Dr. Fucknuts brandished the cast iron skillet, preparing to use it against old Mrs. Schuster if she didn’t stop singing that damn infernal song.
Dr. Fucknuts had lost his mind. He wasn’t sure where he had left it, but he was certain that eventually somebody would find it and call the number sewn into back of its underwear. He carried a special cellphone with him everywhere and at all times in anticipation of that singular call. But it hadn’t came yet. So he was still batshit crazy.
So now that you know that Dr. Fucknuts was crazy, that throws everything you’ve learned in the story so far into question, now doesn’t it?
Maybe there was no Mrs. Schuster, or maybe she was somebody else, or maybe she was a turnip. Maybe the cast iron skillet was actually an oven mitt. Or a tuna fish sandwich.
The possibilities are endless.
All because we now know that we no longer have to tether our expectations to reality.
Literally anything could be true.
Maybe Dr. Fucknuts isn’t even a real doctor. Or a fucknuts.
Maybe he was really Mrs. Schuster the whole time.
And maybe he was the one belting out “Moon River” in that off-key falsetto.
And maybe it was karaoke night, and maybe he was in drag, dressed as his alter-ego, “Mrs. Schuster”.
Maybe his friends were all in on it, and humored him/her, because they loved him/her and knew him/her before he/she went all batshit crazy.
Hell, maybe they were all batshit crazy. Maybe this whole story takes place in a loony bin.
As I said, the possibilities are endless.
So given all that, you really don’t need me around anymore, do you?
I mean, after all, at this point I’m not liable to come up with anything better than you are, am I?
I think I have demonstrated that quite clearly by now.
So why don’t you just finish this story yourself, as you see fit. Even if you just take it out back and shoot it I would not be offended. Because that’s how little shit I give about it at this point.
THE END (?)
