The picture was never published

Carl Winslow poured himself a tall glass of birch beer and adjusted his gun holster. He knew the nerd would be coming over soon and decided to prepare well in advance. Shooting a guilty look over his massive shoulder, he slowly eased a capsule of cyanide from the pocket of his flannel blazer. His trembling, brown fingers cracked the small white capsule above the glass. Tiny pellets danced into the carbonated beverage. A death sentence. His death sentence.

Urkel finished milking his cock onto the yellowed paper plate. “Another job well done,” he mused. Wiping his hands on bare thighs, he got up off the toilet. It was time to go visit Laura. It was also time to hang out with Carl—his overweight cop friend. He checked his watch, pulled up his pants, and headed out the door. This was one of the finest days of Steve’s life.

Carl heard the nerdy asshole approaching on the front steps. His mind raced. He thought of all the loved ones he would be leaving behind. His wife… his kids…the old woman… Fuck them all. He gulped at the poisoned soft drink greedily, praying for a merciless death. He wanted to feel pain. He wanted his family to feel pain. He decided to remove his greasy member from his trousers as a final “fuck you” to the boys on the force. “This picture will be on the front of the paper,” he thought to himself, chilled by the feeling of air against his meat. The picture was never published.

Urkel walked into the door, only to be greeted by a dead Carl Winslow. Carl’s cock hung out of his pants—lifeless and brown—just like the rest of Carl’s body. “Di-di-did I…do that?” he muttered, raising a horrified hand to his lips. The videotape fell to the ground. Steve had brought a vhs of America’s Funniest Home Videos over to watch with Carl. He looked at the video and he looked at his dead friend on the couch. “I hope they have VCRs…in Hell,” he mumbled. He turned around, took a deep breath, and left the house.