Since Tom’s revenues from allowing himself to be fisted by total strangers have more than quadrupled over the past year, he’s decided that he’ll get his finances in order. He’ll open a bank account, track his incomings and outgoings and hopefully make a handsome profit from saving his money wisely. However, as you can probably imagine, Tom isn’t that clever.
His first start is opening a bank account. No bank in town wants to deal with him, as he’s got a face like a geriatric’s ballbag and a smell to match. One particularly nasty group took the time to remove the sign from the outside of their branch and insert it into him, after several fraught seconds of discussion as to whether they should politely decline him or simply gravely injure his lower intestine. This is obviously hard for Tom; as with sex, fun and acceptance, he’ll have to go onto the Internet and open a bank account there. Even this is hard, as after years of constantly having to feel his fingers, his keyboard has learned to despise him and is now content with releasing ever increasing amounts of mustard gas right into his pitted and pussy face.
Tom’s got an account now, though, with the only bank that’ll take him without demanding photo ID; the Aldershot and Ballbag Bank. Of course, there’s one small snag, because they don’t like him enough to open an account properly, so he gives them a ring. But sadly, this is the last phone call he’ll ever make. The call centre rep recognises Tom’s voice and takes swift and immediate action. He reaches through the phone and drags Tom kicking and screaming into the call centre, which in his honour has been converted into a fully fledged torture arena, filled with clubs, burly neo-Nazis, chemical weapons and, of course, very sharp objects. After being thrown onto an initial conveyor belt, Tom spends four hours being gored with gigantic bits of broken glass, having tear gas injected into his bloodstream, being smacked repeatedly in the crotch with boards with nails in them until the killing blow is dealt: a gigantic man, at least 7 feet tall, throws Tom to the floor, squats on his man-titted chest and punches his disgusting head clean through the Earth’s crust.
Epilogue: Two thousand years later, scientists with no knowledge of today unearth Tom’s long since buried head. Through a bizarre form of racial memory, they do not recall who it is, but they do know that they should despise them and destroy them, leading to them using Tom’s skull (in no particular order) as a football, a chamber pot and an object for testing the smashing power of heavy duty electric hammers.
