It was a beautiful day in New York. The day couldn't have been more beautiful if it had been designed by an artist. Like a Monet painting, except imagine less water lilies and more blood, explosions and terrified screaming.
It wasn't a good day, let's not make that mistake. Just a really nice one. The skies were clear and the sun was shining and everything. It's just that there was a lot of death and destruction going on.
Monet would probably have been on crack if he had painted this scene. Especially because of the spaceships.
I forgot to mention that bit. There were spaceships. They were shooting people. A lot of people were screaming.
Except for the ducks in Central Park- they weren't screaming. In fact, they were fairly sedate. Ducks have no capacity to understand the ramifications of an alien invasion, and as such they were having quite a nice day. That one douchebag mallard had gone off to another pond in Flushing Meadows, and the bread dropped by fleeing New York citizens was delicious.
But this is not a story about the ducks in Central Park, although I assure you they are fascinating, and their family politics rival Game of Thrones in terms of sheer duck cruelty towards each other. In fact, their family politics mirrored Game of Thrones almost exactly. This was not chance- a passing demonic being had gotten bored one day and reprogrammed the ducks to behave exactly like their fictional counterparts. Sometimes demons misuse their abilities. Especially the nerd ones. Fucking nerd demons.
In any case. There was an alien invasion, which usually happens during a day of terrible weather- when all hope is lost because of the rather awful thunderstorm going on, and the added stress of an alien invasion just tips the citizens over the edge and makes them perfect for ruling over. Today, however, the Dalek Emperor had not checked the weather forecast for New York.
"YOU TOLD ME IT WOULD BE OV-ER-CAST!" The Dalek Emperor roared mechanically at his underlings. They bleeped and blooped nervously under their giant leader's gaze. "THIS IS NOT IN-VA-SION WEATHER!"
For a few seconds, there was silence in the confines of the vaulted-ceiling spaceship. Why did the spaceship have vaulted ceilings? Because I'm telling this story and in this story Daleks are surprisingly adept architects with a flair for Baroque-style spaceships. Don't like it? Then go home and tell your own bloody story about Dalek spaceships where they prefer Romanesque architecture. My Daleks are just more cultured than yours.
Now. There was silence in the artfully designed spaceship. For a few seconds, everyone processed their answers in silence. Then a single Dalek trundled forward to address its Emperor.
"THE WEATHER IS NOT IMP-OR-TANT TO OUR INVASION. WE HAD A GREAT TIME AND WE SUB-JUD-GATED A RACE, AND THAT IS MOST IMP-OR-TANT."
Once more, silence reigned in the architecturally challenging Dalek mothership. The Emperor looked down at the Dalek with as much disdain as a giant octopus-monster could manifest in its expression.
"NOT IMP-OR-TANT?!" It roared in the exact same tone and decibel level it had been using before. "WE HAVE AN AUDIT ON SUN-DAY! IF WE DO NOT CARRY OUT THIS INVASION WITH THE METH-OD WE HAVE BEEN TOLD TO USE BY SENIOR MAN-AGE-MENT, WE WILL NOT PASS WITH AN 'OUTSTANDING' MERIT AND WILL BE RE-MOVED OF OUR PARKING PRI-VIL-EGES! WE'LL HAVE TO GIVE THEM TO THOSE DOUCHE-BAGS IN QUAD-RANT GAMMA!"
There was some awkward shuffle-rolling and whirring across the spaceship. Nobody wanted to give their parking spaces to the Quadrant Gamma douchebags- they all wore sunglasses even though Daleks don't have the necessary eyes to wear them.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME, DA-LEK?" The Emperor continued to yell in the exact same way as it always did, glaring down at its tiny subordinate.
"I AM DA-LEK JAST, OF THE CULT OF SKARO." Dalek Jast replied with a tremor in his voice.
"AREN'T YOU DEAD?" The Emperor asked.
"IT WAS EX-PED-IENT TO THE PLOT TO BRING ME BACK," Jast explained.
"DA-LEK JAST," The Emperor proclaimed, "AS PUN-ISH-MENT FOR QUESTIONING MY METHODS AND POT-EN-TIALLY COSTING US OUR PARKING SPACES, YOU ARE BANISHED TO EARTH, TO RULE OUR NEW SUB-JECTS IN OUR STEAD."
"NO!" Jast wailed. "I JUST PAID OFF MY MORTGAGE ON SKARO!"
But it was too late- the Dalek Emperor teleported Dalek Jast onto the earth below, and the Dalek ships retreated into the starry skies.
That's when he saw them.
They were surrounding a poorly designed vehicle- something that had clearly been created in an era where engine size was valued over a streamlined design and actual taste, for god's sake, it looked like someone had stapled together a couple sheets of scrap metal around a motor. There were four of them- one tall, with glorious moose hair, one shorter, with ridiculous sticky-up hair, one shorter still with a big stupid trenchcoat on, and one-
Jast did a double-take with his eyestalk at the last one. The shortest of the group, with the darkest, most beautiful hair, and the most glorious Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-Shirt. Also a tablet in a papoose around his shoulders, but Jast wouldn't judge.
He was perfect.
"HUMANS!" He yelled to the group- they straightened their backs and turned to face him.
"Wow, dude," the one with the ridiculous sticky-up hair said, "Do you think, dude, we should shoot it, dude?"
The tallest flicked his fabulous moosey tresses back. "Fine, but if the recoil musses up my hair, we stop."
And so, three of them began to shoot Jast, which naturally did nothing. But the shortest did not. The perfect one did not. Jast began to advance on them.
"I CHOOSE YOU," Jast called to his soulmate. The one in the dumb trenchcoat stopped shooting and tilted his head.
"Me?" He asked in a ridiculous low voice. Honestly, nobody has that low a voice. He puts it on. He must do.
"NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT," Jast replied. "YOU."
"Me, dude?" Asked the dumb sticky-up hair guy in a fairly stupidly low voice.
"NO, FUCK OFF AND USE LESS HAIR GEL. YOU."
"Me-" started the moose guy.
"WE'VE EXHAUSTED THIS JOKE, SHUT THE HELL UP."
The perfect one stood in the wind just right to have a succession of cherry blossom petals blow past him and ruffle his perfect hair.
"Me?" He asked, adjusting his papoose so his perfect tablet was more on show.
"YOU. YOU ARE GOING TO BE MINE. TAKE ME TO YOUR HOME, PATHETIC PERFECT MEATBAG."
And so Kevin Tran (for that was what he was called) strapped Dalek Jast to the top of the poorly designed car and they went to their new home.
But the adventure had only just begun.
Sam stared at him for a second.
"DEAN!" He yelled. "YOUR TURN TO BE ON INTERROGATION DUTY!"
"What? Didn't like the story?" Crowley asked, a sly smile on his face as he was handed back his crayon and paper across the devil's trap.
Kevin looked only confused. "Why was I going out with a Dalek?"
Sam looked back at Crowley. "And what was with your obsession with my hair?"
Castiel looked thoughtfully into the distance. "Do ducks really have Machiavellian family relations?"
Crowley shrugged. "That's the beauty of my writing- you can question it yourself, long after it's finished."
"Oh, we'll be questioning it alright," Sam answered. "Question why it's so shit."
"That's it, Dean will be getting the favourable point of view next chapter, Moose," Crowley replied, pointing at him furiously with his favourite blue crayon.
Sam just gave him a long stare and walked out. Kevin did the same.
Castiel paused before he walked out and turned to Crowley.
"Daleks would prefer Romanesque architecture. It's more practical."
And with that, he walked out.
Crowley pouted and sat down to write more of his masterpiece.
"Nobody understands my genius," he mumbled as he began writing out his magnum opus in crayon.
Dear god. I am so sorry. This isn't even funny. Why is Crowley writing this? Why are Daleks so enamoured of the Baroque style despite its overly intricate style that demands a higher price for manufacture? What conditioner does Sam use?
All these questions probably won't be answered. I don't even know what's happening. Next chapter will probably be as bad as this.
I'm not even drunk.