No rights to anything
5:00P.M-Weird Dojo
After spending a week in prison, I broke out and here I am, sipping my coffee and cocking the Thomson in my left hand with my knee. I set my coffee back down on the coffee counter and fiddle with the multiple knives on my waist belt. Granted I'm receiving many terrified looks from inside the Coffee Shop, I don't mind. My very first target; Dora the Explorer, granted me the blood lust of multiple annoyances. My next target is Patrick Star of Bikini Bottom. I have my scuba-diving suit up and ready, so I run out, the large feet slippers going plop-plop-plop against the asphalt of the street near the water. I jump in, my Thomson thankfully water-proof, and I go down to the said city, the fish there screaming and running amuck. I shoot my Thomson randomly.
"FISH DON'T WALK, LIVE IN HOUSES, EAT HAMBUGERS, TALK, OR USE A TOILET!"
Multiple streams of blood are delightfully mixing in with the ocean salt. I smirk with satisfaction and stomp to the Krusty Krab, the old crab who runs it smiling outside. "Come inside and enjoy a wonderful Krabby Patty as you wait for your doom!" he calls, holding a fresh try of unsoiled patties.
I snatch out a knife and start stabbing down. "PATTIES ARE SUPPOSED TO GET SOGGY," I gorge out an eye, "KRUSTY AND KRAB START WITH 'C'S," crack the shell down the center, "AND CRABS DON'T WEAR CLOTHES!"
A sponge faints inside, a squid screaming and running around in circles. I eat the crab and stomp the structure, ink mixing with blood and salt. I laugh maniacally and shoot around, stomping the guts out of fish and killing the baby fish out of pure pleasure. That's when I see him; the stupid star. I lift up his rock and strike him down with the edge.
"YOU ARE STUPID! YOU ARE FISHIE VERSION OF DORA! YOU WEAR SHORTS!"
That's when someone shocks me with an electrical rod. The dead star now guts and gore on the rock, I drop it and fall flat on the ground, looking up to the cop with the rod. He sighs. "Come on, we have to get you back to the prison to fill you in for an asylum."
"One question first," I lift my index finger. "Aren't we underwater?"
He looks up blankly. "Sh-"
The rod goes berserk and you can see us looking like X-Rays. All goes black for a minute, but someone pulls us up. A couple of sponges are crying over the remains of that sponge from inside the Krusty Krab and a priest is praying for all the fish. I grab my coffee and drink, thinking of more targets for my pleasure alone.
Moral: If fish want to live, they have to spell things correctly.
BONUS!
Asylum Note from yours truly: It's cold, damp, and roomy. I get to drink P*SS instead of coffee and for dinner alone I get gray CR*P that they probably fished from the remains of Bikini Bottom. I'm in a special treatment center, but I have something they don't know about: a bomb made out of crab shells and fish guts (WISH ME LUCK!)