The Loud family sits together on the couch, crammed together like sardines in a dime store tin. Their hands are bound behind their backs and duct tape covers their mouths. Fear is evident in their eyes, and on their sweaty brows. Lynn squirms as she tries to get free, but it's no use. Leni is silently crying.
A man sits in a kitchen chair, facing them, a revolver in his hand. He turns around and smiles. "Oh, I didn't hear you come in." He tucks the gun into his sports coat and stands. "I'm Flagg1991, and this is Torture The Louds. See, a couple months back, I was on my way to a lady friend's house for some "alone time" if you catch my meaning." Flagg1991 smiles and walks over to the couch, never looking away. "Then this piece of shit van" – here he rolls his neck like Miss Thang – "looking like it's been dead twenty years, rust flakes flying off in the wind, pulls out in front of me...and does the fucking speed limit."
Flagg1991 shakes his head. "Crazy, right? Shit was coming out the windows, toys and trash, kids were sticking their arms out, this dumbass with braces and Graucho Marx glasses was pointing at laughing at me in the back window. I was pissed. But I would have forgiven it, expect I was a half hour late, and got there just to find out my friend got tired of waiting and fucked her neighbor." Flagg1991 looks back at the Loud family, then again to the fourth wall. "Since that day, I've had a personal vendetta against these guys. I've written over 200,000 words of fan fiction where they die, get pregnant, sprain their ankles, fall down, look stupid, and embarrass themselves. Now, I'm bringing it to the real world, but I need some help. I just don't know what to do. That's where you come in. Call 1-800-255-LOUD and give me some ideas. Standard data rates may apply."
Flagg1991 looks at the Louds again. "It can be anything. I can tickle Leni 'til she pees herself, knock out Mr. Loud's teeth...I can even invite my good friend Kenny Rogers over for a duet." He takes the gun from his jacket and sings into the barrel to the tune of "Islands in the Stream" – but very off-key: "Assholes on the couch, that is what you are, oh-ohhh-ohh." Laughing, he slides the gun back in. "Really, the only limit is your imagination, so get on those phones now."