Muppz in Da Hood 3: REVENGE of Da Muppz!!1! AND Da Hood 2!!

Author's note: Dedicated to the memory of Niagaranobs, discoverer of the first installment in this classic series... no, you moron, he's not dead. It's just been forever since he was last seen around the Trollpasta Wiki, that's all. Does this make PikaFur the winner of the great war? Stay tuned for more.

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Not even a lightly sauce-lined can of Spaghetti-Os in this stupid fucking dumpster. Guess I'm skipping dinner tonight. Maybe I'll be luckier if I try for a meal when everyone's gone to sleep.

What even is all in here? It almost seems empty. Maybe if I pull back this part of the lid. Oh my God. There's a VHS tape. What first-world family of dumbasses throws out a stinking VHS tape but not any damned FOOD?? And what's that black shit it's sitting in? Lemme get a— DEAUUUGHHHH, my GOD. That smells like ACTUAL SHIT. NNGGHHHH, my noossstriillls. That hurts. That. That stench— eh-HUKHH— that is, like, the most physically painful set of iron rods I've ever had shoved up my goddamnned nasal cavities. Fuck. It actually... wait.

It actually does smell like iron. Crap, I just meant that as a metaphor. Is that blood? No, there's no way. Lemme just reach in and grab that sucker. That cannot be OH MY GOD OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT IS BLOOD ON MY FINGERTIPS.

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUUUUCK.

Okay, no. No. I am not digging into whatever sick fetish material snuff film these depraved weirdos thought was sickening even for their taste. I'm not some stupid protagonist of some contrived, idiotic, derivative, brain-dead—

Okay, I've got a bloody tape. Literally bloody. What the fuck do I do with it? I don't even have a roof above my head, let alone a functional VCR and television set. Maybe I should head over to Nick's little shack and ask him if he can— no. No, I'm not that desperate yet. I can do better, somehow. Ugh, it feels like the plastic casing on this thing is starting to singe my fingertips. I need to get it out of my hands. I need to be free of this shit.

I think the local library has a TV room. Well, "closet" is more apt. But I remember seeing a VHS player in there. I think. God, when was the last time I set foot in that place? They chased me out with a broom, if I remember correctly. Or maybe it was a rake. Yeah, I think I'd have been more annoyed by a rake than a broom. Fucking dumbass rust-encrusted prongs. Fuck that. No rake is scaring me off when I've got a bloody-ass fuckin' bloody tape in my stupid fuckin' goddamned overly-inquisitive hands. Fuck.

God, I'm so pissed off right now.

Thankfully, the library is just across the road. I've just got to get across without accidentally WHAT THE FUCK THOSE CARS JUST FUCKING COLLIDED INTO ONE ANOTHER OH MY GOD IT'S A TWELVE-CAR PILE UP ON THE HIGHWAY THOSE THREE PEOPLE LOOK DEAD AAAAAAA oh, hey, I'm at the library now. Step one accomplished. Now for the second step. Which is not getting hit in the face with a stupid rusty rake. Jesus.

Now let's see, how do I keep those bitch librarians from recognizing my ugly-ass mug? Wait. Lemme just swap it out with this disposable cup someone threw into the parking lot. Yes, YES! HA!! Take that, you idiots. You'll never recognize me now.

Hmm. This might not be optimal, after all. I'm getting a lot of stares, and that one gray-haired librarian with the tacky book-shaped hairpin is giving me a weird-ass... OHHHHH. It's just the blood all over my hands. And my shirt, I guess. Stupid VHS tape. All over my pants, too, I mean how did that— oh, yeah. The highway. My mind is going to be destroyed by the traumatic weight of all that shit any second now, so I'd better find out what this stupid, stupid tape is all about before I go completely cuckoo. Out of my way, Miss Mildred Methuselah. Maybe save your breath and stop shrieking about that stain I left on your blouse, it'll fucking wash out. Bitch.

Phew, okay, I'm in the TV room now. They won't find me here. That's not them knocking and screeching at me to open up, I know it. Man, I sure do love deadbolts.

Ugh. Will this tape even run? It's pretty stinkin' slick with this stinkin' blood. Where'd the blood come from, anyway? Not important. Not as important as whatever is on this tape, I just know it. Wait. Wait a second. No, oh my God, NO. Is that...

KERMIT DA FUH-ROGGGGG?!

HOLY SHIT, THAT'S HIS SMILEY-ASS STUPID-ASS SILLY-AND-WHIMSICAL-ASS FROG-ASS FACE FILLING UP THE WHOLE DAMNED LABEL. HOW DID I NOT SEE IT BEFORE?? Must be the red. He's not red, he's green. Fuck this stinkin' blood. Now I wanna know where it came from and who died to pour it all out just so I can give their brutal demise a lovely little sequel episode. Wait, what's that glint in his mouth? Wha— a gold tooth??

All right. I knew this tape was special. It's time to find out what this shit is all about. Blood or no blood, this player better work. I'll KILL IT if it doesn't. Okay. Here we go.

In goes the tapey-wapey...

...

(silence, marked by an ellipsis, otherwise known as "three dots")

...

(screen is black)

...

*further silence*

...

Suddenly, gunshots ring out as the screen briefly flashes to an unknown fuzzy purple Muppet leaning out the side of a Lamborghini Spyder that's blowing its way down the highway at around 95 miles an hour with its roof down, the Muppet chomping down on a nice Colombian cigar as it pumps an off-screen chaser full of lead. Then the screen cuts back to black, this time with fat-ass white text.

JOHNNY "JIMBO" HENSON PICTURES PRESENTS

Gunshots can be heard once more as tires start squealing, and we see a low-down shot of the evil, fucked-up Rolls-Royce Phantom that's chasing the poor little gas-guzzling, climate-changing Lambo, its rear wheels twisting around sharply as the car swings hard to the left, and some funky forgotten hip-hop track from a Billboard Hot 100™ of an era long gone by begins playing. The screen cuts back to black once again.

A MONEYLAUNDERMAX PRODUCTION

Now we get a view just up ahead of the carnage as we see that the driver of the SUV is none other than Ernie McErnerson, totally-not-gay life partner to Bert ErnMcerson and survivor of several previous gang slaughters. He twists the steering wheel to make the car turn sharply once more, and the motherfuckers from the Rolls-Royce start to rat-a-tat-tat their machine guns at the vehicle, causing Ernie to squeal in distress as all the Muppets leaning out from the sides of the car (yes, there's more than one of them) hastily fly back in, with little bits of fluff flying all over the place. Cut to black AGAIN.

IN ASSOCIATION WITH DETROIT STUDIOS

The camera, now showing the side of the Lambo's hood with a run-down crack-smoking neighborhood whizzing away behind it, pans to the right to show the front of the car mysteriously empty. Oh, there's Ernie, our lovely Muppet friend! He was just ducking down to avoid the smattering of bullets coming from the automatic weapon being unloaded behind him. But fortunately, it's quiet now. So now, he can speak what's on his mind.

"Gah!! Fuck these streets and the devil that spawned 'em! When will the violence end??"

AND CLEVELAND... yeah, no, it's literally just Cleveland, Ohio

The purple Muppet from before now leans forward into the front seat to face Ernie directly, smoke floating wispily from the end of his cigar and up towards the sky. "Erm, I hate to tell ya this, boss, but—"

Ernie suddenly snaps his head toward the unnamed gun-toting cigar-smoking Muppet, uncharacteristically hateful and rage-filled malice flowing into his eyes like a burning wildfire, helpfully indicated by the sudden appearance of two thick brows above his eyes sloping toward each other.

"But what?! Donovan, you fucking bitch! If you hate to tell me, then why don't you keep your bullshit to yourself? I don't need you stinking up my ears with meaningless stories. Gonna make me take a bath when I get home. A nice, big bath. A bubble bath, with a rubber ducky." He then holds up a rubber ducky. He gives it a couple of squeaks, then tosses it into the seat behind him.

Donovan stutters for a moment, then continues, "But boss, I was just gonna warn ya—"

Suddenly, a BALLISTIC FUCKING MISSILE flies through the frontmost passenger side rear window, slamming into the back of Donovan's skull and sending foamy brain matter and lots of fluffy fabric flying everywhere. Ernie screams bloody murder, and an off-screen presence does, too. It's unknown what this mysterious presence is, though its fading out into the distance mysteriously coincides with Donovan's body going limp after the viciously bleeding flesh stump inside of it slides out and disappears. The unexplained bloody hand on the floor beside Donovan's corpse is as big as his head and hyper-realistically flips the bird off at the viewer.

The Lamborghini is now comically missing its entire passenger side, as if it had been cleanly and surgically sawed off, and the surviving gangster Muppets have pressed themselves up against the driver's side. They very quickly regain their bearings and start firing like hell at the Rolls-Royce, camera cutting to a front-view shot of it to show the pursuers swerving and losing control, before finally plunging into the ditch beside it. Ernie looks back momentarily, then shakes his head in exhaustion as he looks back at the road with his head tilted slightly downward in the same way as a puppy trying to appear innocent after chewing up and shredding apart its owner's birth certificate, Social Security card, and passport/visa. Then pissing all over them.

Meanwhile, the Muppets in the back are now celebrating their attacker's defeat, one of them raising his fist and shouting, "For Donovan!" The others quickly raise their own fists and join in the chant. "FOR DONOVAN! FOR DONOVAN! FOR D'AAAAA—"

HOLY SHIT!! A SECOND BALLISTIC FUCKING MISSILE HAS HIT THE LAMBORGHINI! This time, the entire rear part of the car flies to charred, flaming pieces as the gangster Muppets have their bodies blown to bits. Fortunately, none of them feel a thing because they all comically pass out before getting hit by the hostile steel cylinder flying at them, not even able to hit the floor before being vaporized halfway out of existence.

Ernie, unfolding himself from his fetal position, slowly turns around with horror, jaw dropping as he sees that his Lambo is now down to nothing more than the very portion he's in, like a motorized unicycle. The soundtrack unexpectedly comes to a halt, overwhelming silence filling the viewer's ears as Ernie suddenly turns to look at the viewer with a bone-chillingly puppety stare. For a split second, it's as if all the pain and suffering and sin in the world has entered into his poor little rubber orbs of black-and-white, like he's some kind of Muppet Jesus Christ, a regular—

"MY LAMB-OOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Weirdly, despite Ernie being the one to shout this to the highest of heavens, the voice coming from him is entirely unlike his own. Downright inhuman, to the point that it sounds exactly like my racist MAGA-loving neighbor with the hideous hairpiece. "GRRRAAAHHH, I DON'T HAVE THIS GODDAMN THING INSUUUUURED!!"

Ernie furiously reaches forward and pulls out an AK-47, Tokyo drifting his car into the nearest driveway like a fucking madman and letting it die with its last disgusting cough of billowing black fumes. As he steps out of it and starts walking away, the world suddenly stops and then moves in insanely slow motion, like some kind of slow-mo video or something. It's so slow that it makes me start feeling slow in the head just describing it. And then an explosion occurs behind Ernie as he continues walking, and he just has a pair of sunglasses on now that I didn't notice before, for fuck's sake.

He walks up to the ruined Rolls-Royce with machine gun in hand and knocks on the driver's door.

"Jeezus Christ, who da fuck is knockin'? I got a headache da size'a future U.S. president Donald Trump's ego!" (This presumably isn't a political joke given that this film seems to have been made in the late 1980s, back when Donald Trump was only known for being rich and having a hideous hairpiece.)

"It's the Grim Reaper, bitch." Ernie is now speaking in a deep, gruff voice completely unlike either of his previous voices, almost Satanic in the same way as my racist, MAGA-loving neighbor's wife.

"Aww, youse ain't no Reaper. An' when he comes for you, youse can tell 'im that I ain't payin' my bettin' dues until he promises to start playin' more fairly!"

"EAT LEAD, BITCHEZZZZZ!!!"

Ernie starts pumping the Rolls-Royce full of bullets while laughing maniacally, listening to the horrifying shrieks coming from within until the whole thing explodes into powder, the lenses of his sunglasses reflecting the flames as the camera cuts to a close-up of his maddened, crazed face of unchanging expression. Cue title card.

THE MUPPET METH CRISIS OF '89