Sam & Max: Freelance Police In:

A Million Miles From Hades

Based on the gluten free take-out special

Written by: Joey Turner

Edited by: Bryce "The WrestleManiac" Kanyon

Based loosely on the Five Nights at Freddy’s game series by Scott Cawthon

Title Card for the fanfic "A Million Miles From Hades"

            When you’re a Freelance Police officer, you need to be three things: First, you need to be willing to take brain damage from blunt force if it comes to that. Second, you need to know at least 12 creative uses for the pancreas, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Third, and most important, you have to be too damned ignorant to be afraid of what life throws at you.

            Tonight, all three of those requirements would be exercised by a certain dog and rabbity-thing duo - Sam and Max. It was ten minutes until midnight as the DeSoto pulled up front and Sam stepped out to the scene of their newest case - Meesta Pizza Junior: A land of fun, food, and food poisoning.

            “Well, here we are at Meesta Pizza Junior,” Sam sighed. “A cheap, child-friendly spin-off restaurant of a surprisingly still thriving food chain.”

            “With only half the blasphemous delectable concoctions of the original,” Max quipped as he exited the car next.

            “I remember coming here as a pup,” Sam reminisced. “Pa used to strap me to my chair and force their Junior Icelandic Thanksgiving special down my gullet before I was allowed to romp around in the pink eye-infested ball pit.”

            “You can’t buy memories like that, Sam,” Max sniffled. “So remind me, why the hell are we here again?”

            “Don’t you remember, Cement Head?” Sam searched through a ring of keys as he explained. “The Commissioner ordered us to investigate some ghastly goings-on occurring after hours. Night shift security guards have been disappearing within the last three weeks without a trace.”

            “Maybe they just left and went off to live on a farm where they can frolic freely with all the other rent-a-cops and watchmen?” Max said naively.

            Sam shook his head. “Your optimistic delusions are adorable, little buddy.” Sam finally found the right key, and unlocked the swinging doors. “Well, it’s time we purged these hallowed halls of whatever scourging forces lie dormant within.”

            “‘Scourging?’ Is that a real word?” Max pondered, as they apprehensively tiptoed into the abandoned restaraunt, confident and ready for whatever awaited them.


            Inside the deserted pizzeria, a twisted childhood wonderland stood still, settling after a day of celebration. There were rows of tables with plates of half-eaten pizzas, a giant ball pit filled with unwashed plastic balls, arcade games and claw machines, a prize counter filled with cheap trinkets and Meesta Pizza Junior tie-in products, and slowly deflating balloons and birthday banners untouched by the lazy janitorial crew.

            Near the very front of the restaurant was a performance stage, and resting silently on stage were the dilapidated animatronic musicians of the wacky and colorful icons of the food franchise. There was Winona Wildebeest on the xylophone, Percival Platypus with the banjo, Mavis Mandrill on the drums, and Vincent the Vulture on the theremin. These technological puppets were the entertainment delights of the children, but parents and young adults felt uneasy as these metallic marionettes performed their infernal dance.

            As the Freelance Police entered, Sam inhaled nostalgically, “Ah, Meesta Pizza Junior - A treasure trove of delicacies, merriment, and health hazards from wall-to-wall.”

            “Ooh! Ooh! Can we see if we can win one of those cheap tie-in trinkets in the arcade?!” Max asked excitedly.

            “Maybe later, Max. For now, keep your beady eyes out for any possible nasty-doings around the dining area before we barricade ourselves in the office for the next six hours,” Sam answered as he began sniffing around the dinner tables.

            “Hmmm, this skee-ball game looks nasty.” Max looked suspiciously at the aforementioned game before picking up one of the balls and gnawing on it. “These skee-balls have more nutrition than most of the food here.”

            Sam eyed the half-eaten pizza slices. “Looks like the poor youngsters couldn’t stomach Meesta Pizza Junior’s Deep Dish Swamp Ditch Delight.”

            “Pansies,” Max chided.

            The two continued to search the room, six minutes until midnight and their shift would begin. While Sam started investigating the ball pit, Max found himself staring into the eyes of the lifeless animatronics. Max couldn’t help feeling unnerved by the motionless, almost inhuman, looks in those haunting peepers.

            “Sam, the duck bear monster is staring at me,” Max called, referring to Percival. “I don’t like the look in its eyes…. It’s cold, judgemental…. Almost inhuman!”

            “That’s a platypus, jarhead,” Sam corrected. “-And I wouldn’t panic just yet. Those are merely electronic puppets designed to entice and entertain the audience with mindlessly catchy tunes as they try to digest their pizzas.”

            “I still hate it!” Max pouted.

            “I too am repulsed by their choice in ‘entertainment’, little buddy,” Sam agreed. “-Especially since, in nature, a platypus wouldn’t be buddying up with a mandrill. Plus, get this, a platypus is incapable of playing an instrument of any kind… You see, platypi don’t have opposable fingers.”

            “Oh my gosh! You’re right, Sam! THE VULTURE SHOULD BE PLAYING THE BANJO!!!” Max panicked. “I don’t think we can handle this! WE MUST FLEE THIS PLACE OF EVIL!!!”

            “No time for turning yellow now, Max! We’ve got our orders!” Sam declared as he scooped up several boxes and plates of pizzas. “To the back office!”

            Easily swayed by Sam’s words, Max followed him to the back, leading to a door to the office. What neither of them noticed, however, were four seemingly lifeless pairs of eyes following them.


            With one minute until midnight, Sam and Max took refuge in the security office with a pile of the pilfered pizza to split. It was small and only just had enough room for the two of them. The walls were littered with posters and disturbingly whimsical crayon drawings. There was only one door and two small windows on each side. On the desk behind the duo had four drawers, a phone and answering machine, and three monitors, each one for a camera pointed at a different angle inside the restaurant.

            Sam started to feel a little cramped. “Hey Max, do you get claustrophobia?”

            “Nope. I’ve seen both movies, and I STILL don’t get them,” Max shrugged.

            “Never mind,” Sam rolled his eyes.

            “So what do we do now, Max… I mean Sam?” Max asked.

            “We wait for the call to action, little buddy. The commissioner said we should be expecting a phone call with an anonymous tip from someone on the inside at midnight.”

            “Oooh, I can already feel the tensely thickening plot… Or the artificial cheese-like substance from this pizza blistering the roof of my mouth.” Max grinned.


            “I GOT IT! I GOT IT! I GOT IT!!”

            The clock struck midnight right on the dot, and the phone’s ringing echoed throughout the office. As per usual, Sam and Max struggled to be the first one to answer it; but it was especially difficult with the limited legroom the tiny room supplied them. Before Sam could once again claim victory, the phone stopped ringing and went straight to voicemail.

            “Hello? Hello hello?” A nasally man’s voice sounded from the answering machine. “Uh, this is a recorded message for the Freelance Police.”

            “Well that was anticlimactic,” Sam frowned in disappointment.

            “If he tries to rope us into another magazine subscription, I will not hesitate to make a decorative throw rug out of him,” growled Max.

            The message continued. “Ok uh, first of all, there’s an obligatory introduction that Legal forces me to read… Kind of a ‘welcome to the family’ sort of thing. ‘Welcome to Meesta Pizza Junior. Where the fun tastes so good, it comes back up.’”

            “They should really think about changing that slogan,” Max winced.

            “I don’t know, it certainly gets my digestive tract gurgling,” Sam shrugged.

            “‘Please note that we are not to be held accountable for any injuries, loss of life, or intestinal distress caused by under or overcooked pizza, or our Thursday night special. Blah-blah-blah -file formal complaint at www- blah-blah-blah -missing persons report- blah-blah-blah.’”

            “Good thing those decorative activity play mats double as liability waivers,” Sam smirked as the message continued.

            “So the Commissioner probably already told you that we’ve been having some nasty rumors flying around concerning the disappearances of our previous security guards. I want you two to keep watch of the restaurant tonight and see if you can find out anything that can put this whole mess to rest.

            “I also want to assure you that your safety is guaranteed… but there’s just one tiny concerning matter-”

            “And we come to the fly in the ointment,” Max grinned… He was hoping there would be a snag to this seemingly-cozy assignment.

            “Now, those colorful animatronics out there have some kind of faulty wiring that’ll cause them to wander around the place in some kind of free-roaming mode at night. You guys should be safe in that office…. But if they see you, there IS a chance that they might mistake you for an endoskeleton and try to stuff your fuzzy little carcases into a suit…. And there is a 100% possibility that the suits WILL grind you up into lasagna.”

            “Those odds seem cryptically therapeutic,” Sam remarked.

            “I feel like I’ve seen this in a videogame reviewed by literally everyone,” Max thought out loud.

            “I wouldn’t worry about them getting you as long as you keep the doors closed. But, whatever you do, make sure you don’t-”

            BEEEEP! CLICK!

            The phone message was cut short by a loud beep, and the answering machine went silent.

            “Another tragic victim of inconveniently-timed dropped calls,” Sam tsked. “There could have been helpful and informative tips to aid us on our case.”

            “Curse you, phone network planning! When will your devilish marketing end!?” Max cursed. “Should we be worried?”

            “Fortunately, our charming ignorance blinds us from fear and common sense so… I don’t see why we should be,” Sam shrugged. “From what I gather, most of tonight’s adventures shall include watching these flimsily wired monitors and covering our fuzzy hides from whatever infernal forces await us out there.”

            “And to think, we could’ve missed out on all this and stayed home watching late night talk shows until our wee skulls fall out of our husky heads,” Max grinned. “So, where do we start?”

            “We do like the naturalists, little buddy - We lie in blissful ignorance until something foreboding comes along, and then randomly set off our firearms at what we don’t understand.”

            “I LOVE this job!!”

            “So what do the monitors foretell, Max?”

            Max did a quick browse through all the monitors; everything seemed normal except when he came to the camera highlighting the stage. The animatronics were all staring straight at the camera with their cold, soulless eyes, calculating their next action with their pre-programmed free will.

            Max didn’t seem phased, “Eh, nothing out of the ordinary yet.” He then turned off the monitors.

            “Good call, Max.” Sam nodded. “Those pesky things will only distract us from our test of mental capacity and focus… Paper football!” Sam pulled out said paper football, ready to engage their schoolyard activity.

            What neither one of them realized, however, was that the cogs of motion for the night’s grizzly events began to move. The animatronics flickered to life, and liberated themselves from their stage-like prison. They marched their lumbering stroll throughout the restaurant, looking for missing endoskeletons… Not that the Freelance Police noticed.


            Four hours had past, and everything remained quiet. By now, Sam and Max were growing restless, still unaware of the mechanized horrors awaiting them.

            “Gee, who knew that safeguarding the sanctuary and good name of a barely-thriving restaurant branch could be so boring?” Sam groaned.

            “I know,” Max moaned. “We’ve kept ourselves entertained with every game and trivial activity we could think of - Paper football, tic-tac-toe, indian poker, balloon russian roulette, NORMAL russian roulette-”

            “I still say you cheated at that,” Sam pouted, examining the telltale hole in his hat.

            “-And even Prime Time Theme Song Charades! How much longer we gotta keep this up, Sam?”

            “Two more hours, plaster head.Guess now’s as good a time as any to start nosing through the drawers in search of cryptically incriminating evidence that could tie into this mysterious gobbledygook.” Sam shrugged and pulled open the desk drawer, rummaging through the disheveled documents. “Max, make yourself useful and check the security monitors again.”

            Max switched the monitors back on… And they all showed nothing. Every area shown on the cameras was barren and lacking of any animatronics of any kind.

            “See anything suspicious, Max?” Sam inquired.

            “I see nothing, Sam,” Max answered. Technically he wasn’t lying.

            Max’s attention was pulled away by a tapping on one of the windows. He looked up and beheld an unholy sight - The wildebeest animatronic was tapping her hoof against the glass. Her glaring, inhuman eyes piercing right through Max’s soul… Yes, it turns out he DOES have one.

            Normal men would start panicking and repeatedly pressing the lock button until the power went out and then the situation would only get worse. Fortunately, Max knew nothing about being normal; so instead, he pressed his gaping maw against the glass, making obscene and grotesque faces at the mechanized terror. The animatronic backed away from the window and scratched her head, trying to contemplate what to do next.

            “Hey, chowderhead, take a gander at these!” Sam interrupted, holding a stack of documents in a manilla folder with a red label reading Authorized Personnel Only. “I found this folder of likely incriminating and scandalous documentations dating as far back as the restaurant’s sketchy beginning.”

            “Did you really just say ‘gander?’” Max raised an eyebrow, completely forgetting the roaming mechanical puppets outside.

            Sam skimmed through the folder. “Fascinating. There are some very strong words throughout these documents. Words like ‘extortion,’ and ‘depravity,’ and ‘unholy existence doomed to roam these infernal realms for eternity.’”

            “Sounds like my cousin’s dating profile,” Max quipped.

            Sam continued reading, ignoring the jiggling door handle. “Says here that Meesta Pizza Junior was originally owned by a mafia family in the late 80’s… Built on a gypsy burial ground-”

            “It’s amazing how two cliched backstories seem to work so well together,” Max pondered.

            “-And that the kiddie-friendly environment of the pizzeria was a front for some pepperoni pyramid scheme of some kind.”

            “...I never thought I’d live long enough to hear you say ‘pepperoni pyramid scheme’ and mean it, Sam.”

            “Unfortunately, looks like one descendent of the gypsy family buried here had their garlic knots knotted too tight, because they brought about several unlucky plagues upon these mafiosos. Hmm, let’s see - Intestinal distress, the bite of ‘89, the ballpit incident, the plague of locusts-”

            “The locusts really add that unique texture,” Max licked his chops.

            “Oh yeah, and being locked in an eternal limbo cursed to live out their afterlife sealed away in colorful industrialized puppets longing to escape their preprogrammed purpose,” Sam finished.

            “Hmm, I wonder what that last one means,” Max wondered.

            Max got his answer as a loud crunch sounded from the door, an axehead peeking in through the newly made hole. The axe drew back and chopped into the door repeatedly; until, finally, the entire door split in half and fell in.

            From the shadows glowed four sets of eyes, glaring at out estranged duo. Suddenly, the living robotic suit of Mavis Mandrill poked her head in and shrieked an ear-piercing screech that would jumpstart any pacemaker.

            Max sniffed the mechanized ape’s breath and cringed, “Ick! Smells like rotten hamburger meat and medicated creams… Just like grandma.”

            “Great leaping lemurs galavanting under the Tuscan sun with Michael Moore on a dilapidated segway!” Sam exclaimed. “They’ve come for us, Max! The animatronics have come to fulfill their twisted protocol and stuff our fuzzy hides into a suit where we’ll be grinded up into parmesean!”

            “The worst part, we probably won’t live long enough to taste ourselves!” Max added in panic. He drew his gun. “Shall we turn these decorative toasters into soup colanders?”

            “No go, Max,” Sam shook his head. “We wasted the last of our bullets with that Russian Roulette game. And SOME bonehead-”

            “HEY! I prefer to remain nameless-” Max insisted.

            “-Left all the spare ammunition in the glove compartment.”

“...You win again, horror film stupidity!” Max cursed himself. “Should we start shrieking like rioting grandmothers now?”

            “Best not become hysterical YET, little pal!” Sam reassured. “Like all seemingly hopeless and implausible-to-escape scenarios, there should be an incredibly vague yet convenient plot device to save our collective hides!”

            Sam was usually right, but time was running out. The automated monsters had boxed them in -not that there was much room anyway, now their lumbering husks were drawing closer. Sam scanned the room, looking for something to smite the ghoulish androids. Without their spare bullets, it looked like improvisation was the key to not dying today. Then, Sam set his eyes on the holy weapon-

            “Meesta Pizza Junior’s Zesty Sulphuric Surprise!” Sam gasped, eyeing the untouched slices of pizza.

            “Is now really the time for a snack, Sam?” Max asked. “Though I DO love the coppery, oozing taste it leaves at the roof of my mouth.”

            Sam grabbed the box of hazardous delectables. “Shut up and toss these pizza slices at the beasts, bonehead!”

            “Food fight! I love it!” Max cheered as he grabbed three slices.

            Sam cleared his throat. “Oh, Mr. Cannibalistic Robots!” he sang.

            The maniacal machines ceased their approach and eyed the duo -now wielding corrosive italian dishes.

            “Taste the fury of corrosive marinara-like substitute and artificial dairy, you ugly sons of Cawthons!!!” Sam howled, as he and Max flung their ungodly foodstuffs at the beasts.

            The tainted pizza splattered on the ugly mugs of the automated terrors. At first, the animatronics just stood there scratching their collective heads, mildly irritated at the mess these two idiots caused them… But the irritation didn’t last long. The sound of melting steel sizzled throughout the tiny office as the corrosive confectionaries began eating away at the droids’ metallic coating. As soon as they saw their rustic finish being eroded by the hazardous dish, the monsters screeched and wailed in agony, waving their arms all willy-nilly, and paying no heed to the Freelance Police’s presence.

            “Good work, little buddy!” Sam praised, “The caustic combination of artificial cheese-like substance and sulphuric pizza sauce is now eating away at the horrible beasties’ protective coating, leaving them mewling and bellowing like helpless sci-fi nerds re-watching Mr. Spock’s passing.”

            “I thought something like that would happen,” Max commented. “Now that they’re subdued, shall I recycle them into decorative panini presses now?”

            Sam nodded, “Sick ‘em up, Little Buddy.”

            Max cracked his neck and grinned, showing off his razor-pointed teeth, as he glared down the squealing droids. “Hey, ya cheap carnival rejects! You picked the WRONG lagomorph to try and mangle tonight! NO PRISONERS!!!!!” With those cryptic words, Max leapt at the monsters with absolute disregard, and began delivering the most gruesome and merciless thrashing he had ever delivered to any creature…. This week.

            First, he turned his attention towards the wildebeest bot. He clamped his gruesome maw on the beast’s tufts of hair and ripped them apart, exposing the partially rusted circuitry. Then, using his fuzzy white paws, he yanked and jerked the droid’s wires and gears right out of its dilapidated carcass.

            “THAT’S for being a diet yak, ya cheap imitation!” Max snarled as he ripped the horns off the mangled monstrosity. “AND for having the horns that I crave!!”

            The sociopathic lagomorph, having finished part one of the deed, turned his beady little peepers towards the squirming platypus machine. He sprung towards the droid, biting down hard on its throat. Then began to deliver the same remorseless savagery he gave the fallen wildebeest.

            “THAT’S for having the coolest hidden weapon in the animal kingdom!” Max snapped. “Why do YOU get the venomous spurs while you get to look like a beaver-duck throw pillow!?”

            Meanwhile, Sam was enjoying the last of his edible weaponry as he watched the carnage ensue. “I’d be more petrified if it wasn’t so entertaining,” he shrugged.

            Max wasted no time on the vulture. He had ripped the automated bird of prey’s legs off, and proceeded to use them as literal drumsticks, ruthlessly walloping the droid into a pulp.

            “And you…. You don’t make any sense!!! Why the hell would a vulture be playing the theremin!? Who do you think you are, Clara Rockmore?! You haven’t earned what she’s earned, buddy!!” Max screamed. Though the bird was most likely pulp, Max started jumping up and down on the remains for good measure. “And THAT’S for making me know who Clara Rockmore is!!!”

            After a while, Sam picked up his little buddy from under his arms. “Nicely done, little buddy!” Sam congratulated, as Max squirmed in his grip. “Though a tad excessive, I’d say what’s left of these animatronics have a LOT to think about.”

            “I pride myself on my thoroughness,” Max beamed, finally settling down. “So, wanna help me with the last one, Sam?”

            “Sure thing,” Sam nodded. “But we better watch out for this one, Max. Once she’s finished that ‘peaceful’ teeth-baring thing, she’ll probably won’t hesitate to try and rip our furry arms right out of their sockets!”

            “Sam, PLEASE! We only just met!” Max joked as Sam let him go. They advanced towards the one lone animatronic, ready to strike for the kill… when-


            Sam and Max’s approach was halted at the holler of a mysterious voice, slightly Italian like something out of a Scorsese film. The two looked around for any sign of the speaker, only to find-

            “Look, you mooks got it all wrong!” The voice rang out of the mandrill animatronic.

            “Well, what do you know, Max. Looks like our animatronic predator has been gifted with free will and sentience.” Sam mused.

            “Why does she sound like Tony Sirico, Sam?” Max asked, oblivious to what his partner had just said.

            “First of all, I ain’t no lady, ya mook!” The mandrill snapped. “The name’s Woon. Sylvester N. Woon. I was the head of the Woon Mafia family in the late 80’s!”

            “His name almost sounds like ‘festering wound’ ….I think I might like this baboon.” Max whispered to Sam.

            “Quiet, Max. I think we’ve triggered a soliloquy,” Sam shushed.

            Sylvester continued, “Yeah, we did things in the early days - We pantsed a few elderlies, we left a few steaming surprises for people who didn’t see things our way, extorted a little; big deal! We wanted to go straight with this kiddie restaurant… And if we just happened to make a little extra dough with the pepperoni pyramid scheme, then who was I to complain?”

            “I never thought I’d live long enough to see us having a conversation like this and actually mean it,” Sam mused.

            “Making DOUGH in a PIZZA PYRAMID SCHEME? THAT’S pretty funny, Sam.” Max giggled, “And from a robot monkey too! Stupefying!”

            “What, am I funny to you?” Sylvester barked. “Funny how? Like a comedian? Are you saying I’m some kinda sweaty schnook on a stage talking about how my ma’s so fat, she got more folds than an accordion, for your entertainment?! Is THAT what you’re saying?! Well let me tell you somet-”


            The demented droid’s ranting was cut short as a furry brown paw ripped right through the droid’s head, silencing Sylvester.

            “YOWCH!!” Sam yelped in pain as he drew his hand back, “Suddenly, I’m reminded of why I prefer using firearms rather than my callused, fuzzy dukes.”

            “Aw! Why’d you do that, Sam?” Max whined. “I wanted to put him in a suit and make him our spunky, foul-mouthed, robot monkey receptionist!”

            “Sorry, little buddy, but hearing his incoherent racketeer ramblings brought back too many repressed memories of my puppy days… Mostly the time I woke up with a Joe Pesci head sculpt in my bed.”

            “Oh don’t pretend that wasn’t your best 5th birthday present ever,” Max smirked, Sam rolled his eyes.

            A loud knocking from the floorboards interrupted the two’s train of thought. They looked down to their feet and found the source of the knocking right under them. Sam stepped aside while Max -being the only one with TWO functional hands- grasped onto the floorboard and yanked it free.

            Sam looked into the hole and his eyes widened, “Holy helpings of sauerkraut spread across a fermented sticky bun lying dormant for twelve years in the belly of a crocodile with a touch of babirusa dandruff!”

            “Sounds like the Friday night special,” Max quipped.

            “Lookie here, Max!” Sam pointed, “It seems our missing security guards weren’t made into a pulpy filling for our automated foes after all!” Sure enough, standing in the ditch were the three missing security guards - scrawny, malnourished, smelling of moist hamburger meat, but still very much alive.

            “Saints be praised! We are safe!!!” One of them acclaimed. “We’ve been stuck down here for three weeks! Carlos started making life stories for the maggots!”

            “I call this one Bernice!” Carlos moaned, holding what looked like a dried raisin.

            “Huh, we thought you were forcibly stuffed into those robotic suits and grinded up into smoldering powdered essences of shame and despair,” Max said.

            “Don’t be dense!” Scolded the last guard as he and his fellow prisoners crawled out. “Those automated goons broke into the office and stuffed us in this crawlspace every time they caught us! They said something about ‘gathering up six schmucks to sacrifice and appease the Gypsy broad’s ghost and break the curse’ or something like that… I dunno, after a while, I needed to tune them out.”

            “SALVATION IS HERE, FRIENDS!!! SALVATION!!!” The first guard shrieked as he dashed for the exit, leaving the hellish pizza joint and never looked back.

            “Oye, Randall’s been a little out of it since this whole ordeal got started.” The third guard explained. “We better round him up before we can FINALLY go home.” He grabbed Carlos, and raced after their liberated friend, also never looking back at their kiddie-friendly prison.

            “Aww, look at them go, Max,” Sam commented, “Scampering off like a flock of geese to try and rejoin society.”

            “They won’t be doing anything social once the night terrors start kicking in,” replied Max.

            Sam remembered something. “That reminds me, Max, what should we do with our belabored mechanical assailants?” He peered over at the aforementioned animatronic remains.

            Max pondered the dilemma, “Seems like a waste throwing perfectly good ghostly-enthralled technology.”

            “Well, the only salvageable parts are their oversized Mardi Gras heads,” Sam sighed in agreement.

            However, the solution to their dilemma may have just hit them as a devilish smile crept across Max’s oversized jaw.


            A few minutes before the sun rose, the DeSoto stood silent and alone in an abandoned part of the woods outside the city; no sign of Sam or Max around. A rustling from the bushes disturbed the eerily peaceful scene as a disfigured clown with a butcher knife stepped into the open, looking for victims to harass and terrify. Not seeing anyone with a video camera, the clown menacingly approached the DeSoto, preparing to frighten its occupants. When all of a sudden-


            Before the clown knew what to think, two hideous and mangled animal heads popped out of the window and screeched their terrible screeches at him. Disoriented and frightened, the clown spun around and quickly ran for his life, questioning his life choices all the way home.

            The two monsters, on the other hand, had a hearty chuckle at the maniacal harlequin’s expense, as they removed their heads to reveal -of course- Sam and Max.

            “If I’m elected president, I vow to eliminate this nation’s creepy clown fad problem,” chuckled Max.

            “I must say, Max, using the animatronics’ decapitated heads to frighten hooligans away was an uncharacteristic stroke of pure genius,” Sam complemented.

            “I was overdue, it had to happen eventually,” Max shrugged. Then he thought of something. “Hey, Sam, what do you think happened to the spooky ghost mobsters?”

            “It’s hard to say, Little Pal.” Sam answered, pondering, “My guess is that they may have finally moved on. With their only vessels into this realm brutally beaten to death, they may have found the freedom to move on - Away from that accursed limbo, and finally free to see what awaits them in the afterlife.”

            “That’s beautiful, Sam,” Max sniffled. “Where do you think Goodfellas rejects in colorful mechanical mascots go when they pass on?”

            “I imagine a special pit in Hell reserved for those who tarnish the good names of barely-flourishing restaurants with their terrifying gimmicks.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “Somewhere in between Utah and Atlantic City,” Sam shrugged. “So, what do you want to do now?”

            “I say we spend the next half hour terrifying punky clown posers, and then we use our misshapen Mardi Gras heads to send the PTA BOARD CRYING HOME TO THEIR MOMMIES!!!!” Max cackled.

            “You crack me up, Little Buddy,” Sam chuckled. “On the way, maybe we should stop by the emergency room to see if they can unscramble the puzzle of my broken hand,” he flinched as he tried to move his still busted hand.

            “Want me to kiss it better?” Max asked.

            “Not after I’ve seen where those lips have been,” Sam shivered. With that, Sam and Max drove off into the night, another successful, and mind-numbing, case solved.

So, as you can see, there is a fourth important thing that a good Freelance Police Officer must be - They must be able to laugh in the face of death after once again beating him at his own game. Luckily for Sam & Max, they’ll never get that chance just once, and they’ll be ready and willing to do it all over again on their next case.

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