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The Author of this Story is Anonymous/Unknown. This is the twenty-eighth CreepyPasta that was narrated by DaveTheUseless.


There he is. There he FUCKING is. Bob is standing right in front of me; only cut off by a thin screen door. I've read the articles, so I know that isn't going to stop hi- YUP, he's pushing his way through it as I think this type. Tasteful rustic decor be damned, screen doors are stupid, battleship or no. Fucking live-in girlfriends.
CREEPYPASTA A Breakfast Visit from Bob03:23

CREEPYPASTA A Breakfast Visit from Bob.

I grab the frying pan I was making my breakfast with and hurl it at the ghoulish, meal interrupting prick. Despite being cast iron, red hot, and filled with bacon, all it does is force him to release a god-awful growl and me to rethink my kitchens on-hand defenses. He's moving a bit faster now, so I follow suit. Slamming the hall door behind me, I feel him slam into it and the wood splinter slightly. Looking to my right I see what could but probably won't be the instrument of my salvation, my girlfriend's Women's League Softball bat. Gripping it tightly with both my hands and preparing for that pale bastard to break through, the only thought rushing through my head is "Is my girlfriend a lesbian?". I'm snapped out of the resulting blissful mental imagery by a snarling head poking through a hole in the door. "Fuck you, Bob!", I shout as I bring the wooden cudgel down on the shiny top of his head. My heart sinks when I hear the cracking of wood and the see the bat break in half.

Throwing the useless handle aside I can only watch as Bob bring the rest of his form through yet another fashion-over-function door. He tries to throw one of his unholy-strong kicks my way at waist level, but no way am I letting this naked freak crush my Nude Bomb, so I dodge that shit like LeBron dodged the finals. Thinking quickly, I throw my own Falcon Kick into his pelvis and watch him stumble and trip through what remains of the hall door. Making my way upstairs into the bedroom hallway, I tip the bookshelf there so that it leans against the opposite wall. That'll teach him not to have any arms. Knowing that won't hold him for long, I run into my bedroom, retrieve my favorite toy from the closet, and turn over the dresser for cover. Hearing the heavy scrambling sounds of him moving past the bookcase, I calm myself in preparation for the task at hand with more lesbian pron thoughts. Before it gets to the good part he kicks open the door and I pull the trigger.

The stinger released from the launcher with ruthless accuracy as if it were guided by my hate, 'sploding that ghostly fucker into a haze of pale flesh and what I can only describe as... well, not organs but an incredible simulation. All I can say is, bless the man who invented the rocket launcher.

And loose Texas weapon laws.

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