Jim, am I right? Hahaha!!"

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling, hanging from a thick black glob of some sort and caught what remained of Derek, lowering him gently onto the ground. She began to feast.

Doobie came up behind the frozen pastor and helped him back to his feet. "Woo-ee son, she's gotten fast. Look, Pastor John, y'know very well that I can't let ya leave here alive after havin' seen this, so I'mma give ya a choice. I'd say Tasha's got a good, mmm," he paused, glancing over the carnage, "a good ten minutes before she finishes with the kid and gets hungry again. You can either wait it out, or you can turn to ol' Doob to see ya through."

Pastor John felt something cold and metal pushed in his hand. A sportsman and lifelong enthusiast, John knew it instantly - a firearm, a revolver. By sheer force of will, he was able to place the barrel just under his chin. Once he felt the cold ring pressed tightly into his jaw, tears streaming in agony, he exercised every bit of willpower he had to pull the trigger.

Click.

Pastor John opened his eyes. Doobie stood in front of him, chuckling softly, a hollow ring between the scarfing sounds behind him. Pastor John's eyes came into dim focus on the strange arcane statue, and it became clear to him that it held not a baton aloft to the heavens, but a footlong.

"See, now, the gun's on ol' Doob. But I'm afraid that if you want the full meal, yer gonna have ta... Upsize it." A plate materialized out of the darkness in Doobie's hand. The daily special. It was all there - a Coke in the bottle, a high pile of Doobie's bold fries, .50 worth of ice on the side and the piéce de resistance: a toasted bun acting as a bed for a single bullet.

Pastor John reached limply for the bullet, moving evermore out of his reach as Doobie pulled away.

"What do you want from me?" John's voice gargled over the creature sucking the marrow from Derek's thigh bone.

An apron had materialized on Doobie's sturdy frame. With that same manic Alabama grin...

"That'll be $9.95. Plus tax."

Bacon Terrorist posted:

Heath, you're doing the lord's work.

God bles.

Heath posted:

"Pastor John, can't you speak to him?"

Pastor John brought the car to a halt just out front of Wayne Robinson's home in Reform. With his usual methodical care, he pulled up on the emergency brake lever and turned off the engine. The words rang loudly in his head, for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. As the only pastor to graduate high school in Pickens County, John Marten was in high demand for his services. His calm, respectful demeanor had earned him many friends, few foes, and all the respect that comes with the position.

The passenger seat was occupied by Derek Valance, a slight young man of just 17, and aspiring youth pastor. Sensitive, bright and a little timid, but a man of Christ down to the littlest bone of his pinky toe. John knew that Derek would succeed him one day. Derek fidgeted a bit, his hands wringing the handles of a black leather bag in his lap.

"Pastor John," he said in the dull rumble of the engine dying. "I'm honored that ya brought me with ya t' see Mr. Robinson, but I must admit that somethin' feels ..." He simply trailed off. John blinked slowly into that Wednesday morning sunrise, pondering how to console the boy. He saw evil in every shadow, poor thing.

"Derek, when your parents came to me two years ago with concerns about yer ..." he waved his hand in a loose ellipse, "'preferences,' I took you under my wing to teach you the finer points of ministry, and look at ya now. Y've come a long way, but it's time to know that one of the hardest parts of bein' one of Christ's soldiers is that sometimes you gotta help people through some real difficult times."

Derek shook his head. "It's not that, I mean somethin' feels ... I dunno, weird." He glanced around the neighborhood suspiciously through the windows. "An' you havin' me bring then exorcism kit ain't exactly inspirin' confidence either." He lifted the leather bag, causing its contents to jingle within.

Pastor John opened the door to his car and began to step out. "I've had several people come to me talkin' about these things Wayne an' his wife been sayin' and I'm just errin' on the side o' caution. C'mon now."

A swift knock on the front door of the house brought no response. Pastor John tried to peer inside a window, but all of them had the curtains drawn. A second, harder knock and the door slowly opened. A young boy, one of Wayne's sons, stood before them silently, making healthy progress on a foot long hot dog with no bun. His hands and feet were stained with dirt, as though he hadn't bathed in days. The overpowering odor of fry oil wafted out from behind him with a hint of cat urine underneath. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Well, howdy, little man. Where's yer papa?"

The boy stared up silently into John's eyes. He could hear Derek fidgeting with the bag behind him. The child simply turned on his heels and walked into the darkened house, leaving the door open.

John half turned to Derek. "I suppose we'll let ourselves in."

Not a single light on in the house. The fry oil stench invaded all senses, including sight -- there seemed to be a pungent smoke in the air. The only light came filtered from the edges of heavy curtains covering every window.

"Wayne?"

A muffled response came from the direction of the dining room. The pair stepped over discarded condiment bottles and other miscellany -- remnants of the dog shack's unsold inventory, no doubt. They stepped into the dining room and saw Wayne sitting at one end of the table, shrouded in near darkness in spite of the early hour. He wore an unearthly grin behind tented fingers.

"Pas-tor John! What brings ya by? Wait, wait, it doesn't even matter. I know why you're here."

John blinked in surprise and straightened himself, adopting his pastoral authority. "Well, I haven't seen you at church in over a month. Some of your neighbors have asked me t' stop by 'n make sure everything is on the up-and-up. And Wayne, I know it must be hard havin' to close up sh--"

"Pastor, please! Call me Doobie."

"Doobie. I know it must be hard for you havin' had to close up 'n all, but I want you to know you have the community's full support."

"Pastor," said Doobie, a manic gleam in his eye. "Tell me... Do ya like frog legs?"

Frog legs. Everyone who had spoken to him had mentioned something about frogs. He considered his words carefully. "I rather do, Doobie."

Doobie suddenly arched his head back and hooted loudly, laughing. "Great, because you're just in time for the feast!" Doobie grabbed the edge of a checkered tablecloth draped over something on the table and yanked it back with full force to reveal a massive party platter of deep fried frog legs. The platter was only about two thirds full, and the lack of grease on the clean part seemed to suggest that Doobie had either run out of frog legs or had simply stopped cooking them. Couldn't be sure. In the center of the plate was a tin container of thick red sauce that looked like ketchup.

"Dig in!"

Pastor John and Derek looked upon the frog legs and their incomplete circle gleaming in the dim light. Southern hospitality dictated that they should take a bite. Common sense dictated otherwise.

Doobie's eyes seemed to sparkle in the haze. "I said, 'dig in.' You two ain't ... 'Bad froggers,' are ya?"

Pastor John was quickly becoming worried. Derek was visibly shaking.

The boy can sense evil like no other, thought Pastor John. He's my canary, here. Maybe I should oblige...

Pastor John selected the best looking leg, a challenge in itself. He dipped it in the sauce, which did in fact turn out to be ketchup, stale and watery. The leg had the consistency of a tire.

Doobie's eyes wouldn't leave Derek, whose own eyes were focused on something behind Doobie. John followed Derek's gaze. Through the darkness, John could barely make out the details of what looked like a statuette of a man, solid coal black, standing erect with one hand in the air before him as if in a grotesque mockery of the Statue of Liberty. His extended hand held a strange baton of sorts. Looking at it, John could swear he heard the faintest whispers coming from every corner of the room.

"You like it?" Doobie inquired with a sly tone. "Found it under the shack when I was installin' the plumbing. Eat the fuckin' frog leg, kid." He pointed at Derek with a particularly ugly example of the newest venture in hot, cheap snacks.

Derek clutched the exorcism bag to his chest and began to take a step backward, lip quivering.

Doobie's already manic expression took a sudden wicked delight, a Jack Nicholson visage of murderous intent. He slammed hard on the table, sending frog legs flying. "We-HELL, lookie here!" He turned toward the darkness, toward the basement door. "Ta-SHAAA!! We got us a queer frogger in our midst! C'mon an' git'im!!"

Derek began to whimper while Pastor John reeled. Were the frog legs drugged? The whispering became deafeningly loud, overpowering every other sound and sense except for the violent banging and scratching on the basement door. Pastor John tried to yell, tried to run, but nothing in his body was under his power anymore. The basement door exploded open, unleashing a black mass of movement so fast that it was impossible in this darkness to comprehend what was being seen. In a matter of a few seconds, the creature darted onto the ceiling and grabbed onto a light fixture with all four limbs and arched its back downward.

In one motion its powerful jaws opened and slammed shut around poor Derek's head with a sound the combination of a grunt and a gorging rhino. The shockwave of enamel hitting enamel sent Pastor John to his knees. Derek's head severed cleanly off but for a single long string of sinew that the creature sucked into its mouth like the gooey end of a cheese stick.

Doobie jumped in the air, cheering, "Snap into a Slim Jim, am I right? Hahaha!!"

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling, hanging from a thick black glob of some sort and caught what remained of Derek, lowering him gently onto the ground. She began to feast.

Doobie came up behind the frozen pastor and helped him back to his feet. "Woo-ee son, she's gotten fast. Look, Pastor John, y'know very well that I can't let ya leave here alive after havin' seen this, so I'mma give ya a choice. I'd say Tasha's got a good, mmm," he paused, glancing over the carnage, "a good ten minutes before she finishes with the kid and gets hungry again. You can either wait it out, or you can turn to ol' Doob to see ya through."

Pastor John felt something cold and metal pushed in his hand. A sportsman and lifelong enthusiast, John knew it instantly - a firearm, a revolver. By sheer force of will, he was able to place the barrel just under his chin. Once he felt the cold ring pressed tightly into his jaw, tears streaming in agony, he exercised every bit of willpower he had to pull the trigger.

Click.

Pastor John opened his eyes. Doobie stood in front of him, chuckling softly, a hollow ring between the scarfing sounds behind him. Pastor John's eyes came into dim focus on the strange arcane statue, and it became clear to him that it held not a baton aloft to the heavens, but a footlong.

"See, now, the gun's on ol' Doob. But I'm afraid that if you want the full meal, yer gonna have ta... Upsize it." A plate materialized out of the darkness in Doobie's hand. The daily special. It was all there - a Coke in the bottle, a high pile of Doobie's bold fries, .50 worth of ice on the side and the piéce de resistance: a toasted bun acting as a bed for a single bullet.

Pastor John reached limply for the bullet, moving evermore out of his reach as Doobie pulled away.

"What do you want from me?" John's voice gargled over the creature sucking the marrow from Derek's thigh bone.

An apron had materialized on Doobie's sturdy frame. With that same manic Alabama grin...

"That'll be $9.95. Plus tax."

Heath posted:

"Pastor John, can't you speak to him?"

Pastor John brought the car to a halt just out front of Wayne Robinson's home in Reform. With his usual methodical care, he pulled up on the emergency brake lever and turned off the engine. The words rang loudly in his head, for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. As the only pastor to graduate high school in Pickens County, John Marten was in high demand for his services. His calm, respectful demeanor had earned him many friends, few foes, and all the respect that comes with the position.

The passenger seat was occupied by Derek Valance, a slight young man of just 17, and aspiring youth pastor. Sensitive, bright and a little timid, but a man of Christ down to the littlest bone of his pinky toe. John knew that Derek would succeed him one day. Derek fidgeted a bit, his hands wringing the handles of a black leather bag in his lap.

"Pastor John," he said in the dull rumble of the engine dying. "I'm honored that ya brought me with ya t' see Mr. Robinson, but I must admit that somethin' feels ..." He simply trailed off. John blinked slowly into that Wednesday morning sunrise, pondering how to console the boy. He saw evil in every shadow, poor thing.

"Derek, when your parents came to me two years ago with concerns about yer ..." he waved his hand in a loose ellipse, "'preferences,' I took you under my wing to teach you the finer points of ministry, and look at ya now. Y've come a long way, but it's time to know that one of the hardest parts of bein' one of Christ's soldiers is that sometimes you gotta help people through some real difficult times."

Derek shook his head. "It's not that, I mean somethin' feels ... I dunno, weird." He glanced around the neighborhood suspiciously through the windows. "An' you havin' me bring then exorcism kit ain't exactly inspirin' confidence either." He lifted the leather bag, causing its contents to jingle within.

Pastor John opened the door to his car and began to step out. "I've had several people come to me talkin' about these things Wayne an' his wife been sayin' and I'm just errin' on the side o' caution. C'mon now."

A swift knock on the front door of the house brought no response. Pastor John tried to peer inside a window, but all of them had the curtains drawn. A second, harder knock and the door slowly opened. A young boy, one of Wayne's sons, stood before them silently, making healthy progress on a foot long hot dog with no bun. His hands and feet were stained with dirt, as though he hadn't bathed in days. The overpowering odor of fry oil wafted out from behind him with a hint of cat urine underneath. So far, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Well, howdy, little man. Where's yer papa?"

The boy stared up silently into John's eyes. He could hear Derek fidgeting with the bag behind him. The child simply turned on his heels and walked into the darkened house, leaving the door open.

John half turned to Derek. "I suppose we'll let ourselves in."

Not a single light on in the house. The fry oil stench invaded all senses, including sight -- there seemed to be a pungent smoke in the air. The only light came filtered from the edges of heavy curtains covering every window.

"Wayne?"

A muffled response came from the direction of the dining room. The pair stepped over discarded condiment bottles and other miscellany -- remnants of the dog shack's unsold inventory, no doubt. They stepped into the dining room and saw Wayne sitting at one end of the table, shrouded in near darkness in spite of the early hour. He wore an unearthly grin behind tented fingers.

"Pas-tor John! What brings ya by? Wait, wait, it doesn't even matter. I know why you're here."

John blinked in surprise and straightened himself, adopting his pastoral authority. "Well, I haven't seen you at church in over a month. Some of your neighbors have asked me t' stop by 'n make sure everything is on the up-and-up. And Wayne, I know it must be hard havin' to close up sh--"

"Pastor, please! Call me Doobie."

"Doobie. I know it must be hard for you havin' had to close up 'n all, but I want you to know you have the community's full support."

"Pastor," said Doobie, a manic gleam in his eye. "Tell me... Do ya like frog legs?"

Frog legs. Everyone who had spoken to him had mentioned something about frogs. He considered his words carefully. "I rather do, Doobie."

Doobie suddenly arched his head back and hooted loudly, laughing. "Great, because you're just in time for the feast!" Doobie grabbed the edge of a checkered tablecloth draped over something on the table and yanked it back with full force to reveal a massive party platter of deep fried frog legs. The platter was only about two thirds full, and the lack of grease on the clean part seemed to suggest that Doobie had either run out of frog legs or had simply stopped cooking them. Couldn't be sure. In the center of the plate was a tin container of thick red sauce that looked like ketchup.

"Dig in!"

Pastor John and Derek looked upon the frog legs and their incomplete circle gleaming in the dim light. Southern hospitality dictated that they should take a bite. Common sense dictated otherwise.

Doobie's eyes seemed to sparkle in the haze. "I said, 'dig in.' You two ain't ... 'Bad froggers,' are ya?"

Pastor John was quickly becoming worried. Derek was visibly shaking.

The boy can sense evil like no other, thought Pastor John. He's my canary, here. Maybe I should oblige...

Pastor John selected the best looking leg, a challenge in itself. He dipped it in the sauce, which did in fact turn out to be ketchup, stale and watery. The leg had the consistency of a tire.

Doobie's eyes wouldn't leave Derek, whose own eyes were focused on something behind Doobie. John followed Derek's gaze. Through the darkness, John could barely make out the details of what looked like a statuette of a man, solid coal black, standing erect with one hand in the air before him as if in a grotesque mockery of the Statue of Liberty. His extended hand held a strange baton of sorts. Looking at it, John could swear he heard the faintest whispers coming from every corner of the room.

"You like it?" Doobie inquired with a sly tone. "Found it under the shack when I was installin' the plumbing. Eat the fuckin' frog leg, kid." He pointed at Derek with a particularly ugly example of the newest venture in hot, cheap snacks.

Derek clutched the exorcism bag to his chest and began to take a step backward, lip quivering.

Doobie's already manic expression took a sudden wicked delight, a Jack Nicholson visage of murderous intent. He slammed hard on the table, sending frog legs flying. "We-HELL, lookie here!" He turned toward the darkness, toward the basement door. "Ta-SHAAA!! We got us a queer frogger in our midst! C'mon an' git'im!!"

Derek began to whimper while Pastor John reeled. Were the frog legs drugged? The whispering became deafeningly loud, overpowering every other sound and sense except for the violent banging and scratching on the basement door. Pastor John tried to yell, tried to run, but nothing in his body was under his power anymore. The basement door exploded open, unleashing a black mass of movement so fast that it was impossible in this darkness to comprehend what was being seen. In a matter of a few seconds, the creature darted onto the ceiling and grabbed onto a light fixture with all four limbs and arched its back downward.

In one motion its powerful jaws opened and slammed shut around poor Derek's head with a sound the combination of a grunt and a gorging rhino. The shockwave of enamel hitting enamel sent Pastor John to his knees. Derek's head severed cleanly off but for a single long string of sinew that the creature sucked into its mouth like the gooey end of a cheese stick.

Doobie jumped in the air, cheering, "Snap into a Slim Jim, am I right? Hahaha!!"

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling, hanging from a thick black glob of some sort and caught what remained of Derek, lowering him gently onto the ground. She began to feast.

Doobie came up behind the frozen pastor and helped him back to his feet. "Woo-ee son, she's gotten fast. Look, Pastor John, y'know very well that I can't let ya leave here alive after havin' seen this, so I'mma give ya a choice. I'd say Tasha's got a good, mmm," he paused, glancing over the carnage, "a good ten minutes before she finishes with the kid and gets hungry again. You can either wait it out, or you can turn to ol' Doob to see ya through."

Pastor John felt something cold and metal pushed in his hand. A sportsman and lifelong enthusiast, John knew it instantly - a firearm, a revolver. By sheer force of will, he was able to place the barrel just under his chin. Once he felt the cold ring pressed tightly into his jaw, tears streaming in agony, he exercised every bit of willpower he had to pull the trigger.

Click.

Pastor John opened his eyes. Doobie stood in front of him, chuckling softly, a hollow ring between the scarfing sounds behind him. Pastor John's eyes came into dim focus on the strange arcane statue, and it became clear to him that it held not a baton aloft to the heavens, but a footlong.

"See, now, the gun's on ol' Doob. But I'm afraid that if you want the full meal, yer gonna have ta... Upsize it." A plate materialized out of the darkness in Doobie's hand. The daily special. It was all there - a Coke in the bottle, a high pile of Doobie's bold fries, .50 worth of ice on the side and the piéce de resistance: a toasted bun acting as a bed for a single bullet.

Pastor John reached limply for the bullet, moving evermore out of his reach as Doobie pulled away.

"What do you want from me?" John's voice gargled over the creature sucking the marrow from Derek's thigh bone.

An apron had materialized on Doobie's sturdy frame. With that same manic Alabama grin...

"That'll be $9.95. Plus tax."

ArbitraryC posted:

I don't get why some goons seem so upset with the decision to fund albama hotdog man. This was 2+ solid years of entertainment plus giving one person a legitimate shot at doing something different for their lives all for the price of like 10 bucks per person involved. sure the money could have gone to a more worthwhile person but the lack of screening is sort of the charm here, no point in targeting an already viral project with this sort of thing. 14k is ultimately a drop in the bucket, the tropes vs women in gaming series kickstarter got literally 10x that to make a handful of 10 minute youtube videos, doob went on a 2 year journey with all sorts of highs and lows for a fraction of that budget.

ArbitaryC in 2014 posted:

My bad, "I" gave less money than I'd spend on an evening out to the campaign and then "you guys" ruined it by being creepy stalking poop touching shitlords who had to be told not to harass children. I hope this clears it up.

satanic splash-back posted:

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3679600&userid=146548#post437357094


Still defending your terrible decision years later, Good Idea.