Bad Fang Chewy: The Director's Chomp

“Bad Fang Chewy: The Director’s Chomp,” Episode 207, Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy, by Vicki Solá 

🎧In this laugh-packed episode of Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy, Earthling DJ Nicki Rodriguez is stuck in the surreal dimension of Perswayssick County—and things just keep getting weirder. With nothing but the clothes on her back, she’s forced to live and work in the opulent, utterly illogical mansion of canine-humanoid Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey. Her mission? Pay off a debt for accidentally destroying a fake Greek column—and maybe survive the night without being devoured by one of Gneeecey’s goth-toothed chrome beasts.

🪐Wander the plaid lawns, witness photosynthetic mayhem, duck flying knitwear, and battle buzzing jet-shaped bugs. Inside the Grate One’s four-story monstrosity, time occasionally runs backward, toilets require guest codes, and mutant cats live forever. And a surprise knit gift sails through a closed window—from Flubbubb, the canine-humanoid Gneeecey-worshipping percussionist who throws shoes into dryers for art.

👽 If you love The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Monty Python, or absurd sci-fi adventures, this one’s for you. 🎧 Listen now to get your weekly dose of madcap space-time satire, cartoon logic, and intergalactic indigestion: https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com 🎧

🔔 Subscribe & hit the bell for more weird, hilarious, and unpredictable episodes from our Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy fantasy/sci-fi comedy podcast series! ✨ Don’t forget to like, share, and drop a comment! 🪐🎧 New episodes every week! 🚨

Episode Artwork created by ChatBoxAI

#Comedy #fantasy #SciFi #dogs #dogsofInstagram #Podcast #hitchhikersgalaxyfans #montypythonfans #ParallelUniverse #FunnyAudioDrama #Multiverse #DimensionHopping #WeirdFiction #AudioTheater 

We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com. #ComedyPodcast #SciFiAdventure #FantasyPodcast

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Transcript

Transcript / Bad Fang Chewy: The Director’s Chomp – Episode 207, by Vicki Solá. 

All content © 2025 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.

Music/Intro: Hi there, I’m author and radio host Vicki Solá, welcoming you to Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. I invite you to escape with me into the bizarre dimension of Perswayssick County, where wackiness rules! The laughs begin when I morph into my alter ego, radio DJ Nicki Rodriguez and clash with the zany, alien canine-humanoid Gneeecey! And now, I turn it over to my other self, Nicki, and the gang…. 

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Misgivings & Misfortune]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ: Welcome back to Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy, the interdimensional sci-fi/fantasy podcast where logic takes a nosedive and sometimes crash-lands! Every week, we switch timelines.This week finds us—Earthling DJ Nicki Rodriguez and her canine-humanoid companions Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge, also known as “Sooperflea,” and Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey—in that other parallel universe. One where Nicki had just recently met the two walking, talking dogs…. And now, dimension-burned Nicki, stranded in the dimension of Perswayssick County has just arrived at Gneeecey’s opulent residence. Arriving with nothing but the clothes on her back, she must stay with Gneeecey and work for him until she pays him back for his Gneeezle’s Restaurant’s fake Greek column she accidentally broke during her first unwitting visit…. She’s determined to stay until she finds her cash-filled maroon portfolio case….

Enjoy this enhanced redux of our Episode 22—now titled “Bad Fang Chewy: The Director’s Chomp” (or “The Bite Returns”). Fully reworked to fit seamlessly into our current timeline, this episode sinks its teeth right where it belongs in the story.

Here, Nicki gazes in wonderment at the sloping acres of lush tartan plaid surrounding Gneeecey’s four-story castle, and she collapses into the dreamlike lime, emerald and olive grass.

SFX: [Magic Spell][Misgivings & Misfortune] [Blue Jays]

NICKI RODRIGUEZ:  I gasped. Gneeecey’s hedges matched the half-dozen blue jays bloomping around his lawn. 

“Blue bushes are a luxury only us rich can afford,” Gneeecey informed me as he threw a rock at the birds and missed. “Ain’t fair for them to enjoy stuff I pay for. Git!” 

They paid him no mind. 

Suddenly, my legs gave way beneath me, and I flopped into a fluorescent flower bed. “Electric-orange hydrangea—” 

“Ya see them hydrants plugged in anywhere, ya Ig?” 

“Stop calling me ‘Ig’.” 

“Okay, Ig, what’s your name again?” 

“It’s—” 

“Time’s up—ya don’t know. I’ll call ya Icky!” 

“That’s not my—” 

“Then I’ll jus’ call ya Ig, so we’ll both know who ya are.” 

I was freezing. “Uh, Doctor Gneeecey—”

“That’s stinkin’ Diroctor Gneeecey. I’m a lousy doctor an’ county director!”

“Uh, stinkin’ Diroctor Gneeecey—”

“Whaaaaat?”

“Uh, I mean, Diroctor, can’t we go inside?” 

“See them hardy, all-tempooperature plaaants?” 

“Please, Diroctor Gneeecey—” 

“Lemme igsplain the colors,” he continued, in a condescending, “aren’t you a simp?” tone. “The seeds for the bushes an’ hydrants come directly from my Planet Eccchs. On my plaaanet, these same bushes would come out green—well actually a green-an’-three-quarters— an’ the hydrants would be red—a whole red.” 

I began breathing warm air into my blouse. 

“But here, Ig,” he continued, oblivious to my suffering, “your dopey single sun confuses our plants’ chloroflop. Your planet only has one sun. Mine can afford two.” He shot me one of those patronizing “my planet’s superior” looks. 

I groaned. 

“My blue bushes are really green—on a normal planet, that is—an’ the orange hydrants are, like I said, red—that’s proboobably why they’re called hydrants—an’ as everyone knows, when ya subtract one inferior sun’s yellow from green, ya get blue bushes.” 

“Huh?” 

“An’ when ya add that subtracted yellow to the red hydrants, ya get orange. Not that I’m complainin’. Orange is neutral—goes wit’ everything.” 

The winds had picked up, and my teeth began chattering. I was not dressed for winter. “S-subtract yellow? D-doesn’t the sun sh-shine on b-both?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Flopposynthesis works different here. Our bushes’ cloroflop don’t absorb your dopey sunlight. So that rejected light reflects back onto the hydrants. Why do ya think I plant ’em nexta each other? The bushes have a synoonergistic effect on the hydrants.” 

I sat. Everything was spinning. 

“My planet’s two suns are strong enough to counteract the green plant that’s not really blue from reflectin’ away the yellow to the red plant that’s not really orange.” 

“What?” I felt like I was going mad.

“On my planet, the blue plant hasta stay green. An’ the orange plant that’s really red can’t get orange ’cause our second sun cancels out the yellow from the first sun, but only from the red plant—y’know, the one that the green plant that wasn’t blue didn’t reflect yellow onto.” He smiled. 

I began rocking back and forth. 

“So, we got lotsa blue food. Youse poor Earthlin’s hardly got none.” 

I decided not to ask about the plaid grass. 

“C’mon, Ig—you’re makin’ me late.” 

“I’m freakin’ making you late?” 

Staggering to my feet, I gazed up at the gleaming, arched windows that graced all four stories of Gneeecey’s silvery-stoned McMansion. Inside, an opulent crystal chandelier illuminated a golden-railed, circular staircase. Sliding glass doors above led out to a generous balcony, one my entire dinky basement apartment could fit inside. For all of the elegance, though, something was amiss. 

I scrutinized the stately front entrance—polished, red-stained mahogany doors accented with sparkling brass handles and not one, but four, doorbells. Gilt italics above spelled out, “Residence of the Grate One. Grate, spelled G-R-A-T-E.” 

After about a minute, I realized what was wrong. The slate staircase that belonged in front of the entranceway was positioned fifteen feet to its left, underneath a low, open first-story window. A chintzy green-and-white rubber doormat, monogrammed “GIT,” languished in the mud, where the steps should have been. 

“C’mon—ain’t got all day!” Gneeecey yanked a rusty pogo stick, along with a handful of cobalt branches, out of the shrubbery. 

“Diroctor Gneeecey, shouldn’t those steps be underneath the doors?” 

“Arkookitect built it like that to fool burglars,” he answered, peering down at me with disdain, lamenting my pathetic stupidity. 

SFX: [Boing X 3]

The pogo stick sounded as corroded as it looked, but Gneeecey boinged his way up expertly, yowling, “Yee haw!” 

On his third bounce, he managed to grab onto a handle. Balancing the stick’s tip on a skinny stone ledge, he turned a dozen keys in a dozen locks SFX: [DoorLockUnlock] then tumbled through the doors. 

His nose honked loudly. 

SFX: [Duck Horn]

“Here, Ig. A stick in time saves nine!” The thing whizzed past my nose and crashed in the bushes, smashing ’em flat. 

“Uh, no thanks, Diroctor. I’ll use the side door—it’s open.” 

“That’s the out door—but suit your stinkin’ self.” 

Once inside, I froze, plastered against the wall as two snarling, prehistoric-yet-futuristic chrome beasts snapped at my ankles, ready to rip their razor-sharp, metallic fangs into my flesh. “Gneeecey!” SFX: [Chattering]

“That’s Diroctor Gneeecey!” he bellowed from the other end of the hallway. 

“Diroctor, call ’em off! Pleeeeaze!” 

“Yooou wanted to use the side door.” 

“Help!” 

“Stop perspiratin’. It’s only Ozzy an’ Vizzy. Haven’cha never seen goths?” 

“No—can’t say I have! They’re—they’re foaming at the mouth—” 

“Ain’t they cute?” Moth-eaten patches of coarse brown fur speckled their shiny, dachshund-like bodies, and a series of hairy handles ran from their necks to their spiked tails. Eight or nine ocher eyes circled their rhino horns, and their slimy snouts housed walls of wolflike teeth. They had too many legs and smelled like little garbage dumps. “Lovable, ain’t they, Ig?” 

“Uh, how’s Oxymoron these days?” 

Gneeecey’s face went blank. 

I shook my head in disbelief. My sudden movement caused the techno-beasts to rear up on the eleven hind limbs they owned between them. “Your puppy, you also call him Spot—” 

“Oh, he ain’t called lately. Anyways, these guys were a present from Mark. An’ Mark.”

On our way to his mansion, I recalled Gneeecey sticking his head through the limo window to greet one of those creepy Markmen. The alien gangsters were all named Mark. “They got chrome-covered steel chassis, but their choppers are iron,” continued Gneeecey. “Gotta be inspecticated regoogularly, for rust. Their dentist over in Plackettsburg gave me these barbed-wire toothbrushes to use on ’em, twice a day.” 

“Vizzy’s gonna bite me—” 

“That’s Ozzy—don’t worry, you’ll learn to tell ’em apart. He has a bigger horn an’ smells like spoilt meat. An’—ow—he’s friendlier! Can’cha tell?” 

“No!” 

“Ozzy’s a male—they’re called gazooongas. An’ Vizzy’s a female—a gaaah-gaaah. she’s smilin’—see? When they have babies, it’ll be like gettin’ more of ’em, for free. Goths are easy to take care of—they’ll even eat dead car batteries.” 

“Really.” 

“An’ they love cans an’ scrap metal. I don’t even bother wit’ recyclin’—not that I ever did. What’s the environment ever done for meee?” 

“Yaaaaaa—he just slashed my shin!” 

“Anyone ever tell ya, Ig, ya look priddy stooopid hoppin’ on one leg?” 

“Would you just put ’em back—pleeeeaze!” 

“They’re jus’ showin’ off ’cause you’re here,” Gneeecey insisted, grabbing them by their hairy handles. “Ow! C’mon, ya little tykes—Ig’s afraida youse.” 

SFX: [Clanking] He dragged the clanking, slime-oozing critters down the hall and tossed them into their room, along with a shovel. SFX: [Bang] “An’ try not to eat your other chair!” He slammed the door shut. SFX: [Door Slam] You could hear their heads butting against it. SFX: [Bang] [Wood Demolition Bang]

I gave Gneeecey a stern look. “We’ve gotta talk.” 

“First I wanna show ya ’round here so ya don’t get lost an’ scare nuthin’ in the middle of the night.”

“But—” 

“Now, here’s my Hall of Clox—spelled ‘C-L-O-X.’ It’s more economical for one X to do a job that takes a C, K, an’ S to do.” 

Ah, yes, I remembered, Gneeecey was very concerned with conserving vowels and consonants. Traded regularly at Perswayssick County’s iconic Alphabet Exchange, my planet’s version of Wall Street.

“Diroctor—” 

“Looky!” He waddled over to a framed Mona Lisa, one sporting an added-on, clock-infested abdomen. Her mysterious eyes moved back and forth. And so did her tail. “She jus’ gotta look down to see what time it is. See her waggin’ tail?” He sighed. “Proves she’s happy!” 

SFX: [Cow Moo] To the right of Da Vinci’s altered masterpiece mooed a full-sized Hereford cow, a standard analog clock implanted in her tummy. I jumped when her red eyeballs flashed. 

“Installed them infrared security sensors myself.” He patted himself on the back. “No intruder’ll make it past her.” 

“Uh, Diroctor—” 

“Ya smack her rump—resets the whole system.” He smacked her rump. SFX: [Electronic Button]

Nearby, a bespectacled iron hog rocked in his rocker, cradling a book in his hooves. A digital clock grazed in his belly. According to Gneeecey, the scholarly beast oinked on the half-hour.

“Art that ain’t functional is a waste. Waste not, want not—there’s hungry people on other plaaanets.” 

A stark, gunmetal clock—“B-L-I-R-G” printed across its face—towered over us. 

“I’ve never ever seen a clock like that before.” 

“Ya mean ya seen all these other clocks before?”

“No—I was just wondering, what’s—” 

“Ya proboobably won’t understand, but I’ll igsplain anyways.” He took a deep breath. “Blirg is a twenny-eight-an’-a-half-day holiday season where time reverses, on account of us havin’ two suns an’ a thirteen-month year. That’s when this here clock runs counterclockwise. An’ all these other ones jus’ stop.” 

“Huh?” 

“Bein’ entangulated in your one-sun, twelve-month stooopidness rotates our whole dimension backwards on its axis.” 

“Backwards?” 

“Yup. Every year, startin’ on Octvember 40th, it’s legal to eat dessert before dinner. When Blirg ends, we celebrate the holiday of Grimace. We give each other purple rubber wallets. Season’s real interesticatin’—time actually marches forward backward.” 

I cradled my pounding head in my hands. “Marches forward backward?” 

The corridor, which had been silent save for audible springs, gears, and ticks, exploded with moos, oinks, whinnies, dings, dongs, gongs, horns, sirens, engines, and crowing roosters. The barnyard sounds were punctuated by those of a wild-eyed cuckoo bird that lunged out of a brown house, a clock embedded in his stomach. SFX: [Boing, barnyard, doorbell, horns, sirens, clown horn, donkey, motorcycle rumble, electronic button, cuckoo clock] I covered my ears. 

“Now, Ig, how many people—or whatever carbonated life forms youse got on your planet—own a cuckoo that’s also a clock that lives in his own house that’s not a clock? He don’t hafta come out to see what time it is—he knows!” 

“I feel faint—” 

“He comes out to tell us that he knows that he knows when to come out, ’cause he awready knows!” SFX: [Cuckoo clock] Rapture lit Gneeecey’s grungy white-and-black fur face. 

“Diroctor, please show me where I can—”

“Beaudiful, ain’t it?

“With all these clocks, how do you know what time it really is? If I had more watches, I’d always wonder which one was right.” I tapped my wristwatch.  

“Ya better start wonderin’. Here, your watch automatically becomes parta my more.” 

I looked down. “My leg’s really bleeding—” 

“An’ hangin’ here are some paintings by a coupla famous identically fraternical twins—Dippenshmeer an’ Rippenshmeer Knottvermeer. They’re igzactly like the ones hangin’ in the museum, ’cept they’re different. Notice how they paint in complooplementary colors. Dippenshmeer paints in orange, an’ Rippenshmeer paints in purple.” 

“Diroctor—” 

“As his name suggesticates, Rippenshmeer tore up his canvasses an’ pasted ’em into colleges.”

“Diroctor Gneeecey, I don’t feel well—” 

“An’ I got a Renoyer in my foyer ’cause it rhymes. An’ your Van Gogh— after he cut his ear off, he had lotsa trouble hearin’ what he was lookin’ at.” 

“Please—” 

“An’ this is my that, that’s my this, an’ I’m the only one who has one of them! C’mon, Ig—you’re makin’ me late. Lemme show ya the stinkin’ bat’room. Like youse Earthlin’s always say, ‘Cleanliness is nexta Goldilocks.’” 

Just then, I slid in some goth slime. SFX: [Slip]

“Heh hah, heh haah! How entertaineratin’!” 

“Instead of laughing, you should be trying to help. You’re supposed to be a doctor, and my leg’s bleeding because your, uh, pets—” 

“That’s only a stooperficial wound—ya can clean it in the bat’room. Jus’ don’t bleed on nuthin’. C’mon.” 

I shuffled behind him on numb feet. 

“Okay, Ig, this here first-floor bat’room’s the only one we can use—all the others are busted. So be stinkin’ careful in here.” 

I stinkin’ would, I assured him. 

“This here is a seat-warmer.” A lit, life-sized replica of Rodin’s thinker sat thinking on the toilet. “For the W.C.,” Gneeecey added.

“Water closet—how quaint.” 

“This is not a water closet!” he boomed, stepping over mounds of debris. “It’s an Electronic Water Cyclone 3000! High-tech, state of the art—three-thousand cyclones per flush!” 

I pointed to the stainless-steel commode’s panel of hypnotically winking, multicolored buttons. SFX: [Electronic Button] [Intarface 2] “When it breaks down, who do you call—a plumber or an electrician?” 

“A computer geek. An’ it won’t break down. Y’know, it was a choice between this an’ the Bull 2000. I tried the bull on display in Squiggleman’s Hardware’s front window, but it threw me. Embarrassin’—made Squiggleman’s look real baaad.” 

“Diroctor—” 

“This here Cyclone 3000 electronically detects me as its only registered user.” He frowned. “Guess I’ll hafta give yooou the guest code. There’s a fine for visitor over-usage—it beeps three times, then ya gotta use that.” He smacked the side of the tank. SFX: [Bang] “Coin slot only takes dollars—Susan B. Anthonies.” 

“How much usage is over-usage?” 

“You’ll find out. An’ don’t forget to replace the lousy sploggle back on the seat. Keeps our, uh, tails high an’ dry.” Glaring at me, he hurled his plastic philosopher into the shower stall. 

“Diroctor, he’s still plugged in—isn’t it dangerous to put him in there?” 

“Only if ya use water. Now, speakin’ of art, I ordered Rodin’s beaudiful Balzac, wit’ a clock where his appendix belongs. He’ll never get ’pendicitis, an’ it ain’t never life-threatenin’ to have your clock removed.” 

“Diroctor—” 

“I also ordered a chrome Harley wit’ a clock in his stomach—I can pick at it, y’know, when I’m hungry. It’s not by Rodin—don’t think he ever rode a chopper.” 

“Can you show me how the shower works?” I asked. The system of faucets, levers, and multiple shower heads was more complex than any I’d ever seen. 

“Dunno—never use it.” 

And lo and behold, there were three framed paintings nailed up on the tiled walls. “Uh, Diroctor, you have paintings hanging in the shower?”

“It’s okay, ya Ig. Oil an’ water don’t mix.”

Suddenly, something behind the Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 whined. SFX: [Cat Whine] [Clunking]

“That’s only Klunkzill—wit’ two K’s an’ three L’s. Got a great deal on him!”

An aura of misery surrounded the bag of bones that clunked out from behind the throne. A rainbow of grays, the feline’s sunken eyeballs matched his sunken sides. Sideways, I thought, Klunkzill resembled a xylophone. 

“Sideways, don’t Klunkzill resembooble a xylophone?” 

“Uh, yes, actually, he does,” I agreed, hoping fervently that “grate”—G-R-A-T-E—minds didn’t think alike.

“Flubbubb’s afraida xylophones.”

“Really?” Flubbubb was a childhood pal of Gneeecey’s and Sooperflea’s. The handsome golden canine-humanoid was always trying, to no avail, to please Gneeecey.

 “Yup, Ig. Whenever Flubbubb visits, I gotta lock poor Klunkzill in the basement.” 

“Thought you said you didn’t want the responsibility of owning pets.” 

“Klunkzill’s real low-maintenance. He’s half motorcycle. He’ll live forever!” 

“Uh, Diroctor, could I have a coupla minutes in here, please?” 

“How can anyone have minutes?” 

“I meant, a coupla minutes alone—” 

“Privooovacy—why din’cha say so? Yeah, but hurry. An’ ya better do somethin’ wit’ that leg—looks bad. An’ if ya find any of my Freak O’Nature snacks I mighta left in there, don’t eat ’em! They’re mine! All mine!” SFX: [Door Slam] He slammed the bathroom door shut, and finally, I was alone.

What I saw in the mirror shocked me. A real Freak O’Nature stared back from under blond, blender-styled straw. My skin glowed violet, and smudged mascara blackened my lower lids, giving me that sought-after zombie look. I splashed icy water on my face and rubbed. It didn’t help. And Gneeecey’s stiff, once-white towels scratched more than they dried. Under the looking glass, several squashed toothpaste tubes had glued themselves to the basin. A fossilized, amber-bristled toothbrush stood upright in a crater of glop, like a flag claiming territorial rights. Grossed out, I turned away and leaned against the sink’s cold edge. I had to find some bandages.

Stuff was strewn all over the grimy gray tiles—Tolstoy’s War and Peace, a mangled Perswayssick County phone book, and a handwritten, coffee-stained manuscript entitled My Unauthorized Autobiography, by Diroctor B. Z. Z. Gneeecey. 

Spray cans of Atomic Blast Deodorant, labeled “gift set” and still sealed in shrink-wrap, mingled merrily with a wide array of laxatives—pills, tablets, Laxa-Patches, and brown bunnies made of that-special kinda-chocolate. As I plucked a box of Ouch-O Strips off the floor, my eyes wandered over to the windowsill, piled with prescription bottles. I read labels. Millvill, “for your ailment. Take 2.5 milligrams three times daily with food, but not other meds. If dose is missed, contact Dr. Yuppernope immediately.” Repulsid, “formulated for the way you live.” Take 50 milligrams twice daily on an empty stomach, with other meds. Prescribing physician, Dr. Matt Hazz.” Bumpex, “1,000 milligrams—take three times daily with meals, but not other meds. Prescribed by Dr. Alexandra C. Idnas. If inanimate objects begin speaking, report to the nearest emergency room.” Oh boy…. 

I turned my attention to my goth-gashed leg. Each time I attempted to apply an Ouch-O Strip, the gauze center tore down the middle before even making contact with the wound. After several tries, I gave up. 

SFX: [Door Pound] “Your minutes are up!” shouted Gneeecey, pounding his fists on the door. “An’ I hope ya ain’t usin’ too many of my stinkin’ Oucho-O’s!” 

“I’m not using any—and they do stink,” I replied, limping out into the hallway. I longed to dive into a soft bed and pull the covers up over my throbbing head. 

Gneeecey flung open a narrow door situated between the bathroom and his Hall of Clox. SFX: [Door Open] “C’mon, Ig!” 

I stepped into the windowless closet of a room. A thin, spring-popping mattress—two-thirds the size of a standard adult bed—covered half the stained parquet floor. I didn’t see a pillow or blanket. Just a swamp-green bath towel. On the floor, a cardboard carton bore a printed warning: “Do not store on floor!” A beige ceramic lamp, crowned with a dirty, crooked shade, made its home sweet home atop the box, lighting walls painted no particular color. The room reeked of chemicals.

“Ya like it, Ig?” 

Before I could even answer—or tell him to stop calling me ‘Ig’—something buzzed past my ear. SFX: [Airplanes] Glancing upward, I spied what looked like two tiny corporate jets flying circles around a broken light fixture. Airplanes didn’t usually fly indoors. Definitely, time to turn in. 

Gneeecey chuckled. “They’re insects that mutated—y’know, as a natural defense—to look like high-flyin’ planes so nobody’ll bother ’em. They’re a real probooblem out here in the suburbs.”

I stared, amazed. 

“An’ they bite!”

He threw a flyswatter at me. “An’ there’s a can of plane repellent in the bat’room. Yup, when them guys get ready to bite’cha, their pincers shoot straight outta their little cockpits.”

SFX: [Cell Phone Ring] Gneeecey’s cell phone rang. He ripped it out of his pocket. SFX: [Fabric Tear] Literally. “Mark? Oh. . .Flubbubb—it’s yooou. Ya made me bust my shirt. Nope, ain’t got time for ya. Wait...what? Ya got me a present? I gotta go meet Mark, but’cha can come by—throw it through the window—y’know, the one over the front steps? Gotta leave! Guh-bye!” 

As Gneeecey checked his watch, a loud noise startled us. SFX: [Bang] [Shattering Glass] He tore up the hallway SFX: [Squeaking Sneakers] and returned a split-second later, ripping open a silver-papered package.

“Oooooooooh! Looky!” He lifted a purple knit snake from the box. “A monogrammed tail-warmer from Seemingwhale’s!” He pulled it up over his tail. “Hand-knit in Booolabeeezia—musta cost him a deck of vlecks! Flubbubb can’t afford stuff like this.” 

“Isn’t he a percussionist?” I asked. 

“Yeah. He plays triangles an’ does experimentical junk like throwin’ shoes in washers an’ dryers—calls it prepooperated percussion. By day, he works in a bread factory, tyin’ twist-ties on loaves—y’know, them little wires that’cha can’t never get off no matter which ways ya turn ’em, so ya rip the lousy package open?” 

“Uh, before you go,” I began, pointing to the, uh, mattress, “could I move this further into the room so my feet won’t stick out through the doorway?” 

“No! You’ll discombooobulate the flow of energy in this entire house—that would be bad fang chewy!” 

“And what about this box on the floor that says ‘Do not store on floor’?” I asked, whisking the mattress away from the door. 

“Don’t believe everythin’ ya read, Ig,” he replied, not noticing that I had moved my sorry excuse for a bed. “Jus’ make sure ya don’t touch it.” 

“But, what if in the middle of the night, I—” 

“Don’t! An’ here!” SFX: [Bang] He tossed a ball at me—a beanbag clock, upholstered in grimy white-and-black fake fur. Its yellowed face frowned, through cracked plastic, at its bent hands. Attached in back, beneath sharp levers, was a fuzzy, striped tail stuffed with bells. “Set it to thump at six a.m.! Ya better sleep fast!” 

“Diroctor Gneeecey, we’ve gotta talk—” 

“Gotta go! Bad night!”

SFX: [Magic Spell] [She Calls You]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ:  Next week, we return to that alternate dimension and its foul-smelling epicenter of chaos: Nurse Maudlyn’s infamous 666 Van Pooop Lane residence. The shrieking villainess remains firmly glued to her toilet, while her canine-humanoid hostage, Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey, is left utterly alone—no food, no phone, no power, no Wi-Fi… and definitely no clue. Meanwhile, Gneeecey’s pal, the jittery superhero Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge (aka Sooperflea), has just been vacuumed out a second-story window and up into a flying outhouse by Opposite Earth’s deranged, gibberish-spewing tyrant, Urgl. As Flea and Urgl brawl mid-air, empty-bellied Gneeecey is hit with another gas attack—and this one might just turn out to be his most useful superpower yet. See ya then!

SFX: [Magic Spell]

We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com. 

And thank you for tuning in to “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.” We hope you enjoyed traveling to this loopy dimension with us and that you’ll come along again! Our new episodes drop every Tuesday! Please make sure to tell a friend! And keep on laughing! 

Frank: It’s a Gneeecey thing! [SFX: Door Slam] ###