Original subtitles

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Yeah.

Thank you for joining us for this very special episode of

Freaky Stories.

Huh.

Okay, okay, so every episode is special.

But tonight we have a guest expert who will explain the

reason for the success of my show...

right after our first Freaky Story.

Listen up. This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine...

[rapping:] Let me tell you the story of Penny Penday.

The runty kinda kid who always runs away.

Her mother enrolled her in PS 32.

And from that day on the other kids tried to get her

black and blue.

They thought she's too skinny.

They thought she's too lame They hated that her running

shoes didn't carry some star's name.

Penny tried to act real tiny.

She tried to disappear.

But there was this gang of real mean girls

who liked to instill fear.

Teresa the Terror was the leader's name.

She wore tight jeans and her friends all did the same.

They hounded after Penny both by day and by night.

Tripping her and pushing her and giving her a fright.

Boys can be bad, but girls are meaner still.

They held Pen by her ankles out the Home Ec window sill.

They stalked her in the bathroom.

Put her head in the sink.

They told her that her perfume gave off

a rancid stink.

They were fixed. To play some tricks.

And their make-up was on double thick.

Penny was a baby. And I don't mean maybe.

Her backbone it was limp-noodle lazy.

She'd cower in the playground hide behind the teach.

Teresa'd steal her lunch box and hold it out of reach.

They stuffed her in a locker,

they wedged her pantyhose.

Penny'd lie to her mom when she got home

with a bloody nose.

Day after day, it was all the same.

When she'd thought they'd given up,

they'd find a brand new game.

They'd laugh at her in science class

and make her touch dead brains.

They dissed her and dissed her till she thought

she'd go insane.

She was sad. She was mad.

She wanted to get back at them real bad.

She took Kwan Do.

Let her rage go.

She'd practice 24/7 now don't you know.

Now the city kids they don't take no yellow bus.

They ride through the tunnel like the rest of us.

Penny had to face Teresa every day.

Riding the rails on the big Line A.

T'rese and her girls would cruise through all the cars.

Hassling passengers, ignoring safety laws.

They wouldn't mind the gap, they held the doors ajar.

If these femmes had been Girl Scouts,

they'd never made it far.

They zoned in on Penny like a heat seeking missile.

They jumped in her car after the guard'd

blown his whistle.

Went straight up to her and faced her nose to nose.

But I bet you can't guess how the rest of this goes.

Teresa suddenly apologizes,

says what she's done's not been fair.

'Cause it just ain't right to mess with Pen

'cause she don't like her hair.

The guidance councilor'd got to

T'rese and something'd just sunk in.

She was really very sorry now

and hoped they could be friends.

Pen was shocked. She wasn't mocked.

That she wasn't suddenly put in a head-lock.

Theresa seemed sincere.

Then they were there.

Pen walked out on the platform without fear.

But then she looked back and saw what she saw.

Teresa hanging with her lunch box,

a big smiling jaw.

The box Pen'd left back on her subway seat.

The box she'd have to get back with her Kwan Do feet.

'Cause Terese'd stole that box so many times before

Penny started seeing red, couldn't take it no more.

She would show that sandwich thief

what a skinny runt can do,

When she's sick of going hungry and been taught a move or two.

She said "Hey, everybody clear the floor."

She was tough. She was rough.

She showed Teresa all her stuff.

She swung her leg.

She jumped up high.

Teresa gave her the box 'cause she was gonna cry.

Now you're waiting for the moral,

seems like it turned out right.

The bully gets her just desserts

when Penny learned to fight.

But this just ain't the ending.

There's something more to go.

There's still a freaky bit, hanging there down the road.

So Penny went to school thinking she was

all that stuff.

She'd got her lunch box back which was well enough.

She could hold her head high now.

But grabbed a gulp of air When she opened up the box,

saw her lunch wasn't there.

That wasn't her ham sandwich.

She'd packed an egg on rye.

Then the truth started dawning like a tale gone wrong.

This'd been Teresa's lunch box all along.

Hers was on the counter where'd she'd left it that AM.

In the kitchen she'd forgot it munching toast and jam.

This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Here he is, the noted psychiatrist,

Dr. Sigmund Von Maggot.

I meet some real crazies in my work.

Now, tell us, Doctor, why do you consider yourself

an expert on television?

Ven I Vas a little schnitzel,

back in Dusseldorf, I fell into an old TV set.

A gashtoonken bolt of electricity

exploded through my body.

I got TV in my blood.

You ain't got no blood.

Here's a Freaky Story.

All right, this is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine,

but I can't tell you his name cause,

well you'll understand.

You see, he was a real smart-aleck kid.

Let me give you an example.

One day, he swiped a waiter's jacket,

put it on, and stood in front of this swanky,

down town restaurant.

Brad made like he was the parking valet.

Oops! Forget I said his name.

Not aloud to do that - regulations.

Right then, this hoity-toity rich couple pulled up in

their fancy new convertible.

The lady was dripping diamonds,

and hubby was oozing big bucks.

And you-know-who, the kid, was all smiling and making

like, good evening Sir, Ma'am.

Then he took the car away, like as if to park it,

but the kid drove it around the corner,

and guess what - he just kept going!

So when the couple came back out,

Brad, oop did it again, anyway.

Brad was gone, and so was the fancy new car.

The Misses was all in tears.

You see, they'd special ordered the car to be the

exact same colour as her favourite lipstick.

So she could be ah, colour coordinated, right.

And the husband?

Well, he was spewing smoke and fire,

because even to a rich guy like him,

a car like that is not small change.

So they called the police and took a taxi home

from the restaurant.

And on the way, the wife was whining about loosing her

special car.

The husband was on his cell phone,

waking his insurance broker to make sure he was all

covered, and wasn't going to lose any money.

"Money", the wife said.

"Is that all you care about - money!

I'll never get another car that exact same colour!",

but the husband just said: "Change your lipstick".

This was some deep relationship.

Well, they were pretty upset,

and they stayed pretty upset for a couple of days

at least.

The wife was complaining, and running all over town

trying out different shades of lipstick.

The husband was grumbling, every time he squeezed into

the little economy compact - which was all the car rental

place had.

But just three days later, there,

in his driveway, plain as day - was the red

convertible.

And sitting in it, putting on her lipstick,

was his wife.

She was all smiling and happy,

saying how she came home from the cosmetics store and

found the car just sitting there.

And she showed her husband a note she found in the car.

The note, which was written as neat as Brad could make it,

said: "Sorry, I had to borrow the car.

There was an emergency.

By using the car, I was able to save a life.

Thanks."

And with the note, there were two tickets to

"La Boheme", which is an opera that the couple pretended

they were kinda crazy about, because liking opera meant

they had culture.

The tickets were for that very night -

front row seats.

You could imagine how they felt.

The car was back without a scratch,

they had two tickets to this high-class opera,

and their car, according to the note,

saved someone's life.

Now they could brag to all their friends about how good

and caring they were, and with culture to boot!

Well, they got dressed to the nines -

tux, evening gown - the works!

They went to the opera in their fancy red convertible.

If the story ended here, it would be one of those:

"They lived happily ever after" stories.

Which it isn't.

You see, after the opera, they came home,

and to their surprise, everything in their mansion

was gone.

I mean everything.

(SCREAMS)

Furniture, appliances,

linens, dishes, even the burglar alarm.

Their big, magnificent mansion,

was a big, empty mansion.

They would've collapsed from shock,

but there was nothing for them to collapse on to.

But, as upset and depressed they were,

they had to admire the crooks ingenuity.

These kids today.

Who says they lack enterprise!

This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Yeah, his name is Brad.

And I've got him out of the car parking and house

robbing business.

He's into lettuce - picking it - for the next ten to

fifteen years, for me - the warden on the youth

detention farm.

Welcome back to our interview with Dr. Sigmund

Von Maggot.

Danke shein.

Now, tell us, Doctor, what is the secret of the success

of Freaky Stories?

Maurice the maggot.

Vot a charmer, vot talent...

Excuse me while I go and hurl my guts out.

This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Joe was a travelling salesman.

His territory covered most of the Omega Sector.

He used to drive around hawking what he called

'quality merchandise'.

Dime store stuff.

Grav-jiggs and Time Coders.

Business was pretty good for Joe.

He was a sharp dresser and drove a shiny new sedan.

He liked the ladies.

And the ladies liked him back.

One night, he finished his last call at my shop and was

looking for a motel.

The rain was coming down in buckets and as far as Joe

was concerned, any flea-bag-joint-in-a-storm

would do.

Joe was hunched over the steering wheel,

peering out as his windshield wipers waged a

pitched battle with the unrelenting sheets of rain.

It wasn't a night fit for man nor 'bot.

That's when he saw her.

She was walking along the gravel at the side of the road.

Drenched to the bone and making a futile effort

to protect herself from the weather.

Against his better judgement,

Joe pulled up along side of her.

He studded the window open.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

The girl kept walking.

Couldn't hear him above the beating rain.

Joe stopped the car and got out.

"It's a long way to the next town, Miss.

The girl stopped, then turned to face him.

She was young.

Couldn't have been more than sixteen.

Wearing a light summer frock and sandals.

No umbrella.

No rain coat.

Kids. Hrmmp!

Out on a night like this.

The girl climbed into the back of Joe's sedan.

As he started the thrum- motors,

Joe glanced in the rearview mirror.

He could see that she was shivering.

Joe took off his overcoat and passed it to her.

"Here. You'd better wear this.

It'll keep you warm 'til you get home."

She slipped into the coat, said "Thanks"

and sat staring out into the rain.

"Where can I drop you?" asked Joe.

"437 Hope Street," she replied.

"In Ridgemount, the next town up the road."

"A name?"

She said, "It's Mina."

"Unusual."

"Yup, unusual."

She wasn't much of a talker.

Different than any teenager he'd ever met.

So Joe gave up and drove on through the teeming downpour.

He crested a hill, and there ahead,

lay the thriving metropolis of Ridgemount.

Population: 600.

"Thar she blows," Joe said, in one last attempt at

conversation.

But when he turned around to see if Mina was laughing,

she wasn't.

She was gone.

And so was Joe's coat.

How could that be?

He hadn't stopped once, the whole while

she was in the car.

The puzzlement of it all made Joe's head spin.

He found 437 Hope Street without any trouble.

It was quite the bungalow.

He went to the door and rang the bell.

The door slowly swung open.

He was wearing a tuxedo.

All seven-foot eight of him.

It was an old Mark-3.

A robot butler.

Joe hadn't seen one of those since the radiation scares,

back in the '80's.

"There was a girl in the road.

I gave her a lift.

She wanted to come here..."

"One moment please."

Said the robot as he turned and left.

He went into the back room and emerged saying,

"Follow me."

And he led Joe up some stairs to a room with little

light, lots of cobwebs and the smell of

aging...EVERYTHING.

And there was this ancient crone,

in just enough light to tell she was a least

one century old.

"Thank-you for the ride."

"What's going on?

I gave a ride to a young girl,

but when I turned around, she was gone."

The old woman smiled and said,

"Gone is such a final word."

"But..." Joe began, but never finished.

The old woman smiled.

"Some of us never go."

When she handed back his coat,

he looked deep into her eyes.

Behind the wrinkles, Joe saw the two bright eyes of a teenager.

This was a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine...

Joe.

As for hitchhikers, he makes it a practice to only pick

up stray dogs, robots and senior citizens.

Doctor, here's the big question.

What makes Freaky Stories such an exciting,

vibrant, up-lifting, invigorating show?

[snoring]

Well, it ain't the sparkling interviews.

Must be the stories.

This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine.

Clinton Vance was a guy I went to school with.

He was always a bit of a scaredy-cat.

So when he decided to take a summer job at the

"Sunset Palms" old age home, I couldn't believe it.

It was Clinton's first day on the job and head nurse

Laidlaw assigned him to Mr. Seery for the day.

"This is Mr. Seery's banking day.

Take him downtown Clint.", she barked.

On the way to the bank, Clinton stopped to get

himself a soda pop and Mr. Seery another packet of

personal hankies.

He couldn't have been gone more than five minutes.

But they say that five minutes is all it takes.

He handed Mr. Seery his tissues.

The old guy didn't even say thank-you.

In fact he didn't say a single word on the whole

trip to the bank.

Clinton just figured he was like moody.

That is until he brought the Sunset Palms station wagon

to a stop in front of the bank and Mr. Seery plopped

over into his lap.

Clinton panicked assuming that he'd lose the job of a

lifetime if anyone knew that someone like died while he

was supposed to be looking after them.

Clinton decided to complete Mr. Seery's business

downtown, sneak him back into the Sunset Palms,

and straight into his own bed where it would be

discovered that the poor old gent

passed away in his sleep.

Poor nervous Clinton shivered worse than he did

in biology class when he reached into Mr. Seery's

breast pocket to pull out his bankbook

and deposit slip.

After fumbling through several used hankies

he managed to shake it off and run into the bank.

Inside the bank, Clinton made the deposit,

but before he could run out the clerk saw that there was

a message on Mr. Seery's file.

They needed to head up to the Bank manager's office

to sign some papers.

Poor Clinton went outside and hauled Mr. Seery out of

the wagon and headed up the elevator to the 13th floor

to meet with the manager.

The security guard recognized old Mr. Seery

and gave him a wave.

Clinton 'waved' Mr. Seery's arm back at him.

Finally, they got up to the 13th floor.

The bank manager greeted them grandly

but also wondered if Mr. Seery was OK.

Clinton explained that Mr. Seery was just really,

REALLY tired.

When the Bank Manager slid the papers he needed signed

across the desk, Clinton quickly pointed out the

window screaming that Donald Stump's helicopter

was soaring by.

As soon as the manager turned his back,

Clinton signed the papers.

Clinton and Mr. Seery got back to the elevators only

to find an 'out of order' sign.

Thirteen flights is quite a bit for Clinton

even on his own.

Surprisingly, he did just fine wrestling the limp

Mr. Seery down the flights... well, two of them anyway...

unfortunately Mr. Seery found his own way down

the remaining eleven stories.

Finally, Clinton got him into the car

in one piece and back to Sunset Palms.

After tucking him into his bed,

Clinton dusted himself off, regained his composure

and RAN to Nurse Laidlaw's station.

"Come quick! Mr. Seery is...

is... well you know...

he's ceased to be!!" he yelled.

Nurse Laidlaw ran into Mr. Seery's room to find the

corpse but when they whipped the door open,

there was Mr. Seery sitting upright!

Poor Clinton stammered about being positive

Mr. Seery was deceased.

Then nurse Laidlaw explained Mr. Seery suffers from

narcolepsy.

He falls into a deeeeep sleep when you least expect it.

The nurse and the interns laughed.

Old Mr. Seery wasn't laughing though.

Aside from wondering why his head hurt,

he was his old self, calling for his jelly dessert,

and a bedpan!

This is a true story.

It happened to a friend of a friend of mine,

who decided to get a different job.

Like at a mortuary.

Our first letter is from a viewer who wants to know if

we ever did an infomercial.

Hey, Charlie, run the clip.

For only fourteen ninety-five,

plus shipping and handling, you can have "Glorp",

the new, improved youth cream.

The secret ingredient in "Glorp" is...

Grease trap drippings.

Does it work, you ask?

Well, here's living proof.

This is Maurice after using "Glorp".

And here's Maurice before.

If you don't want to look like this...

smear on some "Glorp" and you can look like this.

The infomercial wasn't what you'd call a big hit.

The cops shut us down, for fraud.

You see, the "Before" picture wasn't really Maurice.

It's hard to find a maggot uglier than Maurice.

We were shot this picture of Maurice's

great Uncle Filbert.

two weeks after Filbert died.

He's still better lookin' than Maurice.

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