If you have voices in your head telling you to kill Pepé Le Pew, and the voice sounds just like Pepé Le Pew, I don’t know about you, but I’d be suspicious that it’s some kind of prank.

Maybe I’m not wearing a Top Chef t-shirt, sitting here, waiting for my pizza rolls to finish cooking in the microwave.

Maybe.

Ladies.

It was mostly deserted in Junior Miss.

“This will be a good conversation piece for our dining room table,” he said, sawing the head off of the Sears mannequin.

“Hold still, you,” he whispered.

“Who - you know she can’t understand you anymore, right?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied, and suppressed a laugh. He winked at the severed head, before putting it into a garbage bag for safekeeping.

This place always felt like a graveyard, probably because it was where the neighbor kid murdered his hopes and dreams with paint thinner and techno music. He had no idea why the aliens would choose here for the rapture, but he put on the Farrah Fawcett wig and started digging.