Bucket Bros: The Carpenters of Comedy

Play Doh's Cave

Play Doh's Cave
Image composite courtesy of MorgueFile

[NSFW] Mature Readers Only

Finding out he had a mother, that he was not a clone, not born a child slave in a cold ruthless future where True Capitalism has become Fascism and Stalin-ism on steroids, that was what made him realize: "FUCK. THIS. SHIT."

Bart Sampson was a normal middle aged man on a Martian slave colony. Age twelve, middle aged. Garbage future, i know. But keep reading, it gets good. Martian Subterranean Eden Dome #2004. Year 4556.

There was a time when children watched a cartoon film like Pinocchio, who's parents and grandparents lived through the time of child labor in the United states. Those parents and grand parents would tell stories of losing fingers on the factory line and getting laughed at by the "Human Resources" of their Era.

Working dawn till dusk, not just on family farms and other places where children have every right and privilege to work, but in factories, adult labor. Soul crushing, working for the man, 7 graveyard stocking shifts per week at a Dollar Tree kinda labor, only on steroids.*

*Everything in this story will be on steroids until the author learns further nouns to mix into his hyperbolic superlatives. - Editor.

Editor is what I, the author, call one of my numerous personalities, or valences, more properly stated.

While playing with Play-Do and watching a VHS of Pinocchio from the Nazi-Rat-Mega-Corp VaultTM, Danny saw a picture of his mother and him, his mother kept it, she actually worked there, spoke to him every day, and never told him she was his mother. That's when Danny grabbed his plastic shovel and went digging for clues about what lied outside Plato's Cave.

Mom, I know it's you. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you lead me to believe we weren't even related? He asked his mother. Because we would have both been executed. They use slaves to make a much larger profit off the endless martian farms, the source of all Martian food, and boutique snacks for rich assholes back on earth.

I love you son, even though we are both about to die for certain now that the cameras picked up this conversation, and you knew that was going to happen, Danny. But I don't mind the you signed my death warrant son, because I love you. That's all that's ever mattered to me since the day you were born, and I'm glad you finally know that, sweetheart.

The guards busted into Sarah's home, and shot her full of dozens of holes. But Danny had a surprise, and after moving out of the way just in time before also getting shot, he threw a portable land mind at them, and guts akimbo splattered all over everything in the room.

She was dead. I killed her, he thought, this is on me. I have nothing left again, but I can't go back to where I was, that Slave Danny died with Sarah, and after NRMC(TM) bought all film and media, they didn't just re-release Pinocchio. They also Re-released Rambo. The mid aughts one where he murders dozens with brutal ease.

Also, From Dusk Till Damn, so he learned that a bloody bullet fueled war-path is much more fun with a friend. So he asked his best buddy, then another, then another. They asked theirs. And thankfully, they also re-released Fight Club on VHS Nazi-Rat-Vison, so they knew to keep quiet about their group.

One by one by one, a hundred, maybe more. Dumped in garbage cans like the trash they were. Rapist, Slave owning, Pedophile, Nazi... I mean, I could go on. They fucking had it coming, to Tarantino-esque levels, and these little Jamie Foxes and Samuel Jackson's were slaughtering the southerners and freeing the slaves.*

Jesus Mars, setting the story on the planet you were named off of, and now this. Just self indulgent, man. I get it, you like Tarantino. Let me guess, also Stanley Kubrick? my God man, this is an all time low, even for you.

That's counting Revisiting Mars, a whole fucking Record you made BY YOURSELF about YOU a dude NAMED MARS going TO MARS and KILLING A CHIMERA you called a MANTICORE in a fucking song called MANTICORE, but it has three heads, and other CHIMERA-LIKE-ATTRIBUTES. But I digress. - Editor, who is a real person by the way, and not an imaginary friend at all.

I was born April 22nd 1943. I went to College for four years earning a major in English in order to become a professional Editor and I don't appreciate being undermined in you second draft like this, Mars.

Get back to me soon buddy, we can edit a real cut later, because we both know this is shit still, right? I know you hate hearing about Hero's Journey's and Macguffins and Protagonists and such, but you are a FUCKING WRITER and this sort of thing comes with the territory, man. It's not like you're exactly rolling in the dough from your music career, is it Mars?

So you turn to writing, but you suck. So I do you a solid and try to help you edit ONE FUCKING TIME and you shitpost me this... "Ironic", "Witty", "Shocking" twist on a pre-established cliche that R/WritingPrompts would happily lap up and gild, but getting gilded once wont pay your fucking rent.


This is a fucking shit post, and you know it. The publisher is going to say no, and I'm doing you a big favor, which is why I'm taking 30% of the 1000$. Or at least that was the plan. Draft 3 better be the final draft, I'm about done with this favor. And we are NOW SQUARE, MARS.

Do you fucking hear me, asshole? I don't care how many dicks you've sucked, or who you know I've screwed behind my husbands back, we are even, and your silence on all matters private regarding my marriage will forever remain just that, silent.

As in no hints around Greg. Ever again. You almost ended a marriage that should have legally begun when President Reagan's silence was murdering millions of gay men, back in the 80s, when Reagan's criminal oppression of AIDS drugs killed millions of gay American Men. They thought it was fucking poppers or some kind of myth, or "Gay Flue" and they kept slurping down that cum, and dying from it. Misinformation, Genocide of LGBT, Ronald Reagan's Legacy as President of the United States.

That is 33 years ago, we were married at the wharf in San Francisco. We are open in our marriage once or twice a decade, but Charles is different, and you know that. Charles is the one man who could end this marriage. Except you. So fuck your feelings, Mars.

You suck as a writer, you're a fucking prude and a whore somehow at the same time, you suck at giving head, drool way too much during, and never swallow anything afterwards.

But no matter if we ever speak again, and if you weren't friends with Greg it would be a hard NEVER, what I told Charles after we fucked ONE TIME the day after his father died and he ALMOST KILLED HIMSELF was not true in my heart.

Forever is a long time to spend with a coward like Charles, willing to leverage his partially slit wrists into a one night stand with a lover from his distant past.

I was just a fool with one hand holding on to a Man from his past, while he's hanging off a cliff over the ocean. Then the fool remembered the man hanging off the cliff had tried to plummet to his death, and that he had 50 pounds of lead in his pockets.

Dear Editor, Alright. If that's how you feel. I never leveraged shit though, you are just throwing shit in my face for no reason and getting all paranoid. If I wanted to be rich, I wouldn't be poor. I'm poor. Continuing my life long state of poverty is not going to shock me.

The only thing that would shock me is an ounce of professional courtesy or dignity on your part. In the immortal words of Rocket Raccoon, we all lost people. Charles is dead, my mother is dead, at 64. She should have outlived you.

You are in your 70s and what did you ever do for anyone that was not just a manipulative move on a sociopaths chess board, as you clawed your way to the top just to look down at the bottom and feel a million miles above the rabble. The Fire and Brimstone "My sons gonna burn in Hell" horse-shit your Irish-Catholic parents used to beat into you.

That's all you use your money and power and respect for, to look down on poor straight people, because your janitor father beat his gay son, ages years ago, when shit like that was the good Christian thing for a Father to do, beat the demons out. Beat em, Beat em. Beat em.

But that was a long time ago, and you need to let that shit go man. For Greg's sake if no one else's, and we both know without me, there is no one else, that Reagan didn't kill, or old age for that matter. Or Obama's Death panels, J/K you know I'm a Registered Democrat. Go blue shirts, red shirts suck.

Day 400, after Danny's revelation: Danny had cut his way through hundreds of Guards and slave owners. Him and a small army, growing by the day.

A woman had become pregnant with his child, who would be Danny the 2nd, destined to become the first free child in thousands of years on Dome#2004. Then a second child, and a third.

Day 500 Danny took over his first Dome. Or what was left of it, after several factions of hunky dudes with ripped abs and square jaws, but with an aprouchable, "No-Homo" vibe that straight girls like.

The power vacuum after the slavers and guards were slaughtered lead to three rival groups to the Danny-Boy-Pipe-Callers. Space-Rat-Nazi's, Black PantherZ, and Miscellaneous Ethnicity, all inclusive, LGBT friendly, Cannibal Rapist Death Squad.

Day 501: Danny teams up with Black PantherZ, slaughters the Rat Nazis, then the Cannibals are soon to be wiped out next. Unfortunately, this lead to a emergency grade drought of ethnic diversity, only the Irish and Black gangs surviving the Purge.

Day 502: Danny smuggles in a ton of Asians and Chicano's from nearby colonies.

Day 900 Danny Marries the Woman, Jane.

Day 4000 Danny watches his children grow, under Earths sun, while the secret service look out for his wife and kids, as they play video games and eat pizza at Nazi-Mouse-Corp brand Pizzeria, with Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow on loop as kids played Final Fight, Gauntlet, Street Fighter 2, and Neo Geo Multi-Game arcade cabinets with Fatal Fury 2 Samurai Showdown and Ninja Commando.

— Mars | @RealBucketBros | Email

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