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The Author of this Story is Cjaymarch84, aka DaveTheUseless. This is the third story narrated by DaveTheUseless (although it was recorded/narrated earlier and released on a previous channel; the video was re-uploaded as the third CreepyPasta story on the DaveTheUseless channel.)


Fred Flintstone rolled around on his rough stone bed. He couldn’t get up. His mattress was cold and hard, and furthermore, a large bird was squawking at him while his neurons raced in his head like his mother-in-law running from a tyrannosaurus for dear life. He had purchased that bird as an alarm, and it did its job well. Unfortunately, Fred didn’t want it to do its job at all. Irritated and foul tempered, Fred yanked off the already damaged bottom right corner of his bed, and flung it straight between the bird’s eyes. That solved the problem, and bought Fred several hours before his feet touched the cold stone floor.
CREEPYPASTA The Flintstones' Series Finale04:30

CREEPYPASTA The Flintstones' Series Finale

Everything in the house was cold... it was the middle of a harsh winter, and his neighbors had fallen sick, many even to their deaths. Bedrock’s population had fallen hundreds, and there was little hope for the pestilences to end. Even his best friend, Barney Rubble, was infected to the point that he would simply vomit up whatever he ate. He passed away, and his wife, Betty, hung herself in her closet the following day.

Fred walked into the kitchen and greeted his daughter, Pebbles, and his wife, Wilma. Wilma was slaving over the stove as usual, but she could not cook anything. Apparently, she was having difficulty starting a fire. This did not make Fred a happy camper, as he wanted his breakfast and knew he was already late for work. ”Okay, you fucking bitch. . ." Fred began, after his initial greetings. ”I married you to make you my bitch, and what do you do? Nothing. You do absolutely fucking nothing. You don’t cook, you don’t clean. Now you’re pretending you don’t know how to start a fucking fire. We’re all going to starve because of your fucking laziness, you slimy cunt”.

Wilma broke an empty vodka battle over the stove, and turned around to face Fred to retaliate. Her eyes were burning red, and it didn’t take more than a second for her to stab Fred right in his fat gut. Fred responded with roaring obscenities and punched her in the face as hard as his middle aged bones would let him, causing Wilma to thud to the floor in both emotional and physical pain. All of these sounds and hostilities made Pebbles cry bloody murder.

”Alright, you little fucking rat”, Fred began. ”You whine almost as loud as your stupid fucking mom. Fuck, I hate you almost as much as I hate her. After I kill her, you’re going to the orphanage, and you ain’t EVER seeing me again”.

Fred walked to the front room of the house, picked up his favorite club, and returned to his motionless wife. He proceeded to bash his wife’s head, until the oozing was convincing enough. Fred put his ear to her chest. She was dead, alright... but his daughter continued to whine. Fred didn’t want any of the living in the neighborhood to hear her cries... or those of the animals in the house, such as the telephone and the vacuum.

Barney’s son Bam-Bam, who Fred adopted for the sake of his dead best friend, suddenly entered the room. He didn’t seem to care about the dead body or the other child, who was now crying at a record level (which wasn’t that much of a feat, considering that humanity had just started recording such things). Bam-Bam made his way to Fred, who was smiling.

”Son, you are strong. You possess physical strength beyond even people my age. I will make you a warrior, and you will have all the women, money, and alcohol in the world. You and me together, kid. You and me...”

Bam-Bam proceeded to pick Fred up, and slammed him to the ground five hundred and seventy six times. Fred didn’t have much time to object. In what seemed like no time, his skull was shattered in many pieces and his organs and blood littered the floor like a sea of humanity. Bam-Bam shrugged and went to the refrigerator for a bite to eat.

—–

Dr. Foster of the Chicago Museum of Ancient Civilizations was almost finished reading On the Origin of Species, when his assistant, Frank, casually walked into the room and disturbed him.

”Hey, Doc... we just found proof that the mass media don’t mean bullshit.”

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