Chapter 6: Morty Gets Back To His Fucking Mailbox


“At last,” Morty thought shiningly, “presents from mister Postmaster!”

In his mailbox was a lone flyer from Frepointe Electrolysis Saloon:

DID YOU KNOW: Electrolysis has been a safe and fun method of hair removal for at least 100 years?

DID YOU KNOW: In a recent Newsweek poll, Americans found they preferred People With Less Body Hair?

DID YOU KNOW: Electrolysis was invented by a patriot? The great American Benjamin Franklin, harnessed his chicken murdering kite string electrocution tactics to Constitution groupies to make them look more like bald polar bear cubs?

DID YOU KNOW: Most Electrolysis technicians are trained in the hair removal arts?

DID YOU KNOW: Electrolysis can help you have the eyebrows and arm pits you have always craved?

Visit: Frepointe Electrolysis Saloon! Bring this flyer for a 10% discount on an estimate.

(warning: Electric hair removal therapy can cause high voltages to course through your body, causing nerve damage, memory loss and miscarriages)

Below the text was a picture of a professional athlete, who was apparently endorsing the salon, and a quote. For some convenient plot point, Morty read the text first:

“I spend my days in the shed,

I am a rake”

–Sunglasses model Jimmy Beckham on Frepointe Electrolysis Saloon. Jimmy Beckham is an international sports and sunglasses icon.

Morty moved his eyeballs gaze over to the photo and his body locked in colvulsions.

He hit the ground like a ton of thunder fucking a deer.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head, he clenched his teeth and fists, and lay there shuddering. Consciousness lapsing into the ether.

And then it was all white. Morty was standing there alone in the nothingness. He slowly opened his eyes and was no longer shaking.

“Elec…trolysis …?”

It was what he could remember. It was all that he could remember. He realized that he wasnt sure if he was lying down or standing up, or even if he could move. In a pure white void, he had nothing to focus on except for his nose, which crossed his eyes and was giving him a horrible headache.

And still it echoed, “electrolysis … electrolysis … electrolysis”. The dull echo resonated in the void and the echoes grew fuzzier. Morty felt his eyeballs relax away from their crossing, and his mouth curled back to his famous shiny smile.

“I gotta do … “

(“electrolysis”)

“…right, Mister.”

(“electrolysis”)

…and he heard himself breathe, and the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

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