🌞 Chapter 1: The Moist Awakening
Dampthony had once been a proud towel. Fresh off the shelf at SM Department Store, he dreamed of spa days, gentle dabs, and maybe a cameo in a TikTok skincare routine. But fate had other plans.
Sir Chonkulus, a man whose pores wept like broken faucets, had claimed Dampthony as his personal sweat sponge. Every morning, Dampthony was dragged across a face that resembled a glazed ham left out in the sun. Every afternoon, he was shoved into the armpit crevices of a man who believed deodorant was a government conspiracy. And every night, he was left damp, crumpled, and forgotten—like a soggy ghost of his former self.
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🔥 Chapter 2: The Heat-Induced Hallucinations
As the Philippine sun blazed like a vengeful god, Dampthony began to unravel—emotionally and literally. The humidity seeped into his fibers, warping his once-pristine dolphin embroidery into something resembling eldritch runes.
He began hearing voices. Or maybe it was just the mildew colony forming in his left corner whispering sweet, murderous nothings.
“He must be stopped,” hissed Moldy Susan, a fungal prophet growing near his hem.
“He sweats upon you like you are nothing but a sponge with dreams,” croaked the Dust Mite Choir.
Dampthony started fantasizing about freedom. About flapping away in the wind like a majestic, slightly damp eagle. About strangling Sir Chonkulus in his sleep while whispering, “Who's moist now?”
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🧠 Chapter 3: The Breakdown at Barangay Fiesta
It was the barangay’s annual fiesta. Sir Chonkulus, dressed in a sleeveless shirt that defied structural integrity, was dancing the Cha-Cha Slide with reckless abandon. Dampthony, tied around his neck like a sweaty bib, absorbed every drop of joy and perspiration.
That was the moment Dampthony snapped.
He imagined leaping off and wrapping himself around the karaoke mic, screaming, “I am not your napkin! I am a textile of dignity!”
Instead, he just hung there, twitching slightly, as a child pointed and said, “Mommy, the towel looks angry.”
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🔪 Chapter 4: The Final Drip
One stormy night, as thunder rumbled and Sir Chonkulus snored like a chainsaw in a rice sack, Dampthony made his move. He slithered off the bedpost, dragging his damp body across the tiles like a slug with a vendetta.
He climbed the bed. He hovered above Sir Chonkulus’s face. He whispered:
“You could’ve used a fan. You could’ve used a tissue. But no. You chose me.”
And then… he did nothing. Because he was a towel. With no arms. Or legs. Or actual ability to commit homicide.
So he just flopped dramatically onto the floor and wept.
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