GYSO Reviews Part 89 - Heavily Armored Delivery Person

Published: 2026-04-05

The Heavily Armored Pizza Place(tm) near the GYSO Mansion Playboy Mansion gets a call. Not from the normal phone, but the bright red emergency phone that only one house is able to call to. The ring tone sounds like a screaming goat.

THAPP(tm) Employee 1: TAKE COVER!

THAPP(tm) Employee 2: Wait! It’s not a goat, it’s the GYSO assholes!

Usually, it’s a goat.

THAPP(tm) Manager: I’ll answer it. It’s my duty to the world.

THAPP(tm) Employee 2: Good luck.

THAPP(tm) Manager: I’ll need more than luck.

The manager picks up the reciever–it’s an old rotary phone for some insane reason–and puts it up to his ear.

Manager: You know who we are. What are you– I mean your demands?

There’s a court-ordered stenographer sitting standby 24/7, and their hands are sweating, palms weak, arms spaghetti. They’re not a very good stenographer, but it’s a high-paying gig. Unfortunately, since they mostly get to sit around, they don’t really get any better at the whole stenography thing. It’s a vicious cycle that has claimed many a stenographer, before they retire to a better position of being shark food.

Bunny (over the phone): Yes, pizza person, it is I, Bunny of–

Henry’s voice: i wanna get a deep dish! with dirt!

Bunny: Stop it, solar-powered leaf. I have been allowed the phone to make the order.

There is the sound of shuffling, muffling, and [redacted], and the phone seems to be… flying? Or I don’t know, maybe it’s just particularly windy inside? But you can only hear the sound of wind when you’re high up near the ceiling, which the phone might be if it’s floating? The Manger thinks it’s flotaing in Henry’s PSYCHOTIC ABILITIES?!???!?–because he knows the GYSO Crew well enough at this point.

Bunny (faintly): They might get the order mixed up!

The manager writes down a deep dish with dirt with pencil–he writes with the pencil, he’s not adding it to the pizza–his hand shaking wildly.

Henry’s voice (clearly): yes, mr. pizza place person, other than that, snag’darr wants seven hundred pepperoni rounds with light sauce and… hey!

Thim’s voice: Gimme that. Listen here, you sad, abdomninable fuck. I need that stuffed crust pizza, vodka style. Just the crust.

The managers hand is working like it’s never worked before ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). It’s not a lot to write, but he’s spooked. Nobody talks to Thim and lives a happy life after–so says the legends.

Manager: Yes, sir. Uh, one deep dish with dirt, seven hundred pepperoni with light sauce, and vodka crust with vodka. Anything else, sir, Thim, sir?

Thim: HEY ASSHOLES! PIZZA! WHAT DO YOU WANT?

The sound of shouting can be heard through the phone speakers. Something explodes. The manager feels the vibration from across the city. It smells lightly of peppermint.

THAPP(tm) Employee 1: Shit, why don’t they get their order ready before calling it in?

Thim: I HEARD THAT! Just for that, I’m charging a 20% tax. You’re paying me for this pizza now, lmao. I never forget a face, except when I do, so you better tell me who you are the next time I see you. I will become back my money, you little fucker.

Manager: Like you were going to pay anyway– ahem! I mean, anything else, sir?

Thim: Yeah. Give me a totally normal pepperoni and peppers, no silly shit. Sara’s feeling normal today. And… yeah, okay. I need you to kill the pizza, resurrect it, and put it on a Mt. Hungolomghnonoloughongous style boob pizza for Jesus. That’s a pizza on a pizza, get it the fuck right this time or we’re going to have problems.

Manager: One regular pepperoni and peppers, and one deconstructed and inverted-interior pepperi with peppers, got it.

There’s rustling sounds from the phone, and a new voice appears.

Henry: hey, wait! i’m not a new voice–

Albert: Hello, pizza manager. You’re doing good work, soldier. Keep it up, and you’ll be able to retire far, far away from anyone named ‘Thim’. Lucky bastard. Also, I want a disco pizza. Extra glitter, and a confetti cannon on the side. Our old disco ball broke after Thim threw a fit–that is, threw a piece of clothing–at it.

Manager: Yes. Thank you. Disco pizza, extra glitter, confetti cannon on the side…

Thim (voice far away, yelling): AND BREADSTICKS!

Manager: …And breadsticks. Anything else?

Thim (back to controling the phone): Nah. That’s all. It better be here before thirty minutes or…

The phone becomes silent, and Thim hangs up without confirming the order. That is, it went silent before hanging up, for some reason.

THIRTY-ONE MINUTES LATER

There’s a certain comedy to seeing a tiny pizza delivery car advertising “Heavily Armored Pizza” but it’s a ruse. The car is actually more armored than the President’s car. Even if it’s a 2003 golf cart they dug out of a river upstate.

With comms set, maps checked, bullet proof vest secured, goggles, news helicopters flying around, and emergency services surrounding the premises…

Delivery Person (muttering): Had to be me, had to draw a box instead of drawing a straw. They said “draw the shortest straw” and I didn’t even compete in the same fucking league and somehow that makes me the person to have to do this shi–

Manager (on the comms): Go! Go! Go!

The Delivery Person bum-rushes from the golf cart, checking the safety signals of emergency services, blinking twice when going past the mail box to signal OK, still running, blinking twice on the halfway mark to the door to signal OK again.

Literally doing a parkour slide up to the door, the doorbell disappears as they try to press it, swinging inwards as the door opens. Because this is a door with a doorbell on it, instead of the doorbell being to the side. It’s not very useful.

It’s him. The slight plume of smoke and scent of peppermint can’t hide the sweat beads on the mortal man forced to deliver pizza to the immortal that made an entire penis continent float in orbit.

The half-handsome, half-tall, half-smart, half-human humanoid stood stands in the doorway. With a cowboy hat, boots, and a straw in his mouth…

Thim: Yee’re late, partner… Yee-haw…

The cowboy effect is lost to the voids of plot, never to be mentioned again.

Delivery Person: Sir, I was here on time, safety procedures required an extra minute and thirty seconds of prep on-scene, sir.

Thim: Yeah, sure, whatever. Where’s the product? I’m running a business here, buster. See?

The seven hundred pizza boxes for Snag’darr are piled on a truck to the side, and the rest of the horrible, inedible crap (and Sara’s pizza, which everyone will eat before she can get a slice), is in boxes held by the Delivery Person.

Delivery Person: I’ve got it all right here, sir. Can I reach them towards you, sir?

Thim kicks the boxes out of the delivery person’s hands, somehow making them land right on the kitchen counter two floors up.

Bunny (who is also there on Thim’s shoulder): Ten points, father.

Thim: You shut the hell up. I’m negotiating here.

Delivery Person (all in one breath, trying not to cry): Thank-you-for-choosing Heavily-Armored Pizza-Place(tm)-bye!

But Thim has already slammed the door shut before they could finish speaking. Delivery whatever runs as fast as they can away. There will be 48 hours of uninterrupted interviews and interrogations before they’re allowed to go back to their life, but they will always be watching now. Like always.

Thim walks in, spreading his arms in a ‘are you not entertained’ way.

Thim: PIZZA!

Everyone claps once, in unison, then digs in.

The dies.

The end.