The End of the End.

Turns out it was Murchison.

Parody accounts make strange bedfellows, evidently, like politics and radio shows.

What began as a simple mid-life-crisis-like crusade to remain relevant in pop culture and ruin Kirk Minihane ended up a love tryst between Big Bad Murch and Ned Snark.

After months of online foreplay, it was an exchange of knowing glances at the prayer vigil that led to a torrid affair and awakening of passion that burned them like never before.

“BeeMur” is what Ned Snark lovingly called his new pet when they dropped acid together and listened to Jerry Garcia and made love.

After the show, of course.

Until Miami, that is, when Blind Mike blindsided BeeMur with the video and ruined everything.

“I saw it with my own bulging eyes! You and Blind Mike in bed together! I can’t un-see it!” BeeMur cried.

Ned Snark threw up his hands and smiled at himself in the mirror.

Somebody must pay, BeeMur resolved.

Somebody must die!

The videotape of Ned Snark in bed with Blind Mike was a “thirst trap” of epic proportions, it turns out.

Jealous rage consumed BeeMur as he packed for Madawaska.

“Can I blame the blind idiot, though?” BeeMur pondered in a brief moment of moral clarity.

Yes he’s a sycophant, a flatterer, a puppet — but what glory will come from stomping on a doormat?

The kid humiliated his mother for Minihane. It’s obvious he’s handicapped in multiple ways.

Minihane is responsible for the mayhem and madness!

“And its Minihane who will pay”, BeeMur murmured.

*****

When Smugsy found Kirk naked and tied to a chair in a yurt on the lake in Madawaska, he was so cold he stuttered.

“S-t-t-t-t-t-e-e-e-v-v-v-e-e-s ……b-b-b-b-e-e-a-a-n-n-s-s-s!”

Excuse me? Smugsy asked.

“S-t-t-t-eves b-b-b-b-eans” he tried saying again.

“What about Steve’s beans?” Smugsy asked Minihane as she slapped him across the face to help clear his mind.

“BeeMur did this to me! Over fucking Ned Snark! He’s going to kill me at sunset and then blow the whole place up using methane gas generated by Minifans eating Steve’s beans! Twelve cases of beans is enough to be deadly!”

“We must warn the women and children of Madawaska!” Minihane screamed.

What about trans women? Smugsy asked.

“Yes! Rising tits raise all ships! Go! Warn everyone! Before the village is destroyed!” Minihane pleaded.

Smugsy threw Kirk a flask of cocoa and a fur blanket and jumped on her Arctic cat and sped off towards the village.

As she was humming along on the soft leather saddle of her sexy sled, Smugsy’s six-pack rumbled for lunch and she remembered the delicious ployes served at the Long Lake Sporting Club.

She pulled in and sat at her usual spot at the bar. Her favorite Sauvignon Blanc was delivered immediately, ice cold, in a monogrammed silver-plated goblet.

As Smugsy raised her glass to her shiny pink lips she saw the newsflash on TV.

A Hepatitis C outbreak was being reported from a near-bye ice-fishing party: the cause an infected tattoo of unknown design.

Party guests from around the country and Australia were dropping like black flies. Citizens were warned to stay away and the ice fishing party was quarantined.

Authorities tried to calm fears of a possible cult.

“The poor women Minifans,” Smugsy thought to herself, knowing the only outhouse on the lake in that area was the most nasty.

After lunch Smugsy decided to return to the yurt instead of warning the village of the impending explosion. Kirk was happy to see her because she brought him some ployes.

Canadian buckwheat pancakes are exotic, he thought, like eating pesto with pine nuts in Miami.

Minihane was excited.

As she fed him the pancakes and wiped warm maple syrup off his face, Smugsy told Minihane about the hepatitis C outbreak at the Minifan ice-fishing party.

She wondered out loud if maybe he wanted to rethink his strategy.

Even tied-up to a chair and naked — or maybe because of it — Minihane was calm and confident in his command.

“Let them blow,” he said without blinking an eye.

(Smugsy, by the way, had offered to untie Minihane in the yurt and get him some clothes but he declined.)

Minihane enjoyed submission for a change and Smugsy’s fur blanket felt nice.

So cruel and yet so warm.

Smugsy patted Minihane on the head and jumped back on her snowmobile to film the explosion.

“Minifans perish by their own hot air” she might call the video.

“Their hunger for content is insatiable,” Smugsy said with a smile to herself as she set up her camera….

Just then there was a coincidence.

At the moment the Minfans’ fishing camp blew up in a cloud of bean farts, causing the ice on Long Lake to crack around it, a parody account named “Blind Hunter” was lost and driving around.

As he drove by Smugsy in her fur coat on the lake, he took aim at what he thought was a bear, just as the Minifan camp exploded.

Smugsy felt the bullet enter and exit her lean thigh as she plunged into the lake, and the explosion was reverberating quickly across the surface towards the yurt where Minihane was napping comfortably on Beaver pelts she had left for him.

As Smugsy was gurgling and pawing helplessly in the frigid water, Minihane dreamed of doing an hour of radio every week with Mike Portnoy, the old man at Barstool with Butterscotch candies in his pocket.

The show is mediocre but they’ve got a lifetime deal.

Steve Anderson is the producer and a guy named Anus helps out with shit.

Will Minihane and the Minifans miss Smugsy?

Not. One. Bit.

The end.