Fenjin

Hey, you won’t believe the wicked story goin’ down in the Fenway area of Boston!

So there’s this mysterious duo, Dr. Cube and the professah??? Yeah- no one knows his real name, keeps it all hush-hush. They’re cookin’ up somethin’ wicked pissah, tryin’a recreate that amazin’ Super-Syrup that gave birth to Kaiju Hero French Toast.

I mean, French Toast, can ya believe it? I know he looks like a waffle, but so what!

Now, here’s the kicker– rumor has it, this professahs got some real connections to the Super-Syrup’s history. His dad, a janitor, of all things, saved some secret notes hopin’ to sell ’em to them Nazis back in the war days.

Yeah, them Nazis wanted that secret syrup recipe, can ya ‘magine?

But the war ended, and his dad’s dreams went down the drain, leavin’ them notes under the floah, forgotten and gatherin’ dust. Years latah, the professah stumbles upon those hidden treshahs, unlockin’ the Super-Syrup’s secrets from his old man’s scribblin. But, ya know, folks warned him ’bout Dr. Cube, Dr. Cube, sayin’ he’s sly as a fox, but this professah guy thinks he can outsmart Cube, like he’s playin’ a wicked game of cat and mouse, dumb chooch.

And wouldn’t ya know it, Cube had his own plans! He sneaked some modified minion maker into the professahs Dunkiees, and tosses in a hint of Shroomatango DNA, somethin’ that’ll mess with ya head, for real. The Dunkiees does its thing, and the professah’s lab turns into a real circus, things goin’ haywire all over the place.

In a panic, the professah bolts, tryin’ to escape Cube’s wicked ways. But guess what? He runs smack into Hack and Slash, Cube’s tough henchmen, and they ain’t there for pleasantries. Scared for his life, the professah hangs onto the last vial of his serum, injects himself hopin’ it’ll save him from the chaos. But fate’s got its own agenda, I tell ya. As he crashed his ride into the Fenway’s swampy watahs, all hell broke loose!

The serum mixes with the swamp pollution and that Super-Syrup stuff, turnin’ him into some slow-movin’ plant-like creature. And to top it off, he can’t even talk straight anymore and has dim memories, like that night I had on Lansdowne street. They call him the Fenjin now, wanderin’ in the Fenns like a lost soul, doin’ Cube’s biddin’ like a puppet on a string.

So there ya have it, my friends, an awesome twisty tale of ambition and tricks playin’ out right here in our own Beantown. The Fenjin, caught up in a web of deceit and dreams, is a warnin’ to all who venture where lines between good and evil get blurry as the Charles River at dusk.