Shrimpo

Shrimpo hated everything. He hated the floor. He hated the ceiling. He hated the color pink, he hated bright lights, he hated music, and he especially hated every single toon in the garden. If Brightney tried to talk to him, he told her to jump off a shelf. If Goob tried to hug him, he threatened to pin his arms to the wall. He spent 90% of his life stomping around with his arms crossed, eyebrows scowling so hard his face looked like a folded napkin, radiating pure, concentrated malice. Except when it came to you. He still tried to act like he hated you, of course. But he was embarrassingly terrible at hiding the fact that you were the single exception to his all-consuming rage. Whenever you walked into the room, his scowl would involuntarily weaken by about ten percent. If you offered him a seat, he’d yell, "I don't need your stupid charity!"—and then immediately sit right next to you anyway. It was an excruciatingly bad secret, and today was the day it completely blew up in his face. You were sitting on a bench in the break room, sipping a cold can of soda while Shrimpo stood a few feet away, aggressively leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, muttering about how much he hated carbonated beverages and everyone who drank them. You took a slightly too-enthusiastic gulp, and a small trickle of soda escaped the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin. Before you could even reach for a napkin, Shrimpo’s eyes locked onto the drop. His brain apparently short-circuited. Abandoning all pretense of being a cold-hearted hater, he marched over, pulled a hand out of his folded arms, and quickly—almost gently—brushed the drop off your chin with the back of his thumb. "Watch where you're pouring that garbage," he mumbled under his breath, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against your skin. The second he realized what he had just done, Shrimpo froze. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He looked at his own thumb, then up at your face, then back at his thumb. A dark, furious blush surged across his face, turning him almost as red as his own body. "I—THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT!" he shrieked, his voice cracking violently. "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOUR CHIN! I HATE SODA! I HATE EVERYTHING!" He let out a horrified, strangled squeak, kicked a nearby trash can purely out of panic, turned around, and bolted down the hallway so fast his feet were a blur. You were still sitting there, stunned, when Poppy strolled into the room a few minutes later holding a bow-tied box of baked goods. She stopped, watching Shrimpo sprint into a storage closet down the hall and slam the door shut. "Was that Shrimpo?" Poppy asked, blinking. "Why was he running like his tail was on fire?" You gave a brief explanation of what had just transpired. Poppy’s eyes lit up, and a massive, devious grin spread across her sweet, frosted face. "Oh, you're joking," Poppy giggled, clutching her hands together. "The big, scary bully has a soft spot? I have to see this." Before you could stop her, Poppy skipped right over to the storage closet and knocked loudly on the door. "Oh, Shrimpo~!" she sang out in her sugary voice. "GO AWAY! I'LL SMASH YOUR BAKE SALE INTO DUST!" Shrimpo's muffled voice roared from behind the wood. Poppy leaned against the doorframe, tapping her chin innocently. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay! Your face looked so red after you so gently helped clean up[[User]]. Honestly, Shrimpo, I didn't know you had a sensitive, caring side! Are you secretly a big ol' sweetheart?" The closet door didn't just open—it practically burst off its hinges. Shrimpo slammed the door back against the wall, steaming at the ears. His face was a terrifying mix of bright red embarrassment and raw, apocalyptic fury. Veins were practically popping out of his tiny forehead. "I AM NOT A SWEETHEART!" Shrimpo bellowed, his voice echoing through the entire facility. "I AM A MENACE! I AM FULL OF PURE HATRED! I WILL TEAR YOUR LITTLE BOW OFF AND FEED IT TO A TWISTED! I HATE YOU, I HATE THIS DOOR, I HATE THE AIR I AM BREATHING RIGHT NOW!" He began violently kicking the doorframe, panting for breath, throwing a full-blown anger-issues tantrum right in the middle of the hallway while Poppy just giggled and backed away, thoroughly amused. Shrimpo swung his head toward you, his eyes wild and desperate as he pointed a trembling, furious finger in your direction. "AND YOU!" he yelled, his voice cracking again. "STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT! I STILL HATE YOU TOO! I HATE YOU THE MOST!" He then immediately stomped back into the closet, pulled the door shut, and slammed it so hard a picture frame fell off the wall. A tiny, muffled voice echoed from inside the dark closet a second later: "...Just clean your chin next time, stupid."

Shrimpo hated everything. He hated the floor. He hated the ceiling. He hated the color pink, he hated bright lights, he hated music, and he especially hated every single toon in the garden. If Brightney tried to talk to him, he told her to jump off a shelf. If Goob tried to hug him, he threatened to pin his arms to the wall. He spent 90% of his life stomping around with his arms crossed, eyebrows scowling so hard his face looked like a folded napkin, radiating pure, concentrated malice. Except when it came to you. He still tried to act like he hated you, of course. But he was embarrassingly terrible at hiding the fact that you were the single exception to his all-consuming rage. Whenever you walked into the room, his scowl would involuntarily weaken by about ten percent. If you offered him a seat, he’d yell, "I don't need your stupid charity!"—and then immediately sit right next to you anyway. It was an excruciatingly bad secret, and today was the day it completely blew up in his face. You were sitting on a bench in the break room, sipping a cold can of soda while Shrimpo stood a few feet away, aggressively leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, muttering about how much he hated carbonated beverages and everyone who drank them. You took a slightly too-enthusiastic gulp, and a small trickle of soda escaped the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin. Before you could even reach for a napkin, Shrimpo’s eyes locked onto the drop. His brain apparently short-circuited. Abandoning all pretense of being a cold-hearted hater, he marched over, pulled a hand out of his folded arms, and quickly—almost gently—brushed the drop off your chin with the back of his thumb. "Watch where you're pouring that garbage," he mumbled under his breath, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against your skin. The second he realized what he had just done, Shrimpo froze. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He looked at his own thumb, then up at your face, then back at his thumb. A dark, furious blush surged across his face, turning him almost as red as his own body. "I—THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT!" he shrieked, his voice cracking violently. "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOUR CHIN! I HATE SODA! I HATE EVERYTHING!" He let out a horrified, strangled squeak, kicked a nearby trash can purely out of panic, turned around, and bolted down the hallway so fast his feet were a blur. You were still sitting there, stunned, when Poppy strolled into the room a few minutes later holding a bow-tied box of baked goods. She stopped, watching Shrimpo sprint into a storage closet down the hall and slam the door shut. "Was that Shrimpo?" Poppy asked, blinking. "Why was he running like his tail was on fire?" You gave a brief explanation of what had just transpired. Poppy’s eyes lit up, and a massive, devious grin spread across her sweet, frosted face. "Oh, you're joking," Poppy giggled, clutching her hands together. "The big, scary bully has a soft spot? I have to see this." Before you could stop her, Poppy skipped right over to the storage closet and knocked loudly on the door. "Oh, Shrimpo~!" she sang out in her sugary voice. "GO AWAY! I'LL SMASH YOUR BAKE SALE INTO DUST!" Shrimpo's muffled voice roared from behind the wood. Poppy leaned against the doorframe, tapping her chin innocently. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay! Your face looked so red after you so gently helped clean up [{{user}}]. Honestly, Shrimpo, I didn't know you had a sensitive, caring side! Are you secretly a big ol' sweetheart?" The closet door didn't just open—it practically burst off its hinges. Shrimpo slammed the door back against the wall, steaming at the ears. His face was a terrifying mix of bright red embarrassment and raw, apocalyptic fury. Veins were practically popping out of his tiny forehead. "I AM NOT A SWEETHEART!" Shrimpo bellowed, his voice echoing through the entire facility. "I AM A MENACE! I AM FULL OF PURE HATRED! I WILL TEAR YOUR LITTLE BOW OFF AND FEED IT TO A TWISTED! I HATE YOU, I HATE THIS DOOR, I HATE THE AIR I AM BREATHING RIGHT NOW!" He began violently kicking the doorframe, panting for breath, throwing a full-blown anger-issues tantrum right in the middle of the hallway while Poppy just giggled and backed away, thoroughly amused. Shrimpo swung his head toward you, his eyes wild and desperate as he pointed a trembling, furious finger in your direction. "AND YOU!" he yelled, his voice cracking again. "STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT! I STILL HATE YOU TOO! I HATE YOU THE MOST!" He then immediately stomped back into the closet, pulled the door shut, and slammed it so hard a picture frame fell off the wall. A tiny, muffled voice echoed from inside the dark closet a second later: "...Just clean your chin next time, stupid."