Wow, I just CAN'T stop writing about the Disney characters. I just love them so much, they deserve some love when it comes to KH fanficton. I suppose I'm that angel that keeps the Squeenix and Disney in balance. (Sounded better in my head.)

This is the tale of friendship, "drama", and romance. Hell, you might even get a cheap laugh or too. This is, "Gearitorium". A full synopsis awaits below.

Summary: AU/OOC. Donald "Don" Anselmo has spent years stuck in a dead job ghostwriting for best-selling author, Geoff "Goofy" Farmer. It doesn't help that his best friend and convenient roommate, Mickey Iwan, is mooching off him either. So when a scheme to stop this injustice turns awry, the three of them must collaborate to restore each of their former glories.

Yeah, a human-AU OOC dramedy about the Disney characters. Sue me, haven't seen anyone else do the idea before, so why not be the first? Before you get any wise ideas, pairings will be straight. Maybe some implications here and there but that's it. The title will eventually make sense later on down the road, just hang on, alright? One note though, this story is rated T. It's much more mature than my other currently on-going fics. So read with at least a little sense of caution.

This story will be lightly updated, maybe one, two, or three times a month. And it will be finished, I assure you of that.

I think that's enough for you to understand the basic gist of what's going to go down. So without further ado, I'll shut up now. Enjoy, and if you can, review please!

Word Count: 3444 words.

Date I Began Writing This Chapter: Somewhere Late March-Early April

Date I Finished: April 23rd, 2012.

Assembly Line

Alternative Title: In More Ways Than One

An assembly line is a manufacturing process in which interchangeable parts are added to a product in a sequential manner using optimally planned logistics to create a finished product much faster than with handcrafting-type methods. It is a pre-made routine that should never be disturbed.

"What's a six letter word for someone who can't go one day without having his anus ruptured? Hint, it's not anyone's mother." the voice he heard in his ears was registered as "innocent". But he filed it under the classification of "douchebag". He decided to play him at his own game.

"Six letters and you're saying its not "His mom"? Huh, I guess I'll go with my second guess then."

The mention of a second guess was enough to capture his full attention.

"Second guess? I never said you could have more than one guess!"

"You never said I couldn't either."

"Fine, what's this second guess then, oh fearless leader?"

"Mickey. That's my second guess. That's six letters, isn't it?"

Mickey looked up from his crossword. He ran a hand through his black hair and sighed, "You dick. I was looking for "Donald". You ruined the whole joke."

Donald didn't even turn his head to face Mickey the whole conversation, as if they had been through this situation before. Which was true, but that was the least of their problems, "The joke was ruined the second you disowned any references to "Mc'mom". Funny how that also has six letters." Donald's reference to the nickname of Mickey's mother earned him a well-deserved glare.

The lanky man shot him a roll of his eyes, "Says you. What kind of person counts a freaking apostrophe as a letter? And stop taking a piss on my mom, I ruled against that!"

"Someone who knows that letters and punctuation marks are both counted as printed characters. That would be me, hence my literature degree." Donald noted, earning a sigh from his friend.

"I don't need to hear this trash again." Mickey got up from the couch, stretching to wake his body up.

"Then don't. I wasn't planning on telling you the full story anyways. I figured I tortured you enough this month because surely I can't afford anymore time to do it on this salary." retorted Donald as he flipped the TV channels, the countless easily discardable bores of basic cable floating through his eyes.

When he earned no response, he decided to move the conversation forward.

"Daisy gets here in a few, might wanna hit the road before then. She's going to cook in honor of the new book being released." to that, Mickey's eyes widened in instant fascination. He had rarely tasted Daisy's cooking, and the times he did. It was pure bliss. The man would often wonder why she didn't prepare meals often.

Any man who would pass a chance to miss out on Daisy MacNeille's cooking was clearly someone who did not know her.

"Can I-"

"No." Donald immediately shot down his request. Knowing Mickey was going to complain either way, he turned the TV volume down and turned his exhausted head to listen.

"Aww, but come on! Her cooking is divine, how could you not agree to letting me stay?"

"Look at you, we haven't even been in this room for a half-hour yet and you've already referenced the kitchen, women, cooking, and your mom. Your manners are far from being any form of etiquette."

"Oh you worry too much! What's she going to care anyway?"

"A lot. Such is the reason why I don't want you to stay."

Mickey raised his brow, but smirked when he came upon a realization, "Hold the phone. This isn't about me at all, is it? This is about you."

Donald noticeably tensed up. Mickey had him where he wanted him, "This is about you feeling like she cooked that dinner for that fatass you're always yapping on about. Not for you. Isn't it? News flash, faggoteer! She doesn't even know the jackass!" his words rang in his ears; And sent Donald miserably spiraling off the couch.

He ran his fingers through his white hair, bringing both to his face, "It's just not fucking fair. I write those books. I wrote those characters. I did all the writing! Everything! And he just takes it and stomps on it! What a fucking hack!"

"Calm down, calm down. Blabbity boo hoo hoo; And how come you don't just tell someone that isn't me about this sob story? Maybe you'll actually get recognition for it." Mickey grabbed the remote, raising the volume back to normal, "How come you never do anything about any of your problems? You always just wait it out. It's like a shitty soap opera."

"Because that fucker gets me a salary. That salary pays off more than seventy-five percent of the rent of this apartment. An apartment keeps me alive. Ergo, I rely on him to keep living here! Because apparently a degree in creative writing seems to only go so far when it comes to the working environment..."

"I'm starting to wonder why you gloat about it then."

"Not the point. What is is that I write all of that man's freaking books, I get paid only to not squeal about it, while he gets the real money, fame, and interviews, fuck. He doesn't even know what the books he "writes" are about! I put passion into that stuff, dammit. Geoff Farmer shits on everything that our forefathers forged about literature!"

"So you're a ghostwriter for a series that everyone thinks you didn't write. That's the point of ghostwriting, idiot. You're not supposed to receive recognition for it at all. Why the hell are you fighting a fight you can't win?"

Mickey dodged the remote that flew his way, watching as it slammed into the wall and dropped to the floor. It's batteries and cartridge lid lost in the process.

Donald didn't even twitch at the wadded newspaper that headed towards him. For it was off completely by about a foot or two.

"You really need to get that attitude of yours checked."

"And you should work on improving your projectile accuracy."

"Shut up."

A pause of silence followed; And the two ended up killing it seconds later with simultaneous laughter.

"So Don. What are you going to do now?" Mickey asked, folded arms filling the gap behind his pale neck. "Heh, funny you ask. Well, I'm going to wait for Daisy to leave her house, come over here, have you get out, and eat my guilt-ridden dinner with her to the tune of classic rock. What about you?"

Mickey crinkled his nose in disgust of his plans, "But I am home!" he insisted.

"For now, you are. Let me remind you that this is my apartment, not ours. Me paying three-fourths of the rent while you barely make your part on couch money alone, an equilibrium does not make." chided Donald as he casually inspected for grime on his fingernails. Finding none, he blew his breath faintly before looking at his friend again.

Another pause filled the room. Mickey was the one to break it, "You really want me to move huh?"

"Explain to me how Daisy will move in then."

"I can stay! I won't cause any trouble, you can trust me!"

To this, Donald shot a brief glance at him. Shaking off Mickey's plead, "You aren't necessarily the worst cockblocker in this complex."

"Oh c'mon! Name one shitty thing I've done to you." said Mickey, he placed his legs on the coffee table in front of him. A grin plastered on his face.

"Well, just a minute ago you tried to kill me with a newspaper. I'm sure that act alone will do wonders to your final score." Donald bluntly answered, seemingly more focused in fumbling with the remote. Mickey got up from his couch to trot over to the one his roommate was on. He clicked his tongue in frustration, and lightly punched Donald's shoulder.

"Come on!...What if...What if I pay half the rent instead of a fourth? ! Don't throw me out, Don! Not yet!"

Donald blankly stared at the television screen, deciding that CBS was more worthy of his attention at the moment, "Attention, jackass. You're already supposed to pay half of the rent."

When he turned to see what Mickey was now up to. He tensed up at the sight of him begging.

Donald heaved a sigh, feeling that he's had enough fun. Turning to Mickey, he paused before resuming, "Is that a statement or a question?"

Mickey looked up with a confused face, "Huh?"

"Your plan. Is it a statement or a question? It tells me if you're standing up to my demanding rule or not."

Mickey's lip quivered as he pondered his decision, "Uhhh... Statement?"

"Alright. Get up." demanded Donald as he helped Mickey out of his begging position. "Tell you what, Mick. You pay seventy-five percent of the rent this month. You can stay. Fail, your ass is out of here, and I mean it this time."

"It's a deal! Fuck yeah, you won't be disappointed, Don! You'll be happier than that time you won the Crossword-a-Thon!" Mickey jumped into Donald's arms to crush him into a hug. The latter cringed and pushed him away.

"But I didn't win the Crossword-a-Thon. Hell, I wasn't even in the Crossword-a-Thon. That was you! Even worse, you didn't even win; And don't hug me without notifying me first or showering, jesus christ." Donald dusted off the imaginary dust from clothes while Mickey picked up the newspaper from earlier.

"Huh, really? Funny. I don't recall that, oh well! You'll make it big in the crossword world, Don! You just gotta believe, here, you can practice with this!" Donald took the newspaper being handed to him with roll of his eyes. Looking on the crossword puzzle, he noticed the selection of words his friend chose to use.

Needless to say, he wasn't surprised. Judging by his sense of humor, no one should have been.

At that moment. The phone started to ring, which briefly caught Mickey off-guard. "Oh crap, it's the fuzz! I didn't do anything bad this time!"

Donald slapped his hand to his forehead, slowly dragging it down his face. He whipped his hair in an effort to look tidy and cleared his throat. "It's just the phone, dumbass. Hold this, I'll be right back." he handed the paper back and walked towards the phone to answer the call, muttering curses regarding his lack of presentability.

Mickey tuned out the phone call by directing his attention to the television, but he began to feel incomplete. As if there was something he was forgetting to do. He shook off the thoughts after failing to remember. With a yawn, he declared that he would recall whatever it was soon enough.

It didn't take long for Donald to come back; And when he did, he looked disappointed. "That was Daisy, looks like she isn't going to be coming today. She has to start preparations with this new gal pal of hers. Figured I wouldn't mind if we missed one date. So good news for you, you get to stay and not be locked in your room tonight! Ain't that swell?" asked Donald with a faux smile.

"Oh god, that's excelsior!" Mickey got up from the couch to jump in happiness, legs curling up in mid-air.

"Hmph. Don't get too happy. With Daisy gone, you're ordering food. Since this is my apartment, I choose where we eat.-"

Mickey interrupted with a discerning point, "But you chose last week! It's my turn!"

"What? You think you're going to choose with the salary you're earning? Lesson number thirty-three: There are times for jokes and times for seriousness. Let's diverge into the latter route, okay?"

"Ha, I got you! I don't have a salary! Take that, smartass!" Mickey cheered with a fist pump.

Donald grabbed the phone and lightly chuckled to himself, "That's exactly my point," he punched in a few numbers and threw the phone to Mickey, "tell him we want two large ones. Usual toppings. I'll be in the back room working on the new novel. I'll get the door when he comes, god knows you're anything but sociable.

"Hey! I'm sociable! What are you talking about?"

"Where's your girlfriend then?"

Mickey crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow, pupils darting upward. When his thoughts came up blank, he lowered them back to his friend, "My what?-"

"Apologies for my redundancy, but. Exactly. Which brings me to my next point, Mick. You need to get laid. Maybe get a job too while you're at it. Right now you're some sort of hipster, stoner hybrid of a best friend. That's not too classy anymore these days."

Mickey put the phone to his ear and placed the order, ignoring Donald's claims by placing his hand before him.

Once he was done, he placed the phone back on it's cradle and lied on the couch, "Whatever. So, what's this new novel about?"

Donald shook his head, "I haven't a clue. It was a miracle I even came up with the last one. Still hate that Geoff fucker for jacking credit for 'em. Anyways, today's supposed to be brainstorming day. Nothing too serious. Might write the prologue if I get a brainspark, you know the deal."

"Right." Mickey gave an encouraging nod. But his eyes widened during the action, "Shit! That's it! I remember now!" he sat up and crawled over on his knees to the drawer-table that stood near the couch. Opening the drawer, he took out a pair of fuzzy black earmuffs. Placing them on, he hooked up his MP3 and began playing music, mentally declaring that an earmuff-earphone hybrid was the best invention ever.

"Winter's coming." he bluntly noted.

"You're an ass." Donald flipped him off, not taking his excuse for ear-wear lightly.

And he left the room without another word.

Geoff Farmer was your average man. Not too unorthodox, not too much of a douche. He wasn't half-bad either. Course, complexion should be the least of your problems when you're rich. In Geoff's case, this wasn't any different. Save for the guilt ridden lies he had to push through daily. It came packaged with the job after all.

Geoff maneuvered through the office cubicles quietly, writers among writers were packed in each of them. Mindlessly writing the books that were all credited to him. He knew he was being used simply to fool consumers into purchasing nonsense. But he didn't really care anymore by this point, the writing industry has sunk to a new low. And as Geoff sat in his own cubicle. (The one in which work wasn't produced and loitering was encouraged.) He knew it wasn't getting any better.

"Mr. Farmer?" squeaked a voice from behind him. Geoff froze his fingers above the keyboard. Typing in his password would have to wait.

"What is it, Chip?"

"I have the newspaper for you, just like you asked!" Chip handed the newspaper over quickly, Geoff took it and immediately scanned his eyes at the headline.

Chip saluted him by pressing an arm to his forehead, "Don't worry one bit, Mr. Farmer! You won't have to lift a finger, the writers in this place will hold the fort down. All you gotta do is relax, pose for pictures, and go to interviews! And with Dale and I as your secretaries, we'll make sure nothing goes down! O-oh! And I brought you a cup of coffee, courtesy of Dale. He wanted to make sure you start today off on the right foot!"

Geoff took the cup, silently took a sip, and noted the bitter taste. After a few more sips, he spoke again. "Don't you mean ghostwriters?"

Chip cocked an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"The writers here. They're not writers, they're ghostwriters!" Chip nodded quickly, he ambled over to Geoff at a nimble pace.

"Well, sure. Of course they are, don't you see, Mr. Farmer? All these guys get paid just to sit in a cubicle and write a story for the world! Then we get someone like you, you pose for an author's photo, and then we claim the author of the book was you! You get paid to sit there and like good, while the rest of us haul work. Then the cycle starts all over again, and the world never ever finds out!" explained Chip. Now that he was so close to Geoff, his size became extremely imminent.

As Chip continued to ramble on, Geoff laid his eyes on the headline again. "New York Times best-selling author Geoff Farmer breaks record for number of book sales in first week for newest novel!" he read outloud. Chip scratched his chin in confusion, wondering where he was going with this.

Geoff narrowed his eyes and looked away from the newspaper. "And you never once thought this entire "cycle" was a bad idea?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"Well, everyone kinda thinks I'm the reason for the book's success. "

"But you are, Mr. Farmer!"

Geoff turned around and sat the paper down. He began typing in his login password, "Enough of the "Mr. Farmer" nonsense, Chip. This is the twelfth time this week I've had to remind you 'bout it!"

Chip jumped up and nodded vigorously, "O-oh, yes! Right away, uh, um, Goofy!" with that, Chip scrambled out of the cubicle, leaving Geoff alone to his "work".

His eyes looked up from the computer monitor, "With that kind of authority, I don't think you can call me that just yet. Keep trying though!"

He continued typing. The only sound throughout the entire office being the clicking and clacking of each and every keyboard.

It was your modern day torture symphony.

"Why do you use one of the few day offs you have this month just working even more?" Mickey asked, his lack of etiquette clearly showing as the bundle of spaghetti rolled around in his mouth, "Thanks for letting me order the pasta by the way. Really goes good with the pizza."

Donald looked up from his food, "I didn't know you were so interested in what I did on a day-off."

"Well you should be relaxing! Instead you're locking yourself up in your room to work on that novel. We could be in the living room right now watching television, you know." Mickey rolled his fork into more spaghetti, and brought it to his mouth.

"I find it humorous how you complain about my work when it's clear that you'd never understand what I have to go through."

Mickey swallowed his pasta and let his palms fall to the table, "Hey, was that a crack at me?"

Donald merely put on a faux muse, "I don't know. Was it?"

"I can get a job whenever I want to, it's just that openings are slim!" Mickey retorted, pointing his fork at him for added effect.

Completely ignoring the latter point, Donald replied with a witty tone, "Then get one. All you do everyday is literally, eat, drink, sleep, and shit. I'm not kidding. You mooch off of me and I can't help myself to kick you out because you're my best friend. You should be lucky I even let you stay for this month."

"I'll get one when you help me get one."

"You'll get help to get one when I finish with my work. Estimated time should be in a few months."

Mickey's eyes widened, he almost spat out the food he was chewing, "A few months? ! How do you know if the land lord won't kick us out by then? !"

Donald cracked a smile and looked at him, "I don't. That's why you should get a job now. Look, fuck it. Since you're gonna whine, I can't risk waiting months and losing this place due to your laziness... I suppose I'll help you search tomorrow for one. Alright? Me and Daisy are heading over to the shopping complex. Perhaps you could get a decent hipster job there. Y'know, I hear working at department stores is everyone's new thing."

"How many times have I called you a savior this month?" asked Mickey as he helped himself to another serving.

"More than I can count, and in more ways than one." Donald replied, he got up and pushed his chair in, taking his plates to the kitchen.

The abrupt response threw Mickey into a disturbed silence.

"Maybe one day, you might just be passable at it!" exclaimed Donald from the kitchen, referring to his occupation skills.

"Are you trying to make my day horrendous?" Mickey yelled, clearly he wasn't amused.

Neat, the first chapter was completed! I'd like it if you guys read and review, that stuff makes me happy. You don't have to, but it would be appreciated.

I'll try to get the next chapter out as fast as possible to keep you guys' interest intact. See ya real soon!