A Day in the Life of Joe

One day a psycho named Joe decided to go on a killing spree. The only problem was that he was only armed with an electric shaver. Joe was tired of the poor performance in men’s electric shavers, so he had used his vast technical knowledge to rig up a lawnmower motor powered electric shaver.  Sure it was bulky, and often gave him 3rd degree friction burns on his face when the motor revved too high, but no electric shaver could touch the closeness of a shave from his tricked out unit.  The shaver wouldn’t be enough to pull off an entire killing spree though; Joe was going to need some real firepower to pull that off.

He decided his best course of action was to steal some transportation to The Magical Land of Guns, his favorite gun store. Just down the street from Joe’s house there was an ice cream man selling ice cream (not drugs or pornography to minors surprisingly). As Joe approached, he stuck his hand in his pants pocket and held it in the shape of a gun. The ice cream man saw Joe and when he saw his hand in his pocket he asked "Hey mister, is that a banana in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"

Joe replied by picking up a garbage can lid from a nearby driveway and smashing the man over the head with it. Since the lid was made of aluminum however, it did little to the thick skulled vender. The man quickly went to the front of the truck and attempted to drive away at full speed. Joe casually walked after the truck and had soon caught up to it.  The vendor was gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands where white, his foot had the gas peddle pushed to the floor, and he was pressed against the back of his seat as if he had initiated a NOS system, even though he was doing less than 10 clicks per hour.  Still, with the truck moving, it would be too hard for Joe to plug in his shaver with an extension cord to kill him, so Joe had to get creative.

Joe opened the back of the truck and hopped inside. It was a frozen heaven! He stared in wonder at the hundreds of flavors of ice cream. They even had his favorite flavour, Sweet Lard ice cream. Joe remembered the first time he had eaten it and he had experienced a mild coronary. But that would have to wait until later; he had a truck to steal, and an ice cream man to murder. Then Joe had an idea.  Unfortunately this was a poor idea because Joe hadn’t brought his 12V car converter kit for his shaver. He cursed his absent-mindedness and then thought of a new idea. He grabbed a massive tub of Sweet Lard ice cream, and a spoon, and walked to the front of the truck.  Once there Joe head locked the man and began to spoon feed him massive amounts of the ice cream. After approximately three spoonfuls the man screamed, spraying thick lard filled ice cream all over the windshield and had an aneurysm. His body immediately went limp in Joe’s arms and he tossed the corpse aside and sat in its place.  Then Joe had a heaping spoonful for himself, moaning as he could feel his blood thickening. 

Since he was not paying attention to the fact that no one was controlling the vehicle anymore the truck slammed into a telephone pole on the side of the road. Joe was sent flying through the windshield and he slammed into the telephone pole as well. Luckily he only dislocated his shoulder and got a few cuts from the windshield glass.  He promptly re-located his shoulder by slamming it into the side of the truck.  It made a humorous sucking sound when it popped back into the socket.  But despite this error in judgment, Joe was happy with his over all performance.  Joe dumped the driver’s corpse in the back with the rest of the ice cream.

After this little sidetrack, Joe journeyed to The Magical Land of Guns. Due to the slow speed of the truck this took several hours, even though the store was only at the end of the block.  He walked into the store with his shaver poised in a menacing position, and plugged it in. The store was empty except for the clerk who just stared at Joe, slack jawed and unclear on Joe’s intentions.  He was about to ask Joe what he was doing when Joe charged.

The man tried to run but it was no use. Joe rubbed the shaver on the man's face so hard that he got a severe case of razor burn. Joe laughed hysterically as the man's face began to smoke from the extreme heat and friction, and soon his flesh began to smolder and peel. Not only was his super shaver the ultimate in close shaves, but it seemed it could be harnessed as a deadly weapon as well.   His tinkering had definitely paid off.

The man screamed until he ran out of breathe, took a deep breathe, then screamed again and again as Joe continued to rub the shaver all over his face and head.  After several hours the man's head was reduced to ashes. The clerk ran around the store like a chicken with it's head shaved off as Joe loaded the back of his stolen ice cream truck with high powered assault rifles, handguns, and finally the clerk's body.  Joe was now ready to for his little escapade.  Unfortunately, in all the excitement, he had forgotten to choose who he was going to kill. Joe sat down in the middle of the gun store thinking.

Then he stood up and shouted "Eureka!" as an excellent idea came into his mind. He would go and slaughter his annoying neighbor’s cats. The vermin had often ruined his lawn with their acidic urine, and it was time for revenge! Joe leapt into his truck and drove away at full speed. Two days later, Joe reached his neighbor’s house. He burst through the front door brandishing a newly acquired double barrel shotgun and pointed it at the old woman who occupied the house.  She was sitting on a rocking chair knitting a new shawl. Joe pulled the trigger and blasted her shriveled head off just before she could let out a frightened squeal. Her blood splattered on the wall behind her as if someone had thrown a bucket of red paint against it. But it was blood, not paint, really.

Joe began to search the house for anything that resembled a cat. After mistakenly slaying some porcelain dolls and plush toys, Joe was about to give up. Then he saw it. Joe grabbed the mangy cat by its hind legs and brought it into the bathroom. He was dismayed to discover the toilet water did not contain his favorite lavatory cleanliness product, 2000 flushes.  He decided his best course of action would be to throw the cat into a burlap sack which he carried in his back pocket at all times, just in case, and take it back to his house.  Into the sack the cat went, and then Joe sauntered next door to his house, swinging the cat-in-a-sack in a circle and whistling the “Hi-Ho” song from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.  He thought the growling and muffled hisses from the bag complimented his melody nicely, and as he walked into his front door he leapt in the air and clicked his heels together, simultaneously slamming his forehead into the door frame.

“Uuuugh” he remarked and he rubbed his now throbbing forehead.  But in a way he was glad, because this only strengthened his resolve and put him in the mood to kill.

Joe plunged his hand into the sack, and after a savage clawing to his hand he snagged the cat by the tail and began to dunk it in and out of his toilet.  It hissed and squealed and writhed in his hand violently, clawing feebly at the air around it.  As Joe dunked it in and out of the water he sang his favorite song: “kitty die, kitty die, kitty die…” while doing a stationary jig.  After about 30 dunks the cat stopped moving so he pulled it up out of the toilet bowl to take a closer look.  It’s front half had been stained bright blue from the 2000 flushes in the water, and it smelled minty fresh. 

Unfortunately for Joe the cat was not dead yet and began to hiss and claw at him.  One of its claws snagged his eye lid and as it pulled its limb back his eyelid split in half and the claw cut a line into the top of his eyeball.

Joe’s reaction wasn’t immediate, but after half a second he realized what had happened by looking in the mirror in front of him he uttered a 5 minute long yell at the top of his lungs (he stopped to take breaths as necessary).  Then he gripped the cat’s tail in both of his hands and swung it against the wall in his shower so hard that it exploded into hairy pieces of slop.  Only the tail remained recognizable.

Joe’s eyeball and eyelid were now gushing blood, and looked like a pickled onion covered in ketchup rolling around in his socket.  All he could see out of that eye was a dark red blur that felt like someone had put a cigarette out in his pupil.  Joe figured he’d better administer some first aid, so he started to make his way toward the medicine cabinet.  Unfortunately with his now cyclopean vision, Joe’s depth perception was not what it used to be, and he tripped on the edge of the toilet and fell mouth first into the corner of his vanity countertop.  Good thing he’d bought cheap veneer and not granite because his front teeth punctured right into the countertop, instead of shattering like pieces of chalk, suspending him in the air. 

Joe tried to yell out “goddamned cat!”, but it came out as “Ahd-Ahmned At!!!” as pain shot up the nerve stems at the roots of his teeth into his brain like water through a fire hose.  Luckily Joe had been doing a lot of pushups lately, and he was able to push himself up with enough force to dislodge his teeth from the countertop.  Although as he did about half of them instead dislodged from his gums with a sound like uncorking a bottle of wine and stinky blood shot out of each empty gum hole like miniature waterfalls.  Joe clamped his hand over his mouth and uttered a long muffled scream of agony as pressurized blood sprayed out from between his fingers. 

In a panic Joe tore the door right off the hinges as he opened the medicine cabinet to get some gauze and Band-Aids, and then to his horror he realized that he didn’t have any gauze and Band-Aids.  All he had was a half empty bottle of extra strength Tylenol, and some Q-tips.  Joe did what anyone else would have done in that situation; he snapped the heads off of the Q-tips and shoved them into each bleeding gum hole, then went to the kitchen and taped his eye lid together with scotch tape.  Afterward he drank a whole bottle of Original Flavor Listerine and ate 6 Tylenols to dull the pain.  It worked.  It also dulled everything else and eventually resulted in Joe falling asleep in a pool of his own vomit on his bathroom floor.

Several hours later Joe came to, and decided he was going to get some justice for what had happened to him.  He returned to his neighbor’s house, which in the summer heat had now become a haven for black flies.  The headless corpse of the old woman smelled very ripe, and Joe reflex vomited in her lap, sending thousands of flies up into the air like a putrid black cloud. 

“Fucking bitch”, he uttered in contempt at being re-acquainted with the contents of his stomach again, which were now exclusively made up of bile.  He knew there were more cats hiding somewhere in the house, and he was going to find them.
Joe went to the kitchen next and found one of the helpless, although not little, cats feeding from its box of kitty litter. The cat was morbidly obese, and at first glance appeared to be a misplaced couch cushion. But at closer inspection, stubby legs could just barely be seen beneath its drape of flab. He bludgeoned the obese cat with the butt of his shotgun.
The only reply from the cat was to say "Mooo-eow!". Joe, tiring of the bludgeoning game, then blasted it seventeen times with the shotgun. He wanted to make sure each of its nine lives had been destroyed, and then some.  All that was left was a bloody, smoking hole in the floor that smelled like burnt hair.

“That’s for my eye ball you sonofabitch!” said Joe triumphantly and pumped off a round into the ceiling.  Plaster rained down on his head, and then he was struck with a large enough piece to knock him square on his ass on the hard, unforgiving linoleum floor.

“Motherfucker!!!” he yelled and to satiate his rage he shot the fridge.

Joe continued to search the house but soon became frustrated with the lack of feline presence. He decided to set up a trap and let the cats come to him. Joe went out to his ice cream truck and grabbed one of his uzis. Then he went over to his house and retrieved the bear trap he had left on his lawn to catch intruding felines. So far he’d caught nothing but Joe realized his past mistake in using the trap, he didn't use any bait. He would need it because this last cat was smart, almost too smart, but Joe was smarter.

He set up the bear trap and placed a bit of Kitty Kibble in it for bait. He was taking a big risk here, considering that was all the food Joe had for the entire week, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Besides, even if it was eaten he could eat ice cream instead, but that was also a big risk, because he wouldn't be getting the nutrition necessary to protect against cat urinary tract infections. Joe didn’t want one of those for sure.

Soon the black cat walked right into Joe’s trap. SNAP!  The cat was severed in half. Joe then opened fire on the wriggling halves of cat, along with all the walls, ceilings and floors in the house. He wanted to make sure there were no more of the vermin left alive. Then Joe ate his precious Kitty Kibble.
The bodies, or what little remained of them, strewn about the house were beginning to smell rather funky, so Joe loaded them in the back of his stolen ice cream truck for safe keeping and drove off in search of more fun. The bodies in the back of the truck bounced around as Joe drove over the many pot holes in the road, spoiling all of his ice cream. But Joe would eat it anyway.

He needed to go somewhere with a large concentration of people so he could get maximum carnage within the shortest amount of time.  The best place Joe could think of to find a lot of people on a normal day would have to be the mall.  His mind made up, he began driving there at top speed in his ice cream truck. Unfortunately, the top speed of the vehicle was only ten kilometers per hour.  After several hours of driving Joe was starting to feel a lot of pressure coming from the region of his bladder, and he was worried he might have to stop for a bathroom break on the way to the mall.  This was really going to cut into his time and mess up the groove he had going with his drive, so he had to think fast before soaking his pants with hot urine.  A piss rash was the last thing Joe wanted. 
Joe’s eyes scanned the interior of the cab of the Ice Cream truck and soon fell upon a 24 case full of empty Beer brand beer bottles sitting on the passenger seat next to him.  Seems the ice cream man was a drinker.  Joe didn’t approve of the brand, his preference being Carling Black Label, but he couldn’t be picky in an emergency like this one.  While holding the wheel with one hand he fished one of the bottles out of the case, placed it between his legs and then fished his donkey cock sized meat sausage from his unzipped fly and placed it at the bottle’s opening.  Joe believed in efficiency so he never zipped up his fly so it would be faster to whip out his pud for whatever he happened to need it for at the time.

Joe relaxed his groin muscles and instantly a high pressure stream of urine began blasting out of his johnson that immediately knocked over the bottle and began hosing the dash, and by extension, his lap.  Joe had really shit the bed with his forethought on this one, because he had started pissing with both hands still on the steering wheel.  The only thing Joe could think to do was to panic and begin repeatedly turning the steering wheel to the left and right causing the truck to swerve back and forth to greater and greater extremes.  Soon it was driving on one set of wheels, and then the top heavy truck tipped on to its side and slammed into a nearby parked car.

The truck was not a concern to Joe, but what was a concern was that his genitalia was still out of his pants, and the zipper of his fly had chaffed them something fierce.  Also, the case of beer had fallen on him, and all of the bottles had exploded on impact, showering him with glass that smelled of stale, hot beer and soggy cigarette butts.  The whole situation really put a damper on Joe’s day.  He’d have to call a tow truck and buy some new clothes.  You couldn’t go on a psychotic killing spree and not look your best.  That would be unacceptable.

First he would have to call the tow truck.  Joe put his man meat back into his pants and unbuckled himself from his seatbelt (he always learned from his mistakes after the first time) and fell hard against the driver’s side door, which coincidentally was covered in broken glass.  Joe did not approve of his present situation at all, and hurriedly crawled his way out of the truck so he could remove the several hundred pieces of broken glass that now resided in his ass meat, among other parts of his body.

There was a phone booth near by, so Joe hobbled over to it, but was then faced with the problem of not having a quarter to make a call.  Joe hobbled back over to the truck, and noticed all of the windows of the parked car he’d hit had been shattered.  Easy money, he thought, and he reached into the car and began fishing through the console looking for loose change.
It was at this point the vehicle’s owner came running out of their house, fists shaking in the air angrily, shouting various curses directed at Joe.  He didn’t approve of being insulted at all, and as the man began to dial the cops up on his cordless telephone Joe figured that would be a good time to plug him with his Magnum .44.  The bullet struck the man’s hand liquefying it and shattering the phone in an explosion of sparks and smoke.

The man took a moment to realize what had happened and then dropped to his knees screaming like a little girl while clutching his steaming, bloody stump.  Joe capped off another round, and this one annihilated the man’s lower jaw, separating the top of his head from the rest of his body. 
Joe walked over to the still twitching corpse to make sure he was dead.  His policy was to always make sure.  The top of the man’s head was sitting on the grass beside the corpse, eye balls rolling around in the sockets with an angry furrowed brow.  Joe kicked the corpse in the balls, and when it didn’t get up, and the eyes stopped moving in the severed half head, he was satisfied that the man was indeed dead.  Joe rummaged in his pockets and soon produced just what the doctor ordered, a shiny new quarter. 

“Now we can get this show on the road” proclaimed Joe, and he raced back to the telephone booth to call a tow truck.  After about 20 minutes the tow truck had arrived and in another 10 minutes had the truck back on to its four wheels.  The tow truck driver told Joe the truck was still drivable, but that he had to call the police to report the accident, and then seeing the bloody carcass on the lawn next to the accident and the smoking gun still in Joe’s hand, he told Joe he was going to have to call the cops, and that Joe should just take it easy and then tried to disarm Joe using a tire iron.
The tow truck guy was fast, but not faster than bullets.  Joe shot the tow truck guy in the groin and chest, both bullet hits exploding in massive crimson geysers, and then beat his head into what looked like a heap of mashed potatoes covered in Portobello mushroom spaghetti sauce with the tire iron for good measure.

Joe didn’t want any one else stumbling upon the bodies and calling the cops, so he loaded them into the back of the now righted ice cream truck.  Joe noticed to his dismay that the crash had caused many of the ice cream buckets to burst, and it had mixed in with the rotting corpses.  Luckily there were still intact buckets, and the ice cream bars were still safe inside their protective wrappers.  Joe had spent all of his grocery money on beer and crystal meth a few days earlier, so he’d need the ice cream to keep alive until his next pay cheque was deposited.

Problem one, solved. 

Now Joe needed to get himself a new shirt and some pants, or strides as he and the Kiwi’s preferred to call them.  Joe’s clothes were so shredded at this point that it looked like he was wearing an outfit made of tassels, and he smelled strongly of urine, blood, beer, cigarettes and gun powder.  He jumped into this truck and put the pedal to metal.  Three hours later he reached the intersection at the end of the street and turned into the nearest strip mall with a clothing store.

Sadly, this store was Mr. Big and Tall, which along with having inflated prices, was not particularly helpful to Joe who was neither big nor tall.  But beggars couldn’t be choosers, so Joe was going to make it work so he could get back to his killing spree.  Besides, he’d heard from his 6’5” friend at the Barbie head installation factory where Joe worked that the store didn’t even carry pants long enough for him, and that it should really just be called Mr. Big, or more accurately, “Store for People too Morbidly Obese to Buy Clothing Anywhere Else”, specializing in “Morbo” brand jeans which go up to size 150 waist.  At least this way he wouldn’t have to worry about his pants being too long, he’d just have to wear a belt.

Right at that moment Joe had a better idea.  The people in the store may not be big or tall themselves, so he could just take their clothes.  He wouldn’t steal the underwear though because even he had principles, and that was too close to cock-to-cock contact for Joe’s comfort.
Joe booted open the door with an M16 in hand and opened fire on the first tub of lard he laid eyes on.  He swung the rifle in a horizontal line, cutting the customer’s belly wide open like an electric knife carving a Thanksgiving Ham.  Boiling fat spilled out of the man’s ruptured stomach in a thick, gooey waterfall, making a loud smack when it hit the tile floor, as his body fell backward emitting a wet, meaty thud as it connected with the ground.

Another customer squealed in terror, but was so fat he couldn’t waddle to his Medi-Chair (which he rode not because he couldn’t walk, but because he was too lazy to) in time to avoid a retaliatory burst of machine gun fire from the M16, which Joe followed up with a grenade from the launcher attachment on his rifle. The squealer exploded like a pizza pop overcooked in a micro-wave.  Fat soaked hunks of slimy gore splattered all over the ceiling and then slowly dripped down in gummy stings to the floor.

Joe walked over to the checkout counter, and peered over top to see the Mr. Big and Tall employee huddled behind it, shivering uncontrollably in terror while repeatedly pushing the silent alarm button.
“Stop pushing that fucking button and get your ass out from behind that counter!” yelled Joe at the top of his lungs while pumping his groin against the desk in the most fierce display of his manliness he could think of.  The clerk obeyed.

“Give me your fucking clothes or I’ll pump you full of grenade at point blank range!!!” Joe kept the intimidation high by maintaining his proud and fierce yell.

The man quickly dropped his drawers and pulled his shirt off.  Joe stripped buck in front of him, showed off his cock, put on the clothes which fit reasonably well, stepped back to avoid staining them, and then pumped 49 rounds of into him with the M16.  He didn’t want to leave any evidence so he went into the back, found a box of garbage bags, and loaded the steaming piles of meat that were once the customer and employees of the store into the bags.  Then he loaded the bags into the back of his truck with the rest of his growing collection of bodies.

Problem number two, solved. 

Now Joe was ready to get back to his killing spree.  Joe got back into his battered ice cream truck and continued his journey to the shopping mall.  After a ridiculously long time Joe arrived at the mall, but it was closed by the time he got there.

"Goddamn this mall, and goddamn this fucking piece of shit ice cream truck!!" howled Joe in utter despair. His fun had been ruined.

Joe needed to take out his rage on this institution of commerce for not providing him the opportunity to commit mass murder.  He pulled a chaingun, with a ten foot long belt of ammunition, out of the back of the truck. Joe began to blast the nearest entrance to the mall until it was powder. He could still find a few security guards and that would have to suffice for the moment. As Joe entered the mall an overweight rent-a-cop waddled toward him, waving a walkie-talkie in the air in some pathetic attempt to intimidate Joe, still armed with the chaingun. Joe thanked him for his foolish bravery and then held the trigger until the entire belt was used, and the security guard was reduced to a fine red mist. The mist soon settled on the ground, forming a puddle. Joe collected the remains of the man in a jar and threw it in his truck with the rest of the bodies.

The jar smashed on the floor of the truck and Joe howled "SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!". It was this yell that attracted the attention of a second security guard, or possibly the large amount of intense gun fire, but probably the yell. Joe decided to try something different and pulled out a harpoon gun he had stuffed down the front of his pants. Not even turning around he blasted the man in the kneecap, sending the guard’s upper body reeling forward as his lower body in the opposite direction, resulting in a face plant of epic proportions.

The guard rolled around on the ground coddling his impaled leg and screaming “you son of a bitch, you shot me!  I’ll kill you! You rat fuck son of a bitching bastard”.

Joe walked over to the man and offered to help him out.  He did this buy cutting his leg off at the knee with a large combat knife.  The man, obviously not appreciating Joe’s form of “help” screamed in protest, followed by intense agony.  Joe’s feelings were hurt by the man’s ungratefulness, so he bludgeoned the man to death with the severed leg, making sure to hit him with the wet end for maximum effect.  When Joe went to move the corpse to the ice cream truck for storage it felt like an apple that had been pounded on a hard surface for 4 hrs with just enough force to turn the inside to mush but not break the skin.  Joe liked it and wished he had insoles that felt like that, then he’d be so gellin’ he’d be Magellan

The sun was rising now and Joe decided to set up a little surprise for the onslaught of customers that would be rushing in later that morning.  At nine o'clock, when Joe was expecting all the people to arrive, he was instead greeted by a demolition crew coming to tear down the building. Joe had wondered what the condemned sign on the door meant before he turned it into sawdust.

Joe's reaction to this was to say "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!  Fuck this fucking mall, and fuck you, you cock sucking mother fucking truck!" It seemed that the mall had been shut down by the time he had reached the building. Joe was curious at the time when the sun had set and rose thirty times while he was driving. He had thought it was just going behind some clouds.  Joe resolved to slaughter the workers. It was time to bring out the big guns.  He had stolen an anti-tank rocket launcher from the back of the gun store out of a chest which had “Hitler’s Revenge” and a funny marking that looked like 4 letter L’s all joined at the top and in a circle inscribed on it that was sitting beside a bunch of blueprints of city hall, and a local soup kitchen, orphanage, and an all black college.  Joe loaded rockets into all 4 slots of the box shaped launcher and took aim.  Joe decimated a bulldozer with the first volley of four missiles, then reloaded and did the same to the wrecking crane.  The second time the workers were fleeing their vehicles and when the crane exploded they were tossed like matchsticks into the air. 

Just to be safe Joe went through the burning wreckage to search out the charred corpses and shoot them all in the head with his magnum. He didn't want to take any chances of leaving a witness.
All of these explosions soon attracted the attention of the police. Joe, who to be honest had been doing amazingly well at avoiding detection by the authorities, leapt into his truck and tried to escape. He was soon reminded of his vehicles speed and maneuverability limits as he reached the road, from the parking lot, ten minutes later. Joe decided to drive off into the sunset, and perhaps several subsequent sunsets, with the cops right on his heels. The chase scene was similar to that of O.J. Simpson, except for the reduced speeds. Joe decided to make himself look like the victim, and stood looking out of the back window while eating a creamsicle. He put his Magnum to his head and looked at the police with puppy dog eyes, hoping they would think he was innocent.

Instead, as Joe reached a nearby over pass he remembered that no one was controlling the vehicle. Unfortunately the brick he had placed on the gas pedal would not be able to steer the truck with any proficiency, and the fact that it handled like a bathtub on wheels didn't help either. The truck veered off course and went sailing over the edge of the overpass.

Normally there would be a wall along the edge of the road to stop vehicles from descending on to traffic below, but it wasn't there. The road was under construction. A few construction workers at the side of the road were killed as the truck went over the edge, and Joe was happy about that. Unfortunately Joe was not nearly as happy about the fact that he was hurtling to his death. The truck slammed into the ground. Joe was thrown into the roof of the truck. His egg shell thick skull smashed and he fell to the ground. The truck had landed on its wheels since it had only gone a few feet, and then fell straight down, after driving off the over passes.

Joe, in a semi-conscious state, and through fuzzy vision noticed that the magnum had gone off and put a large hole into an 11 liter pail of Sweet Lard ice cream, which was now flowing out of the smoking hole in a thick, semi thawed stream.  He could also see the flashing lights of the police coming to arrest him. He wasn't going to go down like that. So he decided to eat Sweet Lard ice cream until he died. At least that way he would die happy. Joe used all of his strength to crawl over the heap of ice cream and rotting corpses to the ejaculating pail of Sweet lard Ice Cream and started to drink the extra-thick milkshake consistency substance.  After two mouthfuls, Joe felt his heart explode but Joe managed to lock his hands into the thumbs up position so the police could see how awesome he thought he was when they arrived at the scene.  Job well done, he thought as his vision went black.

The End