Disclaimer: Thank my lucky stars I do not own Palmer from Final Fantasy
VII. I do, however, own Palmer's worst nightmare. *Grins evilly* Sweet
dreams…
Got Lard?
1.1.1
1.1.2 By Anubis Fire
The rusty hinges of the apartment door released a dry screech as Palmer opened it. "Hey, hey, honey! I'm home!" He bellowed melodiously. His eyes wandered around the dim interior of his apartment. The search was called off when he discovered the truth about his "honey". He sighed gloomily, "Oh, right…. I'm not married."
He shrugged apathetically, and skipped in mirthfully, dodging over hurdles of grimy laundry, crinkled newspaper bundles, and the various melee of filth. The floorboards creaked pitifully from the painful bouncing of Palmer's elephantine weight. He flicked on the light switch. Swarms of cockroaches skittered in panic across the linoleum kitchen floor.
Running water from a leaky faucet echoed inside of a copper, teakettle and was placed on the stove for boiling tea. The refrigerator whirred with his buoyant whistling from inside as he retrieved a yellow container labeled in blue letters: TUB O' LARD. Clouds of dust erupted from the cushions as he plopped himself onto the couch. Noxious eddies of rancid food, B.O., and other stenches flew into his nostrils. He exhaled contently. "Ah! Home, sweet, home!"
The lid popped off. A chubby finger slid against the walls of it---only to receive a meager glob of lard? An eyebrow rose in surprise. The empty container sailed over his shoulder.
He waddled over to the fridge. Behind its door, revealed a hoard of TUB O' LARD containers---and ONLY lard. He snatched the lid off one. Empty! He seized another. Empty! Frantically, he ripped the lids off every one of them. Only to get the same reply from them: empty. His eyes dissented from their sockets, swerving wildly at the heap and bare fridge---but wait! What's this?
A single TUB O' LARD remained. Could this be his only hope? He shook it to judge its weight. Good, it's heavy. Gotta be full. His eyes gazed puppy- eyed at the ceiling, praying for God's mercy. Palmer slowly peeled the lid off. A putrid stench escaped. His eyes bulged in shock. This wasn't full of lard!
Instead, greenish clumps of mold clinged onto the lid. And a slimy horde of wriggling maggots indulged with glee. They made a sickening splatter as he dumped them out, hoping that there was some left that the maggots didn't get. But it was completely cleaned out!
"ARRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!…"
His scream died down, followed by groan. The room quaked after he collapsed from a massive heart attack….
…got lard?
Blue and red lights flashed outside of the apartment building as three paramedics rolled out Palmer's corpse down the steps like a keg of beer. After they plopped it onto the sidewalk, they panted in exhaustion. "Hey, Al," one of them called to another paramedic from inside of the ambulance, "Got an XXXL body bag for this guy?"
Got Lard?
1.1.1
1.1.2 By Anubis Fire
The rusty hinges of the apartment door released a dry screech as Palmer opened it. "Hey, hey, honey! I'm home!" He bellowed melodiously. His eyes wandered around the dim interior of his apartment. The search was called off when he discovered the truth about his "honey". He sighed gloomily, "Oh, right…. I'm not married."
He shrugged apathetically, and skipped in mirthfully, dodging over hurdles of grimy laundry, crinkled newspaper bundles, and the various melee of filth. The floorboards creaked pitifully from the painful bouncing of Palmer's elephantine weight. He flicked on the light switch. Swarms of cockroaches skittered in panic across the linoleum kitchen floor.
Running water from a leaky faucet echoed inside of a copper, teakettle and was placed on the stove for boiling tea. The refrigerator whirred with his buoyant whistling from inside as he retrieved a yellow container labeled in blue letters: TUB O' LARD. Clouds of dust erupted from the cushions as he plopped himself onto the couch. Noxious eddies of rancid food, B.O., and other stenches flew into his nostrils. He exhaled contently. "Ah! Home, sweet, home!"
The lid popped off. A chubby finger slid against the walls of it---only to receive a meager glob of lard? An eyebrow rose in surprise. The empty container sailed over his shoulder.
He waddled over to the fridge. Behind its door, revealed a hoard of TUB O' LARD containers---and ONLY lard. He snatched the lid off one. Empty! He seized another. Empty! Frantically, he ripped the lids off every one of them. Only to get the same reply from them: empty. His eyes dissented from their sockets, swerving wildly at the heap and bare fridge---but wait! What's this?
A single TUB O' LARD remained. Could this be his only hope? He shook it to judge its weight. Good, it's heavy. Gotta be full. His eyes gazed puppy- eyed at the ceiling, praying for God's mercy. Palmer slowly peeled the lid off. A putrid stench escaped. His eyes bulged in shock. This wasn't full of lard!
Instead, greenish clumps of mold clinged onto the lid. And a slimy horde of wriggling maggots indulged with glee. They made a sickening splatter as he dumped them out, hoping that there was some left that the maggots didn't get. But it was completely cleaned out!
"ARRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!…"
His scream died down, followed by groan. The room quaked after he collapsed from a massive heart attack….
…got lard?
Blue and red lights flashed outside of the apartment building as three paramedics rolled out Palmer's corpse down the steps like a keg of beer. After they plopped it onto the sidewalk, they panted in exhaustion. "Hey, Al," one of them called to another paramedic from inside of the ambulance, "Got an XXXL body bag for this guy?"