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Critics universally agree that "Buster Manwomb is to Literature what a midnight screening of I Spit On Your Grave is to your chances of ever getting a second date."
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69 Hues of Deez Nuts 6: Walt Disney Reboots Indiana Jones
Chapter 1: Disney decides what to do
All seemed to be good in the near-future world. Disney owned everything, and the Executives were happily making more money per week than most of their employees could reasonably spend in a lifetime.
It was a sunshiny day behind the closed doors of the Executive Meeting Room, which was actually a gladiator pit where american fast food workers would tear each other limb from limb for the chance of winning luxurious luxuries like clean drinking water and insulin. Mickey Mouse and Randy Pitchford were laughing, holding a maternity leave cheque barely out of reach of a victorious-but still mortally wounded- woman, the fabric of her burger king uniform soaked in the csncer-ridden blood of a teenaged McDonalds cashier. Not that the cashier minded much. He already sold most of his vital organs to keep up with his student loan payments, and was dead even before the diabetic gladiators began to fight over who got to cannibalize his pancreas.
Then the door slammed open and a very fearful Kermit the Frog rushed in. "We're in trouble! The coke pit is almost empty!"
This sent the executives into a panic before Mickey Mouse raised a hand, commanding the silence of all present, lest they prefer exsanguination.
Mickey's jaw unhinged as his mouth opened, making room for the face of Walt Disney as it pushed up Mickey's throat, nestling between mickey's lips. Mickey's eyes turned milky white as Walt Disney assumed control of the body.
"This." Walt starred, black suspension juice leaking from his mouth. His voice was twisted, like if Emperor Palpatine spoke while gargling a single sip of water. "Is no need to panic!"
"Your grace…" the less expertly suspended head of Stan Lee started, not daring to make eye contact.
Walt let out a deep, gurgling noise as his throat filled with air. "What?"
"What shall we do, your grace?"
Walt sat ponderously. "We are still a couple years away befire we can marketably steal from the Jews again…" Liquid leaked from his mouth as he prepared to speak again. He called out, to no one in particular. "How long until the next Marvel movie comes out?"
"Four hours, your grace."
"And the next Star Wars Movie?"
"Six hours, your grace."
"And the next Animated movie?"
"Three hours regular, Six hours for pixar, your grace."
"and the next live action movie?"
"Thirty minutes, your grace."
"and the next good live action movie?"
"Our scientists are struggling to find a name for the number, sir."
"Damn it!" Walt Disney wailed, his tortured voice echoing through the room. "We cannot put our faith in the live-action remake of The Good DINOSAUR! We need something NEW!" Walt slammed Mickey's fist to the nearest table. "Something FAST!"
Nobody dared make a sound. Even the gladiators were silent, pressing themselves to the wall beneath Walt, praying to avoid his attention.
Someone made a dreaded cough, and Walt lurched in its direction.
While George Lucas was technically still alive, he has grown so horrendously fat in his lavish idleness, he required a Baron Harkonnen-esque harness to help him move his body without pulverizing his bones. Though rolls of fat were tugging at his facial features downward so drastically that conventional displays of emotion were impossible, the look of dread in his eyes was unmistakable.
"George…" Walt grinned, lurching over to him. "We haven't done much with your… creative brood… have we?"
"...No, your grace." Goerge Lucas responded, barely louder than a whisper.
"Tell me…" Walt caressed the skin on George Lucas' head, suddenly digging into the flesh of the rear of his head, and tugging George Lucas' face uncomfortably close to Walt's. "What do you think we can do?"
"A, um, ah….." George Lucas gasped, panicking. "Maybe… a Monkey Island movie?"
Walt stared at George, confusion flickered across his face for a split second before giving way to venomous anger. "Did you… just... JOKE with me?"
Everyone in the room sat, petrified. You never wanted Walt Disney to think you were joking with him. At worst, you would be nailed to a chair while your family was set aflame. At best, you'd still be nailed to a chair and your family would still be immolated, but your eyelids would not be removed beforehand.
"No! No please, I was thinking out loud! Brainstorming, please!
"Keep brainstorming!" Walt gurgle-hissed.
George could feel the acidic suspension juice eat at his skin as it sputtered onto him. Walt knew. Walt did not care. "we haven't done Indiana Jones since the purchase! Maybe a reboot?"
At first, walt was motionless. For whar felt like an eternity that his lips slowly slithered upwards, tugging his face into a nightmarish grin. "I knew there was a reason we paid for you, Georgie!" Walt patted the breathless George's cheek, and returned to his seat. Only then did anybody in the room dare to breathe.
"I WANT AN INDIANA JONES MOVIE IN TWENTY MINUTES, OR YOU'RE ALL FIRED!" Walt screamed, goading the executives to scramble.
"Your grace" one of the executives asked. "What of the gladiators?"
Walt stared down into the pit. The gladiators cowered below him. The Walt Disney Legislative Department had made unintended press leaks a capital offense. Preventative murder was also allowed by all employees above the rank of "producer".
Walt's face slowly receded back down Mickey's gullet. As its eyes regained their color, and its piranha teeth pushed back in through their retractable gum slits, it grinned at the gladiators.
Nobody living has ever seen what Mickey's torso looks like when it opens up. All the executives saw were bony tentacles shoot out of the gap where Mickey's ribcage folded outward. the poor gladiators were last seen screaming as they were tugged into Mickey's torso. After half a minute of sounds akin to dozens of starving, debarked dogs eating live fish in ankle deep water, several handfuls of coarse, slightly pink bone meal dropped in clumps, piling between Mickey's legs.
The executives rushed to leave the room.
"How?" George Lucas half-cried, completely open to suggestions. "How could we made a movie in Twenty minutes? Even with all our newest technologies we need at LEAST and hour to churn one out!"
"I have an idea." Kermit the frog offered.
George Lucas looked at Kermit the Frog, desperately.
"Jim Henson was in your shoes, not long after he was reanimated." Kermit said mournfully. "There was someone, before the war. They churned out masterpieces faster than anyone could imagine."
"No!" The severed head of Jack Kirby yelled hard enough that he began to spin in the mysterio helmet full of suspension juice that he was kept in. "Absolutely not. When Jim presented that thing, Disney thought he was…. joking."
"Disney liked it!" Kermit insisted. "It was Jim that didn't like it! He was accused of Joking because he tried filming a one-man improv act instead!"
"It's suicide." Kirby muttered.
"So is doing nothing." Kermit insisted, turning to George. "At least this way, we have a chance."
"Please." George sputtered pleadingly. "Do whatever you can."
Nodding solemnly, kermit flipped open his Disney Brand iPhone. "Get me a security team and a Disneycopter, asap."