DISCLAIMER:dont own anything(except the souls of the fangirls)...its all Stephen King's and the director's.
It was a nice, bright sunny day. A HAPPY day. Emphasis on the word HAPPY. It was not in any way a day for murder, arson, robbery, theft ect.
Yet Mort was inside his lonely house (which is surprisingly big for just one man and the ghost of his dead dog), asleep on the tattered sofa in a tattered robe. Notice how cute his "morning/bed hair" looks. Hang on. Its not morning, it's a little past midday.
Lazy git
Just because he went mad and killed some people in weird ways doesn't mean he gets to sleep in. Stupid Mort! You have to write something. Even your stupid "bad writing" is better then nothing. But as usual you shall tell your editor your dead dog ate it and she will send you back to your so-called "personal helper" (a.k.a goddam psychiatrist with a shiny new degree, a shiny coffee mug, shiny hair and shiny new breasts bought by the shiny coins her patients give her). She refuses to see you after the "incident involving a y-fronts dance". Imaginative, yet probably not the best way to get yourself out of being asked how you feel and to draw a picture about what you think of: your divorce/wife (she suggested an unhappy face. Mort drew his wife as a playboy bunny), Ted your wife's lover (you drew a shovel. She looked very worried about this. Especially when you kept saying "we must wait my preciousss…no scheming in front of Miss Arnold…yes we shall kill her, yet we must wait my precious" even if you had watched all of the Lord of the Rings DVDS with all the bonus footage that would not be acceptable.) Your dead dog Chico (you drew him eating the dinner your housekeeper had made just for you. Miss Arnold laughed, yet shut up when you drew a screwdriver and his head). Then she told you that you must have visitors more often.
She arranged some.
That's why you didn't run away…you thought maybe you had a chance
. And you were running out of corn…
that's why your at the door now. Answering the rhythmic and strangely familiar knock…
"Shit".
there on your doorstep stood Michael Jackson, glowing with unearthly light. That is until the source of the light stepped to the side. "Sorry about that" said God,"I get a bit nervous with strangers". Prize goes to the person who could guess what he said next. Yes, you were right….
'Double shit"
Chapter 2
You decided you definitely did "not" need to smoke. Your did "not" smoke your way through 2 packets while stroking your strange facial hair and tossing a screwdriver from hand to hand. Having God and Michael over had made him finally realize he couldn't kill everyone. I mean, one of them wasn't human! So he would have to get rid of God first(the easy part), and tell Michael he wasn't a believer. Yet having God around was a big help. They had deep and meaningful conversations about the best way to convince chicks that you only care about their mind, how to stand up while drunk and got in a heated debate about whether Yogi bear does exist, if you are really supposed to say "On-ve-lope" or "En-ve-lope", and if there was a female version of Yoda.
Michael was far less productive. Several crazy fans knocked Mort over as he was harvesting corn and then proceeded to wreck the house as they were searching for him (Micheal was pretending he was a woman and getting envious glances from Johnny Depp's fan girls while also wondering what could have driven him to such low standards).
This annoyed his housekeeper, as most stuff did. Visitors less chance to ravish Mort. Fan girls: people to kill her before she ravished Mort. John Shooter: man to get Mort wondering out of the house, less time to ravish Mort. Not getting divorced yetNot truly allowed to ravish Mort(well…she didn't REALLY care about that, but still). Psychologist: Woman to distract Mort from her rival for ravishing Mort.
She finished cleaning before blowing the obsessed fans away with a shotgun she had inherited from her father. Her father, Billy Bob Joe, was always a redneck southerner at heart. The, in true American fashion, she spat on the corpses, shook her fists and yelled (her voice had a southern drawl it didn't have before…)
"Y'all keep away from ma Mortay! Aaaaway ya hear me? Gooood…"
Audience: umm…we may have to comment about that…
Narrator: Oh no you don't
Audience: Oh yeah?
Narrator: draws audience killed by shovels and screwdrivers and then grins wickedly Really now?
Audience: Ok…maybe not…tug nervously at collars
Fan girls: We do! How could she love Johnny?
Narrator: Good point. Strange 45 year old cleaners should not love the perfect one. Yet what can I do? I've got a story to write, I have to plan a way to kill Michael Jackson and how to get rid of you fan girls…I'm swamped.
Fan Girls: Did you say you were going to get rid of us?
Narrator:(nervously) No, of course not…. anyway, back to the story…
Mort looked down at the corn. Only one was left intact. He sobbed openly…
Mort's Brain: Should you really care about this? Its only corn after all
Mort: Shut up brain! Or you may find yourself fertilizing these babes!
Audience: Did he just refer to his CORN as "babes"?
Narrator: smiles evilly maybe….BWUHAHAHAHAHA!
Audience: Riiiiiiiiiiight
Mort's Brain: OK…suicide may not be the way to go Mort…
Mort: who said anything about suicide? I've managed without you so far…
Mort's Brain: Except a few dead bodies and a burnt downhouse on your conscience…
Fan girls: You cant kill Johnny! Death to the narrator…death…death…hey! There's ice cream! (fan girls decide not to kill me to buy ice cream) not just any ice-cream! STRAWBERRY ice cream!
Narrator: Yes, that makes a difference. Of course it doesshifty eyes
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