A/N: Dear lord why did I write this
The dust began to settle, swirling around in funny looking patterns. Of course it was one of those "In media res" stories in which all kinds of stuff happened before you even got a chance to read it. Who writes stories like that anymore? The author does, sure, but who else? Anyway, stuff was happening, and this stuff in particular involved the viral being that was once known as Alex Mercer and a pot of flour. Not a flower pot, which is remarkably similar in pronunciation despite being vastly different in actual contents as well as purpose. It was about this time that the author realized he was starting to ramble on about random crap that his dear readers really did not give a flying bucket of pig feces about.
Yes, so, Alex Mercer and a flour pot, and in this case, Alex was busy defecating chocolate into it. While this may seem bizarre to you, it was your fault for deciding to begin reading this story right now, and not earlier while Alex was being chased about Disney World by a giant leg of ham (which we'll be getting to in a series of confusing indie montages). The grinding and roaring of the cement mixers was what kept Alex from finishing his duties, and he burst out the front door of Hilary Clinton's home for enraged avians only to be assaulted by hordes of adoring camera-wielding fan girls. Not wishing to be featured in even more of those comics inspired by the all-encompassing 'Rule 34,' Alex charged into a nearby alleyway.
Here he found comfort in isolation. The only other being that could be considered alive was a balding hobo in a yellow jacket, slumped up against a wall. "Wah hallo dar," the hobo said, cheerily greeting his new visitor "Ah'm Coal McGraph an' ah welcome ya to ma magikul palace!" He sounded like a chain smoker, and he probably listened to country music.
Mercer quickly formed a bit of his biomass into several green, rectangular shapes with archaic markings on them, then ripped them off and handed it to this Coal fellow. "Here's seventeen dollars for beer. I was never here," he growled in a most gangstaly fashion.
As Alex rocketed away from the oncoming estrogen brigade, the disheveled hobo was suddenly mobbed by requests for crossovers and some horrific process known as shipping. Coal watched Alex escape, vowing revenge one day, just before being asked to pose for a female variant of himself.
Far off in the wilds known in the human tongue as California, current, and as-of-yet undefeated ping pong world champion Robert "The Specialist" Cross was eating a hotdog. It was a pretty good hotdog, but was lacking a bun, hotdog meat, and various condiments. Outside of Rob's fantasy world, he was doing latrine duty for not dying like how he was supposed to in the canon. However, these toilets were gold plated and automatically cleaned themselves, so he really didn't have much to do, except watch large pink elephants gracefully fly by. Outside of the afterlife, Cross was still pretty dead.
With that business taken care of, the author realized he had no incentive to wrap-up whatever this horrid conglomeration of words was called, set to work writing the next installation, and avoided the word "chapter," as it implied some form of continuity.