Chapter 3: In which I write fervently to catch up on a couple days slacking.


Fervently. Bet you never heard that one before.

In the early oughts, Morty found his ass waking up on an especially brisk spring morning. The birds were singsonging with some high-pitched shrill bullshit that would have murdered any sane motherfucker with a hangover, but Morty was still in his blank phase. It made him want to whistle. With his patented “shiny smile”, he walked under the tiny, sidewalk-facing window in his one-room basement apartment.

“Hello little bird, tweet, tweet, tweet,” he followed with a whistle. The bird abruptly stopped singing, and looked off into the distance before flying away.

“Guess he wasnt feeling singsongy!”

Morty got up and put on his fancy suit, brushed his shiny teeth, and remembered he had forgotten to shower. He took off his fancy suit, unpolished his teeth and got in the shower. He also whistled in the shower. Morty Sharp was a whistlin kinda guy. 11 minutes later, Morty was once again in his fancy suit and ready to face the world.

This was before he had, and talked to, hats.

“Well, Mortimer, I wonder if mister postmaster has sent us any presents?” he asked himself. What a dipshit.

Morty walked out to the courtyard and up towards the row of generic bronze mail-slots.


“Oh, hello, Mrs. Pansllaro!” Morty was always cordial and polite, he didnthave any reason not to be.

“Morty, I’m so glad I saw you I have something to tell you!”

Ralmondia Emanekaf Pansllaro, was a balding fat middle-aged woman of indeterminate origin. She claimed to be from outside Bakersfield, CA, so you can be sure she spent at least 20 years as a tranny meth bitch in a trailer park eating jars of mayonnaise and stealing the welfare-funded brass fillings from her neglected childrens corpses in the hopes that the tooth fairy would leave a wad of cash in their decaying mouths. That is, if she was telling the truth. Tweakers always fucking lie.

She was sweatier today than she usually was, one would assume from the fact that she had to run 27-feet carrying her two-pound bucket of macaroni and cheese counterbalanced with an Ultra-Gulp container filled with Hawaiian Punch syrup.

She spoke english incoherently, but with a flawless accent, because most people in Courage Falls, Minnesota had never met anyone from Bakersfield, they just assumed it was a regional accent. They were right.

Ralmondia had lived in Morty’s building longer than anyone knew, including her. The meager rent was covered by her collecting recycling and doing odd cleaning jobs.

“Morty! Today beautiful day! I got letter from office uptown! They say my brain not contagious! To my daughter, letter come, say: “Mom thank you for letter I pregenance again with lonely cowboy. Drink cough syrup every day for belly sickenss!!”. I try read louder, words stay same.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Panilyero! It is a beautiful day!”


Morty took one more step to the mailboxes. She stepped in front of him again, still smiling, and dripping Macaroni from her face like a fucking retard.

“You nice me. You talk me more? Look my daughter picture!”

She held out a chubby paw with a tattered silver handbook in it. In it were pictures of her Bakersfield spawn. The daughter, unfortunately, looked just like the mother, but with more teeth. For now at least, it might have been an old picture.

“Daughter pretty? You help me make more?”

“Not now, Mrs. Panilyero, can we talk Saturday?”

“SATURDAY?”, her toothless smile pulled a seal of spit from her gaping underjaw, dribbling half-gummed macaroni down her terrycloth rainbow bathrobe.

“Saturday good! Now better, saturday good, I go!”

“Maybe she can clean the window in my apartment,” thought Morty, he liked being active in the community.

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