Chapter Text
Mr. Turner awoke in a fit of anger. He looked at his lovely wife, Mrs. *trucks honking* Turner.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, playing dumb. It seemed like Mrs. Turner knew what was up, though. She always knew. Mrs. Turner sighed.
It was another one of those days.
“Dinkleberg…” Mr. Turner answered.
Mrs. Turner facepalmed. “Honey,” she started. “Why do you treat Mr. Dinkleberg like that?”
Mr. Turner shrugged. “It’s DINKLEBERG!!!!” he shouted, angrily gesturing to Dinkleberg watering his perfect garden outside his perfect house as the sun rose perfectly over Dinkleberg’s perfectly perfect house. “You always take his side,” Mr. Turner huffed.
Mrs. Turner rolled her eyes. Not this again. “Oh, all right,” she scoffed, giving into her delusional husband’s stupidity. “How are we going to foil Dinkleberg this time?” Mrs. Turner asked supportively.
“Oh, I think you know,” Mr. Turner ominously replied to his bimbo wife. Mr. Turner looked outside their bedroom window and peered through the nonexistent blinds. “Dinkleberg…”
Dinkleberg…
Mrs. Turner smirked at her husband. “Surprise me!”
“Oh, honey, I will,” Mr. Turner laughed sinisterly, tenting his fingers as he looked out of the window.
“Will it be bazookas again?” Mrs. Turner asked.
“No, no, dear,” Mr. Turner cackled. He turned around to look at his beloved wife. “Something worse.”
“Will you be gloating about how they can't have children and show Timmy off?”
“You know, honey, while I do love Timmy,” Mr. Turner thought, “he’s just a weight on our shoulders. But Dinkleberg can't have any, so we have to show off!”
Mrs. Turner nodded. “That's true…”
“As much as I'd love to gloat about Dinkleberg’s sterility, that's not the plan today.” Mr. Turner peered out of the window again as he imagined all of the possible ways he could ruin Dinkleberg’s life. He stood at the window and guffawed malevolently.
“Are you going to attempt to ruin Dinkleberg's marriage?” Mrs. Turner pondered. “It didn't work so well the last time.”
“Who's to say it was ME who paid for Cinnamon to come to his house?” he asked, clearly offended.
“Wait, what?” Mrs. Turner said. “Why do you remember her name?”
“Uh….” Mr. Turner thought for a moment. He'd said too much. “Dinkleberg?”
“Oh, okay!”
“How would it be a surprise if I told you how your devilishly handsome husband was going to ruin Dinkleberg's life?”
“You're right!” Mrs. Turner smiled. “How silly of me.”
“Say, where’s Timmy?” Mr. Turner asked.
“Now that I think of it, I don't know,” Mrs. Turner shrugged.
“Oh well,” Mr. Turner rolled his eyes. “We’ll put him at Dinkleberg’s doorstep and make him act like an orphan when he gets home— Dinkleberg will be really upset then! Anyways, I'm going to invite Dinkleberg over for lunch.”
“But you hate Dinkleberg,” Mrs. Turner reminded.
Mr. Turner just gave her a malicious grin. “I know.”
“And..?”
“So?”
“Good point, dear.” Mrs. Turner went downstairs to go make breakfast— or do… whatever it was that wives did. Perhaps she was going through Timmy's room.
Meanwhile, Mr. Turner was thinking of all the things he could do to Dinkleberg. He could make him pay taxes every day, if only he became a dictator. Oh, if Mr. Turner was a dictator— he could do ever so much.
If only Timmy was never born, Mr. and Mrs. Turner’s lives would be amazing and they would be in such luxury as Dinkleberg.
But what Dinkleberg dinkle-didn’t have was a child— the one thing he dinkle-desired. However, that was a dream that he had to dinkle-dispose of. He always wanted a dinkle-daughter. Unfortunately, his reproductive organs were dinkle-defected. Dinkleberg was wishing he was dinkle-Dead. After many years, he became a dinkle-drunkard. However, he came out of the gutter he had put himself in and started working as a dinkle-director at his job.
Mr. and Mrs. Turner loved Timmy, and they also loved dinkle-displaying their fertility in front of the Dinklebergs.
Mr. Turner wrote all of his thoughts and feelings about Dinkleberg in something he referred to as his ‘Dinkle-Destroy Dinkleberg Dinkle-Diary’. Coincidentally, Dinkleberg also had a diary to which he wrote in that he had simply called his ‘Dinkleberg Dinkle-Diary’, give or take the ‘Dinkle-Destroy Dinkleberg’ stuff.
Later, Mrs. Turner came stomping up the stairs as Mr. Turner was deep into his plotting.
“Honey? It's almost 9 o’clock. You're going to have to invite Dinkleberg over for lunch sometime today,” Mrs. Turner nagged.
“Rggghhh!” Mr. Turner growled. “Dinkleberg is such a dinkle-douchebag.”
“I know, sweetie,” Mrs. Turner comforted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You'll work everything out.”
“Yes I will,” Mr. Turner cackled deviously. “OoooOo! Dinkleberg is getting what he dinkle-deserves.”
“About dinkle-damn time,” Mrs. Turner replied supportively.
“Maybe I should frame him into getting a dinkle-divorce,” Mr. Turner thought.
“You already tried that,” Mrs. Turner shrugged. “Remember?”
“Oh, right,” Mr. Turner remembered. “If Dinkleberg isn't dinkle-dead by nightfall, may I get struck by a dinkle-Dodge Ram 1500.”
“That's a little dinkle-dramatic, sweetie,” Mrs. Turner thought.
“Dramatic!? This is DINKLEBERG we're talking about!!! You're a being a real dinkle-bit—”
“Don’t finish that sentence if you dinkle-don't want to sleep on the sofa tonight,” Mrs. Turner said sarcastically.
“I'm sorry, honey. But this is Dinkleberg! DINKLEBERG!” Mr. Turner cried, stomping his foot like the child that they tremendously loved, of course, but never really wanted. *cough* *cough* Timmy *cough* *cough*.....
But how much they could upset Dinkleberg!
“You can't just ruin your neighbor’s life, dear.”
“Dinkleberg!”
“Darling, what has Dinkleberg done to you?”
Mr. Turner thought for a moment. What had Dinkleberg done to dinkle-deserve this? He was a D.I.N.K, standing for Dual Income, No Kids. Dinkleberg was a dinkle-dink! What Mr. Turner dinkle-didn’t know was that that dinkle-douchebag couldn’t have little dinklings of his own, nor could Mrs. Dinkleberg— especially not after the eyedrops that Mr. Turner laced their wine with after the two had gotten hitched...
Dinkleberg…
Mr. Turner wanted to leave him dead in a dinkle-ditch. Perhaps he could get Dinkleberg framed for a dinkle-DUI. Mr. Turner wanted to dinkle-defenestrate him.
“He’s done too much! Darling, he's of the devil!” Mr. Turner screeched. “How else can you explain why everything works out so perfect?”
“Hmmm….”
“Hmmmm…” Mr. Turner thought. Just then, he realized the terrible truth about Dinkleberg. “Demons!” Mr. Turner screamed hysterically. “Dinkle-demons!” he scrempt again.
“Oh gosh!” Mrs. Turner cried. “He's really cursed with dinkle-demons!?” She yiped with freight and she put a hand on her mouth. Could Dinkleberg be of the Dinkle-Devil?
“Oh, yes!” Mr. Turner grimaced. “It's the only explanation. Either that, or Dinkleberg's ghost is back!”
“Honey…” She went quiet. Mrs. Turner got a look on her face. “You're Dinkleberg's ghost.”
“Right.” Mr. Turner turned back to the window menacingly. “I’m Dinkleberg’s ghost…”
Mrs. Turner got a puzzled look on her face. “Honey…” she started. “Where’s the bleach? I need to clean the bathroom.”
“Oh, I took it from under the kitchen sink and slipped it into Dinkleberg’s lemonade!” Mr. Turner replied, clearly satisfied with his little sabotage. Mrs. Turner didn’t reply. She was unfazed by her husband’s words— this wasn’t the first time that Mr. Turner had snuck bleach into Dinkleberg’s beverages. “Well, if you still need the bleach, it’s in the man-cave,” Mr. Turner said, changing the subject.
“I wish we had better household appliances,” Mrs. Turner lamented.
“Well, it’s a lot easier to steal little things from Dinkleberg, sweetie. He’d probably question why his toilet was gone if it were to…” he coughed, “...go missing…”
Mrs. Turner gasped. “You wouldn't!”
Mr. Turner wagged his eyebrows. “No, no, I wouldn't; Dinkleberg's ghost would.”
A moment of silence…
“Alright!” Mrs. Turner smiled.