#CleaninGoo

[brightreddays]

A knock at your door, followed by retreating steps. There’s a rustle in the bushes, but pay no mind to that sound. On your doorstep sits a slightly crunched up cardboard box haphazardly taped shut with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the R’s are backwards. There’s a scent, mildew, glue, and almost….citrusy, wafting from the box. Open it up and find a mason jar nestled amongst a heap of shredded newspaper. A makeshift label on the glass made of masking tape reads ‘CLEANINGOO’, already peeling off. The mason jar is filled with…some kind of concoction. It’s somehow both a liquid and a solid, almost a violent shade of orange. There’s chunky glitter interspersed within the goo. Amongst the newspaper shreds sits a ripped piece of notebook, scrawled in the same black marker, that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your CleaninGoo, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Enjoy!”

Ernie cannot be held responsible for any late-night impulse purchases made during slow nights at the Stag. Also cannot be held responsible for remembering them the next day. So the box stuck in a bush next to the bar is a surprise. "The fuck...?" Ernie's not sufficiently caffeinated for this shit yet, and their glasses are still stuck in a pocket. Under an arm it goes while they unlock the bar and flip the lights on. It's not until the box is inside, and torn open, that they recall. The wacky asshole on the home shopping channel. Loud, obnoxious -- and ferociously dyslexic, judging by the Sharpied words on the box. The stuff in the jar inside is fascinating, in a gross kind of way. Ernie turns the jar over, watches with lip curled as the stuff inside oozes back and forth. CleaninGoo. It's the same color as the nasty nacho-cheese-stuff in the industrial sized cans in the storeroom, the goop that gets warmed up in a crock pot and glooped over chips during happy hour. Smells good and bad at the same time -- oranges and mildew. And it's glittery. Lucky timing. The hand soap dispensers in both bathrooms are nearly empty, and the delivery of regulation pink flowery-smelling stuff is a day late. Ernie rinses out the last crusts of pink stuff and refills them both with CleaninGoo, humming to themselves. Doesn't notice the faint glow it gives off in the dark, after the fluorescent lights are clicked off.

[calicoegg]

A knock at your door, followed by retreating steps. There’s a rustle in the bushes, but pay no mind to that sound. On your doorstep sits a slightly crunched up cardboard box haphazardly taped shut with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the R’s are backwards. There’s a scent, mildew, glue, and almost….citrusy, wafting from the box. Open it up and find a mason jar nestled amongst a heap of shredded newspaper. A makeshift label on the glass made of masking tape reads ‘CLEANINGOO’, already peeling off. The mason jar is filled with…some kind of concoction. It’s somehow both a liquid and a solid, almost a violent shade of orange. There’s chunky glitter interspersed within the goo. Amongst the newspaper shreds sits a ripped piece of notebook, scrawled in the same black marker, that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your CleaninGoo, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Enjoy!”

Freddie had passed out during late-night TV viewing, and instead of being pulled from sleep by "Low Rider" as expected, she jolted awake to the loudest HOO-WEE she's ever heard in her life. Still half-asleep and with barely any money to her name, she of course had to place an order for whatever this... baby-looking man was peddling.

She's putting out some food for Boogie when she hears the knock, and she trods over the door to pick up this beaten-to-hell cardboard shitbox. With one decisive slash from her trusty box cutter (which dangles from her carabiner, of course), she's staring down at an electric orange monstrosity.

She lifts the mason jar from the box like it's a rare, preserved specimen, turning it around in her hands so she can peek at it from all sides. There's definitely glitter in there. One of the glitter chunks is shaped like a star—cute! There's also the scent of... orange? Lemon? It smells good enough. A label is attached to the jar, but it's peeled and kinda crusty, so she pays it no mind.

Honestly, she didn't even know what she'd ordered when she initially placed it, and she certainly doesn't know now. Dick Scammahorn was just... so convincing. And based on the smell and appearance, this has gotta be some kind of weird candy, right? So she twists the lid off with a pop, scoops up a glob with her finger, and sticks it directly into her mouth.

...Tastes like shit.

[vespcrtines]

A knock at your door, followed by retreating steps. There’s a rustle in the bushes, but pay no mind to that sound. On your doorstep sits a slightly crunched up cardboard box haphazardly taped shut with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the R’s are backwards. There’s a scent, mildew, glue, and almost….citrusy, wafting from the box. Open it up and find a mason jar nestled amongst a heap of shredded newspaper. A makeshift label on the glass made of masking tape reads ‘CLEANINGOO’, already peeling off. The mason jar is filled with…some kind of concoction. It’s somehow both a liquid and a solid, almost a violent shade of orange. There’s chunky glitter interspersed within the goo. Amongst the newspaper shreds sits a ripped piece of notebook, scrawled in the same black marker, that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your CleaninGoo, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Enjoy!”

"The hell?"

Huck squints down at the box on his porch, brow drawn tight. He glances left. Then right. Ain’t mail time. Sure as hell didn’t hear anyone come up the path. Meant for one of his siblings, maybe? But no—just says Buchanan Residence. Hm.

With a grunt, he crouches, knees crackin’ and creakin', and picks it up slowly. The box is soft at the corners, taped up and battered, and... kind of soggy. Why the fuck was it soggy? He peels it open, and—

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ."

The smell hits first. Mildew. Glue. Maybe...citrus? With something wrong underneath, like someone left an orange in the sun for six months and sprinkled glitter on the remains. His nose wrinkles as he reaches in against his better judgment, fingers brushing against a mason jar nestled in shredded newspaper. There’s a label on it—barely sticking—scrawled in marker: CLEANINGOO.

He holds it up to eye level. The stuff inside looks radioactive. Half liquid, half...gelatinous nightmare. And yep, there’s glitter. Big chunks of it, though they looked more like... sores than glitter. Horror movie type of shit.

He’s just about to pop the top open when he spots the ripped piece of notebook paper in the bottom of the box. Same marker. Same deranged handwriting. And at the bottom, the name:

D. Scammahorn Industries.

Huck exhales hard through his nose, breathe in for five, breathe out for one, two, thre—

"FRANKLIN ISAIAH BUCHANAN!" he hollers over his shoulder, voice like thunder as he slams the jar back into the box. "GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW."

[veticent]

A knock on your door, followed by the sound of something…wet hitting your porch. Twigs snap in the near distance, but don’t worry about that. On your doorstep sits a brown paper bag with what you can only hope is grease stains haphazardly polka- dotting it. ‘D. SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES’ – the S’s are backwards – is scrawled in black marker, with ‘DO-NOT-EAT’ written much smaller in blue ballpoint pen. What’s that smell? Grassy and…sulfuric? A rotten egg smell wafts off the bag. Be brave and open it up to find a ripped piece of paper sticking out of what you can only hope is fertilizer and not an amalgamation of dried hay and various farm animal’s…excrement that reads, “To Valerie Estrada, DMV; my apallagies for your dissatisfaction with CleaninGoo. Here’s your Speed Gro Fertylizer, free of charge. H.A.G.S: D. Scammahorn.” Underneath, there’s an asterisk reading, “**not including a shipping and handling fee of $8.”

Valerie opens the door quickly this time, but still, by the time she peers out, no one is there. However, there is a paper bag that smells like literal shit outside her door. “Oh, goddammit...” she exhales, staring down at the Scammahorn Industries- it wasn't even a label, she couldn't call it one. She steps back into her room for a moment, finding an extra pair of nitrile gloves, which she snaps on before touching the bag. Why does she open it? She doesn't know, but the note inside- and the smell- does confirm that it is indeed shit in a bag. “Pinche cabrón,” she mutters, annoyance flaring in her chest. Slipping on her flats, Val heads to find the nearest dumpster to throw this into.

[doctorstrangebun]

A knock at your door, followed by retreating steps. There’s a rustle in the bushes, but pay no mind to that sound. On your doorstep sits a slightly crunched up cardboard box haphazardly taped shut with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the R’s are backwards. There’s a scent, mildew, glue, and almost….citrusy, wafting from the box. Open it up and find a mason jar nestled amongst a heap of shredded newspaper. A makeshift label on the glass made of masking tape reads ‘CLEANINGOO’, already peeling off. The mason jar is filled with…some kind of concoction. It’s somehow both a liquid and a solid, almost a violent shade of orange. There’s chunky glitter interspersed within the goo. Amongst the newspaper shreds sits a ripped piece of notebook, scrawled in the same black marker, that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your CleaninGoo, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Enjoy!”

Mr. Scammahorn,

My experience with your multi-purpose cleaning goo was unsatisfactory at best. I will not fault you for the rudimentary packaging, but a ‘do no eat’ label is in order (I have made this mistake before). It also does not clean. I attempted to mop a spill with it this morning. What was absorbed now has the remaining goo soiled with coffee, and the spill was made worse. Here are some ingredients frequently present in cleaning products: Ethanolamine. Methylisothiazol. Phenoxyisopropanol. Here are some that are not: Glitter. Glue. However, I cannot disparage it as useless, only falsely advertised. The goo business should be glad to have you, just not the multi-purpose cleaning goo business. I have been using it as a stress ball.

Regards, Wes Folayan

[veticent]

A knock at your door, followed by retreating steps. There’s a rustle in the bushes, but pay no mind to that sound. On your doorstep sits a slightly crunched up cardboard box haphazardly taped shut with “D.SCAMMAHORN INDUSTRIES” written in black marker — the R’s are backwards. There’s a scent, mildew, glue, and almost….citrusy, wafting from the box. Open it up and find a mason jar nestled amongst a heap of shredded newspaper. A makeshift label on the glass made of masking tape reads ‘CLEANINGOO’, already peeling off. The mason jar is filled with…some kind of concoction. It’s somehow both a liquid and a solid, almost a violent shade of orange. There’s chunky glitter interspersed within the goo. Amongst the newspaper shreds sits a ripped piece of notebook, scrawled in the same black marker, that reads, “Congratulations! Here’s your CleaninGoo, courtesy of D. Scammahorn Industries. Enjoy!”

It's an early morning at the Birchwood, and Val is not yet dressed for the day, still in only the tee and underwear she slept in. She's sitting at the table in her room, scribbling in her notebook, planning for the day ahead, when there's a knock at the door. It startles her, because, obviously, she's not expecting anyone to be at her door, especially not this early.

After pulling on a pair of sweats, she peeks out the door only to find a roughed up looking box that's been messily taped shut, only an unfamiliar company name written on it. She checks the hallway before very tentatively picking up the box, and bringing it into the room. Using her knife, she slices through the many layers of tape and carefully opens the box. She stares at the jar of 'CleaninGoo' in disgust for several moments before there's a flash of recognition. There had been that infomerical on the TV after she'd come back from the bar. Even drunk, there's no way she'd have ordered this crap... right? She hadn't been wasted.

...well, now she needed to check her bank account. Val gingerly picks up the box and dumps it in the corner of the room. She'd deal with that later. First, she was going to go wash her hands.