For everyone who read my first fic… wasn't it great? I wanted to see how people would respond to the worst Invader Zim fic I could come up with at eleven-fifty-three at night. I used all the stereotypes I could come up with. Ain't you all proud? Oh, and no offense meant with the piece of crap, my liege. **cuddles Jhonen plushie** I'll make it up to you with this one, I pwomise.
YAAAAAAY!!
There is no Zim mentioned in this fic, but he still plays a crucial role. What would happen if a certain someone got his hands on any one of the moron authors hanging around this place? I can picture some fun. Oh, and the certain someone belongs solely to God, though if it were anything but a cruel world, he would belong to everyone. (wink wink, nudge nudge, if you catch my drift.)**pictures JtHWhore and giggles** FUN!
Oh, and this fic is dedicated to the Skettios and the fetishes.
[Here is my crappy opening. Do not pay attention to the crappy opening:]
777.
Sign of heaven.
Open the door, he's forgotten to lock it again, in the heat of the moment, no doubt. The first room is bare; his treasures are lower, deeper. You have to look for them. Go ahead now, search away, but ignore the doughboys and especially Reverend Meat. Here's a door that looks promising. Try it out. It opens onto stairs, but before you go, offer up a prayer for Nail Bunny. (if anyone cared, it was him.) Sidestep the bucket of knuckles and try not to look into The Room On The Left. (it's fresh.) Go down into the bowels of the earth, and keep your ears peeled (or he'll peel them for you) for the empty cries of Vapids Extraordinaire.
There's one. Let's listen closer, gentle readers, shall we? (squeak)
[Now it gets fun.]
"It's not fair! I'm just a little kid!!" The little lost person emitted a broken sob as it sat huddled in the dark dark room in the cavernous basement. "I didn't do anything wrong," it said softly, feeling very sorry for itself.
"Wrong? Wrong." Sounds echoed naturally in the vast series of underground slaughtering rooms, but the voice that came out of the pitch black was followed by nothing. No echo at all. "That's where you miss the mark, little…" There was a pause. "… little thing that you are." The voice sounded hesitant. "What are you, anyway?"
The little thing flinched, but held its head up high. "I am an author! And a darn good one, too!" It whipped something out of its Star Dancers© backpack. "Look! I printed out all of the reviews my story got on fanfiction.net! See?" It jabbed a stubby finger at the paper. "Thirty-eight reviews, and only seven of them are flames!"
There was a gasp. "Thirty-eight?! That's an evil number!" A pale-yellow hand flashed out of the dark and snatched the paper away from the little thing. "I'll count them for myself, thank you very much, Mr. Mailman." There was silence for a moment, broken only by a few fevered mutters from the someone, and then suddenly there was a loud squeak from somewhere very very far below, deep in the bowels of the earth. The voice said a Very Naughty Word. "It's escaped? I just fed it! Man! My life sucks so much!" There was a pause. "Be back in a jiff!"
There came the sounds of someone running off.
"Wait!" the little thing cried after him. "Could you at least turn on the lights? I might want to reread all these great reviews, to remind myself of how great I am!"
There was no reply. In fact, there was complete and utter silence for a long, long time. Then suddenly a thin scream pierced the thick air.
"There, that's better." The person was back. "I'd wanted to save her for later, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, I have you to amuse me now." There was a sick little giggling. "Oh, wait, did you say you wanted the lights on?"
"Yep."
"Lights are bad, but hey, at least I'll have the satisfaction of hearing you scream when you see it coming. Hold on a minute." The little thing heard footsteps making their way away from it. Then someone flicked on the lights.
The little thing flinched involuntarily. The tall, emaciated man standing across the room noticed and smiled pleasantly. "Hey, you're smaller than I remember." He sauntered idly over to where the little thing was chained to the wall. "That's weird. You'd think I'd remember something like that."
"No, not really. I don't do a lot of thinking," the little thing reasoned. "After all, I have to contribute all my waking hours to writing." It wagged a finger at the man. "My fans expect it."
The man gave out a long sigh and perched on a faintly copper-stained table, his long thin legs, encased in Kick-Ass© Boots, folded before him. "Oh!" He nodded knowingly "You have fans, too? Yeah… I buried one of mine just last week…" His voice trailed off nostalgically. Then he focused again. "Hey, do yours leave dead babies on your doorstep, too?" He sighed. "God, that gets old after a while."
The little thing was too stupid to be taken aback. "No, they don't do that, but they say nice things about me. Here's my favorite review." It poked a chubby finger at the paper. "See, it says I'm the best writer ever."
"Give." The man snatched the paper away. He held it up to his face and began to read, the paper crumpling as his grasp on it tightened. The little thing flinched, but managed to overlook the blasphemous defacing of its reviews.
The man took a while to read, but finally he lowered the paper slowly and fixed the thing with his unsettling gaze. "Why did they spell 'your' wrong? And who is 'gazim'?"
The little thing blanched considerably. "Spelling doesn't matter!" it finally cheeped in frustration, having expected raving bubbly praise from the scary man rather than these petty objections to proper grammar and comprehension of the English language. "I'm sure NO ONE cares about 2 or 3 spelling errors!?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised. I've done a lot more for a lot pettier things. I once managed to pull this one guy's spleen straight out of his throat, maybe with two lacerations, three at the most." The man shook his head wistfully. "It was great. The best part was, he was alive and screaming the entire time… or as well as he could scream with someone pulling his spleen out his throat." The man bent down confidentially. "I used this great little hook thing… I've got it upstairs… geez, I'm getting sidetracked. Anyway, I did all that because he pronounced some word wrong… I can't remember it now, but he said it reeeeeeeeally wrong. You know what I mean, right? You've probably done it before too, right? Pisses me off…"
The little thing, for the first time in its short existence, had nothing to say, even despite its abnormally huge mouth and abysmally small brain. Somewhere deep inside its cranial space, the words "You rock! ROFL! Keep writing!" marched glumly onward, never ceasing. The words, however empty in thought, meaning, and substance, soothed nonetheless.
The tall man's eyes darkened at the lack of reply. "Shut up! SHUT UP!" He jumped up and began pacing restlessly. "All these blithering idiots around me, shooting their fool idiot juice in my direction, trying to silence me! Do they think they have a chance to conform me? Am I the only sane person in this world?" He stopped and looked distractedly at the little thing. "What is it you said you were?"
The little thing brightened immensely. "A fic writer!" it chirped happily, feeling as if it were in its element.
"Mmm." The pale man turned away. "What? No!" He seemed to be directing these words at apparently somebody else nearby. "I'm not going to ask." His voice rose considerably in volume. It almost drowned out the tortured screams from far far below. "If you wanna know --" he pointed wildly at a little ceramic toad in a corner of the room "-- then you ask it!" There was a pause. "Yeah, okay, but you owe me."
He turned back to the little fic writer. "What be this… fic?" he asked slowly.
If it were possible, the little thingie fic writer became even more rapturous. "Ooh! I have it with me!" It unzipped its Star Dancers© backpack again and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. "Here it is! All nineteen chapters of it!" It held it up reverentially, beaming beacons of pure happy Retard Baby joy.
The sickeningly-thin man's left eyebrow slowly rose on its own accord. "This?" He took the papers hesitantly. "Are you sure this will not be infecting me with your retardation?" His eyes narrowed. "Do not play tricks on me, little foolish monkey sack."
"No, really, it's good!" The little thing's eye shone. "How could thirty-one people be wrong?"
"Oh, easy. You know, I kill every wrong individual I come into contact with, and I go through about forty in a good week." He eyed the little thing warily, then began to read.
There was another brief bout of more-or-less silence, during which the little thing discerned from the muffled sobbing below the distinct phrases, "Please, I promise!" "Why me?!" and "But I always wanted to die by my own hand!"
"Wait," the man said suddenly. "I be all confused now. Does this all take place at a school?"
"Yep!"
"A high school?"
"Oh, no way." The little thing's chest puffed out considerably. "It's all in elementary school, but that's the coolest age to be at anyway, so it's still really cool. Besides, I'm not even in middle school yet, so I have no idea how high school works." It pondered this momentarily. "That still won't stop me from attempting to write some vapid jumble of descriptive words on what I think the teenage years are like, though. No doubt I'll be way off, but seeing as how all of my readers are also fifth-graders, they won't notice either."
The tall man frowned slightly. "So… they're in grade school? They's chilluns?"
"Yep!"
He frowned again, but continued to read. It had only been a moment, however, before he shrieked and tore the thick stack of papers in two with one frenzied burst of strength.
"NOOOOOOOOO!!" the little thing squealed. It struggled to reach the remnants of its fic, its little fat hands wiggling feebly as it reached out for the papers. With a cry that sounded very animal to the little thing, the tall man whipped a very large knife out of nowhere and impaled its hand on the ground.
"You will excuse me," he said, whirling around and calming down considerably as he stared pensively at a rust-colored wall. "But that is unjustifiable. You say they're children, but then you have them do that to each other?" The tall man turned slowly. "You deserve to die."
The little thing trembled. "You're just a homophobe!" it tremulated, despite its momentary pride of knowing such a big word as 'homophobe'.
The man's eyes narrowed. "You would think that, you disgusting little piece of empty shit. You sicken me. Give yourself reasons all you want, but in the end, we'll both know why." He jumped up on the table again and drew up two long wicked blades. "THAT WAS A FUCKING PIECE OF VAPID CRAP!! PEOPLE DON'T ACT THAT WAY!!! AND YOU SPELLED 'IS' WRONG!! YOU COMPLETE SHIT!!!" He took a deep breath. "Believe me, I'm doing the world a favor by extinguishing your sad little existence. But hey, if thinking that I'm on your level, that I'm enough of a dumbass to be a bigot… if that'll make you feel like more of a martyr, then by all means, help yourself." He paused. "Hey, I haven't crucified anybody in a long time! Hee hee!" His eyes shone. "I think I have some spare wood in the back somewhere! Be right back!"
He ran off giggling. The little thing began to cry.
Later that day, after he was all done, Nny drank some Coke© and watched Tank Girl. It was a good day.