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Slimebeast

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on: 01:48:57 AM 05/17/13
I fell asleep watching infomercials. That's what happened.

I couldn't sleep... those damned pills with the insomnia side-effect... and after hours of nothing but ads on TV, I finally passed out.

That must be what happened.

There's no other explanation for finding myself here, cowering behind a plywood wall amongst a pile of bizarre props. Oversized, plastic food... A half-painted screen door... an inflatable replica of the human digestive system... these must be random fabrications of my subconscious.

"You're on in ten seconds!" calls the crystalline woman, herself adorned in diamonds. The slight, shimmering dress clings to her body, its transparency revealing angles instead of curves. The plunging neck line exposes cleavage akin to the jagged clusters inside a geode, and a slender neck that ends with a large, sparkling, featureless princess-cut head.

"I'm on?" I all but squeak. "On what? Why?"

She studies a clip-board, though she has no eyes to read with.

"Jar-A-Ma-Jig™ with Walt Woodwork," she replies coolly.

"Walt Woodwork?!" I crouch tighter, pressing against the plywood, "Jar-A-Ma-Jig™?!"

I nearly gag as the prickling sensation of verbalizing the trademark symbol passes from throat to lips. As if in unison with the retching, an audience on the other side of the wall gasps in surprise and cheers.

The shrill voice of an over-excited pitch man gibbers incoherently at the audibly enthralled crowd.

"Come on! Walt's waiting!" the crystalline woman seizes my hand in hers. Cold, hard angles of what should be fingers press into my flesh and draw the faintest hint of blood. She cannot be moved, save for the steady trot of her high-heeled feet... spiked heels tapering from the bottoms of clear wedges I must assume are feet. I can neither break free, nor use my weight against her. We proceed as if I were a piece of rolling luggage.

With a shove, I am onstage.

"There you are, Mike," a voice calls in my direction as the studio lights blind me, "I was just telling the nice people about you!"

My eyes adjust. Slowly. By the time I can see clearly, I have caught myself on a sturdy counter and I'm standing next to the source of that voice.

"You okay, Mike?" he turns from me to the audience, "It's his first time on television!"

The audience laughs, and there is a cruelty to it.

"My name isn't..." I focus on the man next to me. The host. Walt Woodwork. He's about six feet tall and skinny with curly brown hair that frizzes out like a helmet. He wears think-framed glasses and one of the ugliest yellow-and-red sweaters I've ever seen.

His skin, at least what's visible on his face and hands, is glossy, polished wood.

"Welcome to Walt's Wonder-Whatsits!" he shrieks at the crowd in a shrill, nasal voice, "Today we'll be talking about the latest kitchen helper you can't live without... the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™!"

His jaw is nothing more than a square block of wood, like Howdy Doody or countless other marionettes. It audibly clacks and clatters as he speaks.

The audience is applauding the product, and as they do Walt’s glassy eyeballs spin and his mouth hangs wide in a deafening, high-pitch primal screech that echoes the viewers’ enthusiasm.

It seems like forever until they all calm down. I’m eyeing the path back from where I had come, but the dazzling gem woman is standing in the way, arms folded.

If there are any viewers at home, this must be just as confusing for them as it is for me. However, now that I look at the handful of cameras focused on Walt and myself, I notice they are unmanned. What's worse, beneath the bulky and outdated cameras, the stands more resemble the hunched, squat bodies of rusted-out metallic gargoyles. For just a moment, I think I've caught sight of a tremendous eyeball behind one tinted lense.

"Moms! You want your children to eat right, but you also need to use your time wisely." Walt gestures to the counter. In front of him sit a plate and a butter knife, along with a loaf of bread and two jars marked Peanut Butter and Jelly.

"So you go to make your son or daughter a healthy sandwich for lunch..."

The audience mumbles and murmurs in agreement. Within the shadows of the viewing area, I think I can make out many forms leaning and whispering to each other.

My attention is drawn away from them once again. Walt's hands flop and flutter as if they were poorly controlled and suspended from unseen strings. He manages to grab two slices of bread, mangling them in the process. He thrusts the clumped, doughy mess onto the plate with such force that it cracks down the middle.

Fumbling, not looking down, Walt seeks out and finds the jar of peanut butter. His less-than-nimble, jointless wooden fingers clasp against the object as his other hand slides around the lid in futile motions.

"Gol-darnit and gosh-dangit! This boogly-bog thing is harder to open than a tight-lipped oyster!" Walt slams the jar down. His arms jut out akimbo, hands on knobby hips. "Give me a hand, would you, Mike?"

Without thinking, I reach for the peanut butter jar and try twisting the lid. I have no idea why I'm doing this, my eyes wide with surprise. After a few grasps and pulls, I finally manage to wrench the lid free.

As soon as the jar is open, an unrealistically large blast of peanut butter explodes forth from within. My shirt and pants are covered in chunky beige mush as if a tremendous squirrel just puked all over me.

"Uh oh! Meal mistake!" The crowd slowly chants in unison.

"I loosened it for you!" Walt laughs. The audience takes their cue and begins laughing as well.

I gasp as Walt grasps my shoulders and looks me up and down.

"Well, shucks!" Walt shakes his head and clucks his tongue, "What a mess you are, Mike! This never would've happened if you had the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™!"

The audience applauds and whistles as Walt releases me from his powerful grip and sighs as if he has a lick of compassion for my condition.

"Alright, so maybe you aren't as clumsy as Mike, here," Walt wiggles his fingers and rolls his head as if he's mimicing me, "But how many times as THIS happened to you?!"

I watch, frozen, as Walt seizes the glass jelly jar with an unexpected amount of speed and deftness. He spins it through the air, and before I can make any sense of anything he brings it down, shatters it across my skull.

"Uh oh! Meal mistake!" The crowd repeats.

I fall to the floor in shock, sticky purple goop and flecks of glass sticking in my hair and to my face. Clumps of the mixed matter roll over my tightly closed eyes as I let out a piercing scream.

My hands feel for injury... for blood... but I only find stinging pricks of broken jar and adhering foodstuff.

I think the audience is laughing.

"Well now you don't have to worry about that… with the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™!"

I begin the undignified and painful action of crawling away, toward the audience. I'm still knocked for a loop, too shaky to get to my feet, but I figure there must be an exit from this demented place somewhere beyond the heartless onlookers.

"Aw, don't leave yet, Mike! We're about to show what the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™ does to jars!" Walt calls after me, then makes a begrudging apology to the audience "Sorry, folks. I think Mike has stage fright!"

As I reach the viewing area, my hand comes down on something soft and warm. Flesh. The floor itself, or something lying upon it, is made of skin.

My free fingers work the congealing jelly from my face. Clearing my eyes once more, I look up to the viewers. My sight has adjusted to the darkness here, and I can see that they are all looking at me. They're all staring intently... watching... a look of satisfaction on their faces.

At first, I think they're simply happy to see me in pain. Then I look down at my hand, which is slowly and irreparably merging with the soft, pulsating floor.

I can see now that the audience itself... every last man, woman, and child here... is merely sprouting up from this organic, carpet-like mass. They blend together at the waist, spreading out in evenly spaced rows.

Though every face is different, they are all one.

We are all one.

We are.

We are audience.

Walt demonstrates the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™, and I can't believe how easily it does that to even the toughest jars. I don't know how I've existed this long without one. A smile spreads across my face as it emerges once more from the center of the mass. Wait. Is this my face, or is that my face over there?

Oh! Look! Walt is bringing Mike out to try the Jar-A-Ma-Jig™.

Ha ha ha! This is her first time on TV.
« Last Edit: 02:51:10 PM 05/18/13 by chwolf »
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Felix Theo Wren

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on: 11:37:16 PM 07/07/13
Are you a lucid-dreamer, purr-haps? Because these are all so fantastically surreal.  It's like if Zdizław Beksiński had been a fiction writer.
Teie sõbralik kassimees naabrusest :D

I might have been a kiisu katt once.



Slimebeast

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on: 01:01:26 AM 07/08/13
No, I pretty much just dream about stupid crap that makes no sense and doesn't matter at all.

Last night - Searching for groceries in the creek bed.
If I should live until I wake, I pray the web my death to fake.



Felix Theo Wren

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on: 07:37:06 AM 07/08/13
XD nice.  I sometimes get these long-winded epics of dreams where I can transcend dimensions and become other people/animals/a fucking tree if I wanted to.. but last night/morning I dreamt that I was on the toilet and a bunch of people I didn't know burst in through the bathroom door, and for some reason I was stuck to the seat and couldn't get up to shoo them away. Dafuq. It was rather distressing.. D: xD
Teie sõbralik kassimees naabrusest :D

I might have been a kiisu katt once.



Slimebeast

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on: 05:56:25 PM 07/08/13
Never fall alseep on the potty.
If I should live until I wake, I pray the web my death to fake.



Mr. Zsasz666

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on: 11:29:45 PM 05/29/15
Holy SHIT, That WAS A AMAZING READ!!! And Now, I'm Thinking That This Could Easily Be One Of The Best Creepypasta's Ever Made. EVER. Keep Up The Ace Work, Sport.