Kaged and Kreased

When Skrubafeldt left the House, he had in mind all his memories... How the Blimey had pissed on his lap, how the Blimey had pestered his ever treasured manhood, and how the owner of the Blimey came home to find Blimey dead...

"What on earth happened?!! Dwight! How did this happen?"

"Erm... Mrs. Guzman, your puppy bit me on my leg, see? So i tried kicking it off, and it fell on the fireplace."

"But you could have done something else, couldn't you, rather than incinerating poor Rover! Ow you blasted sonofagun! You'll pay for this! Get out! NOW!!"

What an idiot Dwight was! Can't even take care of one explanation, uttered Skrubafeldt. The Blimey was ever irritating. Those photos on the mantleplace were so pretty, so nice. But the blimey had to interfere. Good that he died, thought Skrubafeldt. That pair of withered bosoms can't do no shit! Haha, he smirked.

But wait, what if Uncle Randy came to know, thought Dwight. He'd kill me. He'd send me to juvenile hall again! No!! I don't want those rotten potatoes in my mouth again! No!! No way!!

Shut the fuck up, moron! I am Skrubafeldt. I shall not let you, my love, go to that whore of a place again... If you are that concerned with saving your ass from that wheezer, do this.

Dwight tiptoed across the Guzman backyard. He jumped the fence, and quietly opened Uncle Randy's garage door.

There! There it is!! Take it! Yes, the whole fuckin gallon! And don't forget the matchbox! Haha!! Old senile ass will find out how the blimey had felt inside the fireplace... Hahaahaahaaa!!

Mrs. Guzman could still not recover from the shock she got from the sight of the burnt, bone-exposed body of poor ol Rover. After Henry's death at the Vietnam war, she, a woman of 70, was all alone. She had a very remarkable life. A Playboy playmate for three consecutive years in the Sixties, she was quite the bombshell. they said. Yet now, her face or figure had no meaning. She led a life of solitude, and only had Rover, her faithful pet dog, as company. She sat on the couch and started weeping. That Dwight kid was insane. Randy should have locked him in his garage like he did before, she thought. She decided that evening she would visit Randy and complain about this vicious murder of her dog.

Sprinkle left! Sprinkle right! Yes yes yes!!! Dwight, you are getting brighter, my love. Skrubafeldt makes you brighter and sharper and gaaaaaaaaayyyy!!! Hahahahahaa!! Watch out, its falling on your shirt too... There you go!! That's like a nice urchin!

Suddenly, Mrs. Guzman hears a loud loud holler.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!! HELP!! HELP ME!! Aaaaaaaaaaaa!!!"

Dwight was writhing in pain as the fire had caught up his shirt, his curly hair and his tracks. Mrs. Guzman couldn't take it anymore. She fainted on her couch after this glimpse through her window. What the fuck was happening??

You moron! You fool! I told you to throw the match towards the house. And you had smeared gasoline on your hands too??l!! Aaaaaaaa!!! The pain!! Ohhh the pain!! Son of a bitch!

Dwight had suffered the plight of being falsely accused of murdering his aunt, for which he spent 10 years at juvenile hall. He developed a split-personality disorder there, which motivated him to commit out-witted, paranoid and sexually perverted acts. He called himself Skrubafeldt, the gay soul. Dwight's body lay dead. Skrubafeldt was no more. The Creased soul was incinerated to dust.