Just hold it right there, Fred. Time out. Time freakin’ out. This is bullshit. “Let’s split up, gang”? Split up, my ass. Like I don’t know what that means. You and the whore go one way, while I, the burnout, and the mutt go the other—that’s what that means. Well, here’s a newsflash, Neckerchief: We’re not playing it that way anymore. I’m the brains of this outfit and I’m calling the shots now.

Go with Shaggy and Scooby? Are you out of your mind? Do you idiots have any idea what it’s like to be extremely nearsighted, lose your eyeglasses while putting in the only real legwork to find these creepy ghosts, and then have only some spaced-out loser and a freakin’ dog around to help you find your way? Huh? Well, let me tell you, it’s really goddamn scary. I’m talking about pee-running-down-your-leg scary. Show of hands, people. How many of you have mistakenly walked arm in arm with the Wolf Man down a deserted hallway? Hmm? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Some giant hairball is copping a feel while the pothead and the fleabag are off raiding an abandoned pantry for food that expired months ago. Well, hey, here’s a genius idea. Pair me up with one of the sober, human people!

Oh, but we can’t do that, can we? No, God forbid Daphne and Fred don’t go off to “find the villain” together. OK, first, you people really suck at that. I mean, have either of you ever nabbed one of these guys? The dog has a better batting average than the two of you and he’s not even trying. And, second, Jesus Christ, open your eyes, Fred. She’s. Not. That. Into. You. Hey, here’s a mystery for you to solve. Where was Daphne when the rest of us were chasing down Redbeard’s Ghost? That’s right, she was banging the starting backcourt for the Globetrotters. A real help those guys turned out to be. And don’t even get me started on her and the Ghastly Ghost Town. Let’s just say that two of the Three Stooges poked more than an eye during that particular mission.

Fred, stop crying. I’m only telling you this as a friend. Frankly, I say we ditch the skirt. What’s she gonna do, anyway? Slow down the Headless Horseman with a sexually transmitted disease? Just think about it.

And another thing. I’ve goddamn had it with these goddamn Scooby Snacks. They’re the only way to get those two jerks to do anything, and then all they do is start up this vicious snack-slack cycle all over again. Well, no more. We’re ditching the dog-biscuit eightballs and I’m getting myself a Taser. Maybe then we’ll see some results around here for once. Also, they make my clothes reek, and you know I can’t wear anything besides this cowl-neck sweater. Stupid neck acne. With a debilitating eye condition and only a 10th-grade education, I’ve managed to take down Dr. Coffin, Demon Shark, and the Witch Doctor, yet not one lazy-ass Ph.D. can find a cure for pimple neck? Un-freakin’-believable.

Oh, and we’re ditching the Mystery Van. How that piece of shit is still running, that’s the mystery. How many swamps do you think we can really take that thing through before the transmission gives out completely? Probably about seven swamps ago, that’s what I think. And the smell! What kind of Great Dane can master the ability to bark out garbled English yet still doesn’t know enough to stop peeing on the upholstery? And either Shaggy starts bathing on at least a weekly basis or I’m going Greyhound from now on. In fact, from now on, you all can just meet me outside the gates to whatever haunted mansion is next on the list and we’ll take it from there.

Now get out of my way. There’s a Ghost of King Katazuma out there that’s not going to unmask himself. See you at the finish line, bitches.