Scorched Victoria: A NaNoWriMo LRRFic (EPIC FAIL STAR)

[RytelCSF]

So what the hell is all this crap?

Well, in late September, the forum user Zivlok announced that he was, in a sort of cross-collaboration between National Novel Writing Month and Desert Bus, going to write "a ginormous Jer/Duck slash fiction OPUS."

Now, while I was and still am kind of weirded out about that concept, it did inspire me to try and create my own LRRFic, the idea being that the best way to not overly care about the quality of the work (something that makes NaNoWriMo much easier) is to use subject matter that'll end up being inherently silly. Additionally, after asking a couple forum members permission to use certain characters they've created they seemed interested in reading what I would end up coming up with.

Therefore, this thread is for me to post that day's work each night for all to see. While I will say that this will not be a stereotypical bad fanfic (there will be no slash pairings, no self-insert Mary Sues, and at least an attempt at a comprehensible plot) I'm not saying it's going to be the greatest thing ever either, and it will contain as much if not more fanservice than any given season finale. In fact, I'm going to come out and predict that at least three people will kindly request that I die in a fire by the end of the first page of replies.

With that said: 50,000 words. 30 days. *cracks knuckles* Bring it.

Disclaimer: Obviously this is going to use many of LRR's characters and concepts, which I wish to treat with the utmost respect and am going to try at all points to do so. That being said, if anyone in the crew has something wrong with how something or someone is portrayed (or this concept itself), tell me and I will edit/remove as necessary, as the last thing I want to do with this is offend.

tl;dr: I'm dun writin' a big long tale o' LRR.

[Tim]

Bring it on!

[ThrashJazzAssassin]

I look forward to seeing how this turns out. Good luck!

[Sieg Reyu]

I don't think you'll upset LRR in anyway. They, of all people, can appreciate a good parody.

[AgentGray]

NaNoing too...any other participants on the forums?

[elvor]

I be participating as well (for the first time, eep!). I'll be interested to see how Rytel's turns out. Good luck!

[RytelCSF]

(While I might do some more work before the day is up, this is the entirety of the first chapter and so it likely makes for an ideal first post.)

Scorched Victoria: Chapter One

“That was just a lie, of course. Not that it mattered in any potential fashion as I was fairly certain that John Stockton would've gone ahead with the plan whether or not I had actually been truthful, but I've found that when dealing with retired NBA players it's always a good idea to mask just what exactly you want out of any given situation. This was most indicative in a foray I had with a Mr. Charles Barkley, who I found to be quite the entertaining sort, and not even in the way in which the press most frequently described him, though it would be quite impossible for me to say that their variety of analysis would still not most certainly apply. In any case, upon first meeting Charles, I made certain that...”

Graham awoke to the strange noise.

He was still groggy, but the noise intrigued him. It seemed familiar, yet still very, very distant. It seemed almost dreamlike, yet one look at his surroundings could immediately verify that he was quite awake. It seemed muddled, yet paradoxically still full of clarity.

Graham's curiosity was piqued. He listened in.

“At this point, we had run out of celery, which of course I had predicted the night prior after a significant amount of calculations in my hotel room. You see, for two years I had studied at New Mexico State University; a fantastic school, mind you, in case you had any questions or concerns about whether or not one should attend, given the opportunity, and in that time I received an Associate's Degree in Advanced Vegetable Prognostication, and in fact graduated with a grade point average of 3.72 on the four-point scale most common to universities of the type. However, it wasn't until that very night that I discovered the degree's true worth, and that was being able to accurately predict, within one-tenth of one stalk the exact amount of celery that would be eaten that night. I noticed with what I believe to be a not-unreasonable amount of horror that the celery would run out at approximately 8:35 pm and 27 seconds, with a margin of error of one minute and five seconds in either direction. Discovering this, I appealed to the party's host, but to no avail, as had he found himself preoccupied with a particularly difficult crossword puzzle, and while I continue to assert that I did, in fact, know the answer to 19 across and it was not “saltpeter” as he stubbornly claimed, it bore no difference in the fact that...”

Whatever this tale was, it made little sense to Graham. Yet as strange as it was, he found he couldn't turn away from it. It was a siren song, his own personal little siren song. Only it wasn't a song so much as just some guy talking. The voice seemed innately familiar, and yet as hard as he tried he couldn't place it. Whatever it was, however, it didn't seem to affect his roommate, as Graham peeked into his room only to notice that he was still fast asleep. Graham wasn't too concerned about that, though. Matt was his own man; he could deal with him own problems, and this certainly wasn't one of them.

But Graham's it was.

“I noted that the clock had stopped at 9:16, which was peculiar, since I was fairly certain that the power had been cut significantly earlier. Of course, upon power outages I've already made a habit of mentally making a note of the time, as such an event during my sesquiannual vacation in Innsbruck, Austria made me innately aware of how important such a seemingly insignificant piece of information can truly be. It was snowing, of course, as the weather tends to skew toward at those altitudes and I found myself huddled in a cabin. Now, a peculiar thing about this cabin that I first noticed was that it was made of oak, which seemed significantly anomalous within the general area, and as such I thought that perhaps it would be best to determine exactly what sort of man would build an oak cabin in these conditions. So I went to find a phone book in order to call the appropriate offices when what did I discover but that a large section of the yellow pages had been ripped out, and in an even more suspect fashion, had been done so cleanly. It was almost as if the phone book itself had been perforated, which of course was a strict impossibility since the Stop Perforating Our Phone Books Act of 1987 had been passed by the Austrian government that many years prior. Therefore, it immediately became my prerogative to...”

Graham had put hastily put on pants and slipped on sandals, wholly entranced by the speech but still lucid enough to know better than to go outside without wearing something at least halfway decent. It was definitely coming from outside his apartment; a quick jaunt around the area made sure of that. He slowly opened the door, the telltale squeak of a hinge in need of lubrication doing its best to mask the sound of the meandering tale, but failing at its efforts.

“The cockatoo wasn't mine, of course, but instead belonged to a man we simply called Doug.”

Graham walked along the hallway. The voice was getting louder. He began to walk faster.

“Doug was a calm man, and an ever-present fan a billiards, which, of course, got us into trouble on more than one occasion on our trips backpacking across Western Manitoba...”

Graham walked down the stairwell, not even bothering with the elevator. The voice seemed to get louder and more clear with every step. He subconscious, completely overriding his good judgment as this point, understood that if he could just get to the source of the chatter, he may finally be able to properly identify it.

“An area once famous for its canals, it was now best known for its line of naturally custom-shaped potato chips...”

Graham made his way to the ground floor and walked outside through the apartment's main entrance. It was only now that he realized how dark it was; The sun had just barely begun to rise over Victoria and just barely deviated from the night's hue of inky black and the shine of the stars still defied the encroaching sun. Graham noted that couldn't have gotten more than an hour or two of sleep given the darkness of the sky and resolved to go straight back to bed once this matter was settled.

But the importance right now, of course, was settling it.

The voice was loud now, louder than it should be, as Graham soon recognized. It was almost deafening in his ears now, and he wished to know if anyone else was overtly bothered by it, not that anyone else seemed to be awake and active at this hour. He saw a figure far in the distance, in the direction he could perceive the noise; it must have been where the speech was coming from. Graham began to jog.

“But, naturally as is often the case in such matters, it was all resolved with a simple game of backgammon, and auspicious use of the doubling cube, of course.”

Due to the experience Graham had accumulated in various facets of life, he had become quite wise beyond his years and was capable of expecting any number of things. With that in mind, there were many things that this figure- and this voice- could potentially be. He expected a drunken businessman. He expected a student of poetry. He expected a crazed hobo.

He wasn't expecting a sniper rifle.

---

“He's stirring, sir.”

This voice was fuzzy, hazy, and different. Everything was black, and Graham wasn't sure where he was or how he got there. His mind wanted to panic, but his body couldn't seem to find the motivation.

“Good,” another voice stated with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. “Very good. Bring him in- no.” A pause. “Bring him in slowly.”

Graham noticed his body tilt and heard dragging along the floor. As the sensory and tactile sections of his conscious mind began to return, he was able to accurately predict that he was tied to a chair, which was for whatever reason being dragged into another room. He still couldn't see anything, however. Perhaps a bag was placed over his head?

“Don't worry, Mr. Stark,” the voice stated, “that was a tranquilizer round. You're not dead. I made quite sure of that.” The man began to chuckle, which quickly turned into a cackle.

After being forced upright, a quick removal of the bag made his hypothesis obvious. Graham found himself in a room that could realistically be sufficiently described as “blank.” It was apparently round, as there didn't seem to be any corners and it was completely painted a pure white. The only furniture within aside from Graham's own chair was a grandiose black desk, at which a slender man with dark sunglasses and a bushy goatee sat.

“That wasn't quite slow enough,” the man said, chastising his underling, “but I suppose it will work.”

“P-Paul?” Graham managed to stutter out. This man did seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to Graham's friend and coworker. The facial hair was new, though... or old, depending on how one would count it.

“Paul?” the man stated mockingly. “No, I'm afraid that your gorgeous friend is nowhere to be found this time, Mr. Stark. You are alone, and we have you exactly where we want you.”

“We- Who the hell are you?” Graham called out, obviously frustrated, and with good reason. This was going to be yet another day he would find himself unable to acquire a good night's sleep.

“Who the hell am I. Exactly, Mr. Stark. You've become so pompous and self-indulgent that you are unable to recognize your own creations.”

Upon those last few words, the light bulb atop Graham's head finally sparked. “You're the Head of Evil Inc.”

The man nodded. “I am. I appreciate that you recognize that, though I can't say I'm pleased about how long it took.”

Graham looked behind the Head of Evil Inc. to another man, one resembling him, only wearing sunglasses and a dark suit. “And you're... you know, I don't think we ever actually gave you a name. But you're the Head's chief henchman.”

“Correct,” the henchman plainly stated.

“Hey!” the Head snapped. “Did I say you could speak?”

“I'm sorry, sir; may I speak?”

“You may.”

“Correct,” the henchman repeated.

Graham looked to his left, seeing another man resembling himself, this one wearing more typical glasses as well as a maroon-colored vest. “And you're Story Guy.”

“I am,” he said, “although I do think it's strange that you'd call me by 'Story Guy' and not my actual name, though of course I've been accustomed to it ever since the incident in 1973 in which-”

“Don't even start!” the Head of Evil Inc. sharply spoke. “I swear, if I have to listen to another one of your blatherings... if you weren't the best in your field you'd be out on the street.”

Graham then turned to his right, seeing... a figure dressed in all black, wearing a nondescript mask. “And you... you... um... actually, I don't think I know you.”

“That is The Hyena,” the Head stated, smiling and folding his hands. “A new and quite welcome addition to the little roundtable I have accumulated here. I can't thank you enough for that particular character idea.” He began to chuckle again which once more soon turned into full-on raucous cackling.

“Okay, so... why did you kidnap me?” Graham asked. He didn't seem to be all that affected by the fact that there were apparently actual tangible versions of characters he and his crew-mates had created. But perhaps that wasn't the most crucial matter at the moment.

“It's typical of you, Mr. Stark, so very typical, that you would be wholly unable to discern our brilliant motives, but I suppose like any good evil mastermind, I should come right out and tell you my entire plan, shouldn't I?”

“Well, I would certainly appreciate it,” Graham answered honestly, “because I'm clueless over here. Also, why did you have to tie me to the chair? Where am I going to go; I don't even know where I-”

“It's part of the ambiance!” the Head yelled. “You wouldn't get it. I wouldn't expect you to. Just like how you don't get us.”

“Don't get... what?”

“You treat us just like a commodity, Mr. Stark, and a disposable one at that. As soon as you don't need us anymore, we're all but tossed by the wayside, seen only in nostalgic looks back.”

“What do you mean? Like... dude! You guys are great characters! And come on, the Head of Evil Inc. had a big role in the RapStar video.”

“Over a season ago, and I've seen nothing since then and very little for a while before.”

“And Story Guy,” Graham continued, “you were in... um... the Rumble... okay, I guess I haven't used you in a while. I'm sorry.”

“Apologies,” the Head scoffed. “Pathetic. And when you finally do create a true serial work, who are the stars? Your own sad, miserable selves. commodoreHUSTLE. Self-glorifying. Self-aggrandizing. Pathetic.”

Graham gulped and paled slightly, not knowing what to say, or what realistically could be said at this point. “So... I mean, I guess if you feel that way we can work on some scripts, try and fit you guys into-”

“No.” the Head stated firmly. “We've been more than patient, Mr. Stark. We have no demands, only... actions. And our first action is something you should be familiar with. Hyena?”

The Hyena turned to the Head of Evil Inc., waiting for the command.

“Do what it is you do so well.”

The Hyena slowly walked up to the fearful Graham and glared at him before readying the implantation device and removing her mask.

“Wait, Tally?” Graham said, his fear suddenly replaced a bit of confusion. “You're The Hyena?” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Huh. You know, I did not see that comiIIIIIIYAAAAAAIAIAAHHHH”

[Evil Jim]

OMFG the suspense! It starts out a little slow what with the large sections of Story Guy monologue, but once the dialog with the head of Evil Inc. begins it's very entertaining. With the exceptions of a few typos like

Graham had put hastily put on pants and slipped on sandals,

& some doubling of phrases you're off to a good start. I can't wait until the next installment.

[Gordon Fearman]

Wow, that's cool. Also weird.

[Ottoman]

Wooow. I am thoroughly impressed.

As Evil Jim said, there are some minor style issues (I would add that you used 'seem' excessively in the sixth paragraph), but it's looking like an epic story. As Paul would say, 'it is pretty nifty'.

[Cake]

The point of nanwrimo is just to get 50000 words?

=rand(140,40) in Word. Bam. I beat you all.

[King Kool]

Hopefully, the story isn't supposed to be word salad.

[Cake]

I just read about nanowrimo. Apparently, if you accomplish this thing, all you get is a pat on the back.. How lame.

[tak197]

So far it's really good. I look forward to reading more.

[Zivlok]

I won't be posting everything I write online, due to wishing to milk some cash for desert bus from my novel's teats, but I'll probably put up a few choice bits. Also, if I offend anyone in the crew, or do anything they do not approve, GO HUFF A DONG. I'm probably gonna end up killing everyone off at least twice, so...

[Ottoman]

Also, if I offend anyone in the crew, or do anything they do not approve, GO HUFF A DONG. I'm probably gonna end up killing everyone off at least twice, so...

Well, you avatar is certainly appropriate for such a thing.

[RytelCSF]

(Thanks for the kind words (and criticism as well) you guys. Knowing I have people interested in it is likely to inspire me to write all the more.)

Chapter Two

Graham slowly walked into the office, his expression grim. The Moonbase, as it was more commonly called, wasn't actually a base constructed on the moon... or maybe it was. Graham wasn't entirely sure anymore. He was late to his own meeting, but this was intentional; he wanted to make the announcement as soon as he arrived and also wanted everyone to be there when he made it. Not that Matt was going to give him a ride anyway. He looked around. Everyone seemed to be here, some simply sitting idly, others performing important work and/or hobby related duties such as trying on various silly hats or sorting the e-mails chiding the crew about the nonexistence of podcasts.

“Good,” Graham thought to himself. “I won't have to repeat this.”

“Hey Graham,” Jer said as the former entered. “So why did you want us to meet here first instead of at QVs?”

“Everyone, gather around,” Graham called out toward the back of the office. “Take a seat. I have something important to say.” His voice intoned that whatever he was about to say, this was going to be Serious Business complete with the requisite out-of-position capitalization.

“Esteemed members of the LoadingReadyRun crew... Tim...”

“Hey, I thought I was crew,” Tim said, confused and a bit hurt by the omission. “We did a whole video and everything.”

“You are, Tim,” said Matt, seemingly annoyed solely by the sound of Tim's voice. “That's why he said 'esteemed.' Try to keep up.”

“Anyway,” Graham continued, “ Everyone...” Graham didn't know how to best say it, so he decided he might as well just blurt it out. “I have a bomb in my brain.”

“Ha ha,” James said dryly. “No seriously, what's the problem?”

“I'm not kidding, you guys. I have a bomb in my brain.” Graham spoke the last sentence slowly, with enunciation on every word, hoping the crew would comprehend the severity of the situation.

“That's not funny.”

“I'm not trying to be funny! I'm serious! The Hyena put a bomb in my brain.”

James's mind tried as hard as it could to parse that last statement. Nothing doing. “So what you're saying is that you met The Hyena...”

“Yes!” Graham called out. Finally, someone was beginning to understand.

“...who is definitely a fictional character and not an actual thing...”

“Sorta...”

“...and he capped off this wonderful meeting by putting a bomb in your brain.”

“She, actually,” Graham corrected. “Turns out it's Tally.”

“Tally's The Hyena?” James said thoughtfully. “Huh. I did not see that coming.”

“I know; that's what I said! But anyway-”

“But anyway, Graham, I think you might be spending just a bit too much time in the editing room, don't you think?”

“No. Guys; seriously. This wasn't a crazy dream or some hallucination or something. This actually happened. Like, Matt! Remember a couple days ago when I told you that I had gone out to get milk?”

Matt thought for a second and recalled. “Yeah.”

“Didn't you think it was strange that I had gone out to get milk at 6:30 am on a Thursday?”

Matt shrugged. “Not really.”

“Okay, then didn't you think it was strange that I had gone out at that time and also did not actually come back with milk?”

“Maybe the convenience store was out of 2 percent. It's possible.”

“No, it's not possible. That's the cover story the Head of Evil Inc. told me to tell you.”

“Wait, wait: the Head of Evil Inc. now?” Jer interrupted. “As ridiculous as this already is, we're definitely not going to be able to take you seriously if you can't even keep your villains straight.”

“No, they were working together!” Graham said, trying to explain. “The Hyena and the Head of Evil Inc. and Story Guy...”

“Right... You know, Graham, you're not acting in this week's video, and I think we can handle the filming and editing duties... maybe you should just take this week off. Relax a little. LRR will go on.”

Graham glared at Jer, his breathing noticeably more forced. “That's what I'm afraid they're trying to stop.”

“Seriously, Graham; don't worry about this week,” James said. “We can handle the editing, we've got Tim to film, and Jer, Matt, and... wait...” James looked around. “Where's Morgan?”

---

“Damn,” Morgan said to no one in particular, sitting down at his table at QVs with two plates full of enough bacon, ham, and sausage to constitute an entire pig. “I'm twenty minutes late and I'm still the first one here! Like, I know we're kind of lax on our work schedule sometimes, but this is ridiculous. I mean, when you got me telling people to step up the work ethic, something is very wrong.” He craned his head as someone walked through the door. “Oh. Hey Bill.”

Bill simply walked towards Morgan's table, silent. It was nigh-impossible for anyone in the restaurant to ignore the fact that Bill's otherwise mundane attire included a generic white hockey mask.

“So what, are we doing something with Mr. Tiddlywinks or something?” Morgan asked.

Bill didn't answer, instead coming closer, revealing a rather large knife hidden in his coat.

“Dude, you should probably, like, not wear that thing around? I know that's just a fake knife, dude, but seriously you're going to freak people out.”

Bill continued his streak of not responding, aside from raising his blade.

Morgan looked up at Bill flatly. “That's not a fake knife.”

The knife slammed down, carving a groove into the table's edge. Morgan stared at the knife, and then the groove, wide-eyed. “Oh, shit... mother... whore... fuck!”

---

“You're right, you guys,” Graham finally admitted. “I... I guess it must have all just been some sort of crazy-”

“More like 'batshit,'” James said dismissively.

“Right, more like bat-”

“You guys, oh my God, Bill-” Morgan stated as he stormed into the Moonbase, until he saw Bill himself, just sitting down with everyone else, as if nothing had happened. “You fat ginger fuck!” Morgan screamed, pointing at the man in question.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Graham said, “calm down. What's going on?”

“Also, 'fat?'” Bill added. “I mean, I'll grant you the other two, but-”

“That bastard tried to fucking kill me!”

“What?” Graham said, a bit shocked, but only not more so because he didn't believe Bill literally tried to kill him. “When?”

“Just now, when I was at QVs! He was all 'Oh hey, look at me, I'm Mr. Tiddlywinks' and he tried to slash me with a knife!” Morgan held up his arm, revealing a cut where one of the slashes grazed.

“Oh my God; are you alright?” Kathleen said, looking at the wound. “You should go see a doctor for that or something.”

Morgan smiled. “Nah, it's okay; I think I can just flex it out. … But that's not the point!” he said, pointing at Bill again and quickly returning to his rage. “What the fuck, dude!”

“Um, Morgan?” Bill said gently, trying to placate his friend, “I've been here this entire time.”

The crew nodded in agreement.

“So what are you trying to say,” Morgan said, “that there's actually some crazy-ass Mr. Tiddlywinks out there trying to kill me?”

Graham paled, holding his head. “Oh my God, it's worse than I thought.”

Everyone else in the crew sighed and rolled their eyes, except for Paul, who suddenly looked significantly more nervous. Suspiciously more nervous.

“Of course not!” Paul said. “That's impossible! Completely impossible! In fact, the very idea that there could be tangible versions of fictional characters is entirely silly in both its idea and its context, and certainly has no possibility of ever occurring, specifically to us! Furthermore, I've certainly been powering the website with nothing but pure, refined Phail, and wouldn't even think of considering using any of the cleaner, cheaper, more efficient, more renewable Phail alternatives that have been invented and brought out onto the market in recent years!”

Graham blinked. “Wait, what was that last part?”

Paul looked around shiftily. “Um... n-nothing. Nothing at all. Nope; no sir, nothing at all. And I definitely haven't been using Phalé to power the site the last few months.”

“Ph- Oh Jesus Christ.” Graham hung his head.

“What?” Paul said, still shifty. “I very specifically stated that I haven't. You're the one doing all the assuming!”

“So have you or not?”

“Well... you see... the thing is... look Graham, in 2003, Phail was plentiful, but nowadays with YouTube and 4chan and the whole 'web 2.0,' it's gotten a bit scarce! And besides, I'm not the one who built an entire haüs out of it... not that you barely use it for anything anymore...”

“Well maybe some of us have better things to do!” Graham fired back.

“Look Graham, I did all the proper market research- which was volunteer work, might I add- and it showed that Phalé is by far the best Phail substitute out there.”

“Which just happens to have the side effect of giving fictional characters that are powered by it the ability to assume tangible forms.”

There was a long, heavy pause before Paul finally spoke. “Well in my defense, they said that was only a potential side effect!”

“Yes, a potential side effect that put a bomb. In. My. Brain!”

“Would both of you just stop it!” Kathleen exclaimed, finally getting between the two. “Okay yes, this is a serious problem, but we're not going to solve it by bickering and blaming each other. Whoever or whatever they are, this is probably exactly what they want.”

The crew was silent in agreement, or at least in no solid argument.

“Now let's get out of here and make some goddamn comedy.”

“But... the bomb...” Graham meekly said.

“Okay, fine; we'll stop for tinfoil on the way.”

A trip to the store later, and Graham had a new hat (which, in not wanting to look like a crazy person, he wore underneath another, sillier hat) and everyone was headed to the first site for shooting when Graham's phone began to vibrate. He looked down at his pocket quizzically before pulling out his phone. “Oh. I have a text.”

“From who?” Kathleen asked.

“I don't know. It's not anyone in my contacts.” Curious, Graham pressed a button and displayed the message, which caused to immediately shudder with fright. “Guys...”

“What is it, sweetie? What's it say?”

“'You know those helmets work a lot better if you layer them with Saran Wrap...'”

[Nevrmore]

I just read about nanowrimo. Apparently, if you accomplish this thing, all you get is a pat on the back.. How lame.

The point is to motivate you to actually write something, when in any other circumstance you would put it off. The actual, you know, book that you write is your reward.

In any case, I'm 5,770 words into my story, The Agony Wagon. Hope I can keep it up.

Edit: Here's my profile (link) if anyone's interested in reading an excerpt and/or becoming a "writing buddy."

[Gordon Fearman]

Nice Rytel.

[ThrashJazzAssassin]

Win!

[Evil Jim]

You definitely have a flair for writing comedic dialog. Have you sent any scripts to LRR?

[tak197]

Nevrmore and all other NaNoWriMo people! I set up an official thread for us all to post so that we all can be writing buddies and see titles and such.

[RytelCSF]

(I wouldn't even consider sending scripts to LRR. Honestly, I just don't think I have the raw talent for something like that. Coming up with unique, brilliant ideas that can be hammered into a workable script is far different from chaining together fanservice strings. )

Chapter Three (6,070 words in)

The shoot didn't go well, but that was probably to be expected, given all that had happened in the last few hours. Graham was paranoid, Paul was jumpy, and Morgan couldn't even get a proper nap in, since he found himself preoccupied with “flexing out” the cut on his arm, however that was supposed to work. No one really questioned it, but at the same time no one thought it was all that great an idea. Then again, this wouldn't be the first time Morgan had tried to invoke the power of his Y chromosome to perform some miraculous power, and it wasn't likely to be the last, so everyone figured it was best if they just let him do his thing. Or at least that would be the case if he wasn't screwing up the sound with his grunting and various levels of “HA!”. But finally now it was over and the crew could settle into other things.

Graham's thing, of course, was now to worry. He had accepted the crew's generous offer to do the editing for this week's show, but he almost wished they hadn't as that would give him even more time to ponder just what the hell he was going to do about all these problems that had surfaced. After all, he had a bomb in his brain, and that mocking text seemed to state that the kill-signal couldn't be so easily blocked. Unsure what to do next, he suddenly remembered: the text had to come from somewhere.

Graham bounded over to his phone, knocking it off the desk in the process but just as quickly rushing to pick it up off the ground to find that text, and specifically, the number it came from. He frantically hit buttons, selecting the wrong menu a few times before finding what he needed and calling. The pause between rings seemed to take forever until he finally reached...

“Hello, and thank you for calling Evil Incorporated, Canada's number one provider of nefarious business solutions since 1973. If you would like to talk to an operator, ha ha ha! Just kidding! We don't have operators here; that simply wouldn't be evil enough. No, you're going to have to go through the entire automated message tree.”

Graham audibly groaned.

“If you would like to hire or have questions about hiring one of our top-class mercenaries to foil a plot of the forces of good, press 1... now. If you are seeking employment and believe you are sufficiently kitten-punchingly evil enough to be hired by our company, press 2... now. If you currently owe back payments and are wondering why an exceptionally large man named Cecil is threatening to break your kneecaps with a fence post, press 3... now. If you believe one of our employees accidentally kidnapped, shot, stabbed, and/or murdered you, you're wrong, but press 4 anyway... now.”

Graham was about to, but then stopped. “Nah... it seemed pretty intentional; I don't think that one applies.”

“If you are Graham Stark, co-creator of LoadingReadyRun.com, and actually believe you can somehow pry out more information about our brilliant, website-sabotaging plan, press 5... now.”

“Ah, there we go... finally.” Graham pressed 5.

“You have selected... 5. If this is correct-”

“Yes, it's correct!” Graham yelled, becoming impatient.

“Well, okay then, if you're so goddamn confident about it. Please hold.”

The hold wasn't as long as one might expect, but it did cease right after the first few measures of the chorus of a song Graham had found to be quite enjoyable. Truly these people knew what they were doing.

“Ah. Mr. Stark. Come groveling back, have we?” The voice on the other end was unmistakably the smug tones of the Head of Evil Inc.

“What do you want? Why are you attacking us?”

“I'm not going to repeat myself, Mr. Stark. We have no demands, only... actions. … Which I suppose is something I already told you. So I guess I am going to repeat myself. But just this once! … Damn it.”

“So attacking Morgan was part of your plan too?”

“Morgan? Ah, yes, of course! No, you see, Mr. Tiddlywinks gets a bit... overzealous at times, wouldn't you say? Though I'm hardly going to complain, even though it wasn't part of my initial plan, which is of course...”

Graham paused, expecting the Head to continue. He waited. He waited a bit more. “Um... Go on?”

The Head entered into another one of his chuckles turning to cackles. “Oh. Did you truly expect me to just come out and reveal every aspect of my master plan so you can easily develop adequate counter-measures and ruin me? How quaint.”

“Seriously. I do have a bomb in my brain here. I'll admit, you've got me on the ropes. So, you know, if you could just tell me what I could do to help you on your way, maybe we can come to some sort of-”

“Agreement?” the Head asked, beginning to chuckle. “Is it just as you said, Mr. Stark. You have a bomb in your brain. I have you on the ropes... quite literally, in fact.”

Graham was a bit confused by this statement, even more so when he heard whispering in the background. “You mean... well of course I know that I shouldn't use 'literally' as a generic amplifier!” he heard the Head say to someone else on his end, most likely his chief henchman. “What I meant was that... um...” the Head came back to the phone. “You are still tied to the chair, right?”

“No...” Graham replied. “You let me go after the bomb got implanted. In fact, I'm sitting down right now, and there's definitely no ropes here.”

“I see. … Damn you. Maybe I will fire off that bomb right now... or maybe I won't! That's something you're going to have to think about, Mr. Stark. Every second of every day may be your last.”

Graham thought about those words, which worried him more than anything else. The Head of Evil Inc. may very well be right. What could he do? And what's worse, it was in some horribly roundabout way his own fault. He created LRR, and through LRR, created the characters and concepts that were now antagonizing him with full force...

“That's it...” Graham said, deep in thought. “That's it!”

“What is it, Mr. Stark? Do you really expect me to accept your terms of surrender?”

“No,” Graham said calmly, “I just had a breakthrough.”

“Oh?” the Head said coyly.

“Yeah. We were kind of ambiguous on what exactly those bombs in brains actually did. I mean, they were going to do something terrible, of course, but we never actually went into any specifics. Are you entirely sure pressing that big red button will do anything?”

The Head was stunned. He had simply taken The Hyena at her word (or lack of it) and never took any of this into consideration. “Are you really willing to risk your life on such a gambit? Furthermore, how did you know I had a big red button?”

“Dude. I've got a bomb in my brain. I think I can afford to take a few risks. What do I got to lose?”

For the first time, the man on the other end was speechless.

“Besides, having to walk around town proclaiming myself to be Edward's BFF is a fate worse than death anyhow.”

The Head grumbled and hung up the phone. He turned back to his henchman. “You know... he still didn't explain how he knew I had a big red button.”

“To be fair, sir,” his henchman replied, “I believe it's more of a crimson.”

The Head of Evil Inc. stared deeply into the large button set atop his desk for at least ten seconds after his longing gaze had already become awkward. “Yes. Yes, I believe it is. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, sir.”

---

Graham let out an enormous sigh of relief. Perhaps for the time being whatever forces Evil Inc. had could be stifled, and work could be focused on how to stop them for good.

Of course, the problem with forces of evil that you build and create yourself, even inadvertently, is that they, by extension, know you. Sure, they can become reckless and overconfident at times, forces we all succumb to every so often, but deep within they still know you, often as well as you know yourself. They know your strengths, your weaknesses, your hopes, your dreams, your fears...

How is this relevant?

“Honey, I'm home!”

Graham's roommate would soon find out.

As Matt entered the apartment, he immediately made a beeline for his bedroom, but soon backtracked, puzzled by a sign hung on the closet door.

“Hey Matt:

Only a dickbag would open this door. So don't be a dickbag and open this door, you dickbag.

Love,
Graham

(P.S.: Dickbag.)”

Matt glared daggers into Graham's bedroom entrance. “Oh, screw you, asshat!” he said as he opened the door. “I'll be any kind of bag I want to-OH SHI-”

As it has been said, they know your weaknesses, and your fears, and Matt's fears and weaknesses could be adequately summed up in the hundreds upon hundreds of pot lids that rained down upon him, pouring out of the closet like a faucet set to full blast. Large and small; no lid size was discriminated against, and a few were even irregularly shaped. The raucous cacophony they caused upon striking Matt, followed soon by the floor (and often each other) was more than enough to startle Graham out of his room just in time to look in horror at a barely visible Matt under an enormous mound of lids. No way Evil Inc. would have planted such a trap for him, Graham realized, and just as soon surmised that he wasn't the only one being targeted. After all, as the crew proved by giving him a week off, in a pinch they could go on without him. No. This wasn't just about him; this was truly about LRR itself.

“What the f-Matt. Matt!” Graham shouted. “Matt, don't... you bastards, I- Matt!”

“Hey, help me out of here!” Matt said, his voice sounding a bit weak, though that could have just been due to it being muffled by the lids. “That hurt like a bitch, but I think I'm going to be-”

Graham could no longer take this gruesome sight, shaking his upheld fists while gazing up at the ceiling with nothing less than extreme anguish.

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATT!”

[the amativeness]

Graham could no longer take this gruesome sight, shaking his upheld fists while gazing up at the ceiling with nothing less than extreme anguish.

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATT!”

First thought, seriously:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWaLxFIVX1s

Awesome! Keep it coming!

[Evil Jim]

Just finished chapter 3. This story is even better than Shatnerquake & I really enjoyed that. Keep up the good work.