The old man sat in the plush leather booth of the restaurant. He stared out the foggy, pale window beside him, his expression unchanging. His face was cold as a rock, his eyes solemn and thoughtful. What he was watching, nobody knew.
Nobody knew.
Not a single living soul.
Nobody.
In fact, for that matter, nobody in the restaurant knew who the hell he was at all.
As far as they were concerned, the solemn figure had just solemnly appeared out of nowhere, and had been sitting solemnly at that same solemn window for the past ten solemn hours, not moving except for the occasional solemn moment in which he would reach downward and solemnly scratch his balls.
Examining his appearance didn't solve the mystery. On one hand, judging from the fact that he was currently located in a high-end, uptown eatery, one would assume that this man had come from a background of wealth. Yet on the other hand, the fact that his long white beard was so ragged and unevenly trimmed that it looked as if he had been shaving himself with a rabid opossum said otherwise. That, and the fact that he was wearing only a trash bag on his body.
You know, now that one really thought about it, he was probably just some homeless psychopath who had wandered inside on accident and subsequently succumbed to PTSD. Anyways—
"Hey! I'm not homeless, eh! I just like to express myself with unique fashion choices!" the old man suddenly exclaimed, frustrated with his unflattering narration. "And what in the butter balls is PTSD? I think you just took four random letters and strung them together, to be honest."
Everyone in the restaurant stared at him. They had no idea why he'd felt the need to exclaim this out of nowhere. Some of them murmured to one another nervously. Meanwhile, some of the more tactful individuals began making sure they had a clear path to the exit in case the situation were to escalate, which, judging by the way the old man was now bent over and fuming in rage, would most likely be the case. Suddenly, the elder pounded his fist down upon the table.
"Where's the manager, eh? I want to speak to the manager of this place! Come oo't and face me like a man!" he declared, and then paused for a second. "Or woman. I ain't tryin' to be sexist, eh. It is perfectly acceptable for a woman to be a manager at a restaurant. I don't want to be mistaken here. I think equality really is a beautiful thing. Anyways, GET OO'T HERE BITCH!" The manager of the restaurant, who had been alerted of the issue, walked over, frowning.
"Is there a problem here, sir?" he asked.
"Hell yeah there is! The narration at your restaurant sucks, eh!" spat the old man, flecks of saliva spraying from his beard. The manager slowly wiped the saliva from his face, wincing. He had no idea what the psycho was talking about. He shrugged and smiled apologetically.
"Good narration costs extra here. Everyone knows that," stated the manager, playing along with the old man in the hopes that he could reel in a few easy bucks. The old man narrowed his eyes at the manager, and took a step towards him threateningly.
"You know, I can just take my services elsewhere, if that's hoo'w we're gonna play curling, eh." The manager scratched his head, his eyebrows scrunched.
"Umm . . . excuse me if I must ask, but what is 'curling'?"
"IT IS THE BEST SPORT IN ALL OF CANADA, YOU IGNORANT **************!" The whole restaurant was now completely silent. The old man stood there, his body heaving, steam pouring out of his wrinkly ears. The manager stared at him for a long time. The awkwardness of the entire situation was palpable.
"Uh . . . very well. But please, sir, could you perhaps enlighten me as to what 'services' you have provided for our restaurant? As far as I can tell, you haven't ordered anything since you got here ten hours ago, and have just been sitting there looking out the window, scaring at least half of our potential customers away with that godawful beard of yours."
"And how is that my fault, eh?! Nobody's come and taken my order! I'd expect more from such a prestigious restaurant!" cried the elderly gentleman. The manager sighed and rubbed his temples.
"You do know this is a McDonald's, right? You're supposed to order your food over there," he beckoned to a counter across the room from them. The old man stared at the counter.
"Oh."
"Would you like me to lead you over there, sir?"
"I CAN DO IT MYSELF, EH!"
"Um . . . okay. Have fun."
"I WILL! I ALWAYS HAVE FUN!" With that, the old man stormed over to the counter, and slammed his hand down upon it. However, the counter turned out to be much harder than he had originally anticipated. The senior citizen sprang backwards, clutching his hand and sobbing in pain. He fell to the ground, roaring in agony. All the restaurant-goers as well as the teenager running the cash register could only watch in horror as the elderly dude curled up into the fetal position, tears streaming down his face, shaking like a baby. Five minutes later, he finally got back up, and placed his hand back on the counter, much more gently this time around.
"I'll have one potato, home-dog," announced the old man proudly, noticing that the cashier was an adolescent, thus deciding to show off his impeccable use of modern teen slang. The teenager decided to not mention that the term "home-dog" hadn't been used in over sixty-five years.
"Um . . . did you say a potato, sir?" he asked, glancing around for help. Nobody was there to help him. He was all alone.
"Hell yeah, home-dog! And make sure it's fresh, eh. Ain't nothing more dope than a fresh potato," the old man declared.
"Of course," the cashier chuckled nervously. "So you really just want a raw potato? You know you can just go to the Farmer's Market for that—"
"But why would I ever go there, when I can go to a wonderful, decadent kingdom filled with culinary adventures that are both healthy and delicious?"
"Uh . . . this is McDonald's, dude. The only 'culinary adventure' you'll be getting is a heart attack."
"And what an adventure it shalt be! McDonald's is the greatest blessing this earth has ever been given, eh. You obviously are forgetting that part in the Bible. Remember? On the eighth day, God said 'Let there be Diabetes!', and down came the Big Macs! Oh, what a glorious sight it was to behold." The old man sighed happily, as if reminiscing on the past. Rather than ask the obvious question of what drugs he was on, the teenager just nodded.
"Um, yeah. Anyways, will that be all for you today, sir?"
"Yep. Now go, blessed servant of the lord! BRING ME THE FRUIT OF MY DEVOTION!" the old man roared, throwing his hands upwards, knocking over a cardboard cut-out of Ronald McDonald in the process. The teenager flinched at this sudden, jolting burst of passion, before walking to the back of the kitchen, disappearing for a moment, and then returning with a potato.
If one could even call it a potato. It more resembled a wilted, yellow penis, obviously a result of pesticides. However, the old man quickly snatched it from the teenager's hands, his eyes glinting and his mouth watering.
"Oh . . . it is perfect!" The old man started moaning, dancing his tongue across the outside of the potato, his eyes rolling back in ecstacy. The teen turned away, disgusted, covering his eyes with one hand so as not to have to witness the unpleasant sight in front of him.
"Can you please do that in private? There are children here, dude." The teenager then held out his other hand. "That'll be ten cents." He waited for a while, one hand still covering his eyes, for the money to be placed in his palm. Nothing happened for thirty seconds. Finally, he peeked through his fingers, and saw that the old man had disappeared. The cashier groaned when he realized his customer was now sitting back at the table, once again performing what looked to be oral sex on the potato. Making sure his taser was at the ready, the teenager slowly walked over to the table. Once he arrived, he took a deep breath.
"Sir."
He was greeted with nothing but the sounds of slurping and moans as the old man continued his devouring of the potato.
"Sir, you need to . . ."
His words were once again drowned out by the spud-gasm occurring before him.
"SIR!" The old man stopped, and glanced up.
"Yes?"
"You still need to pay for that."
The decrepit senior citizen guffawed loudly, startling the young cash register operator. "Haha! How could I forget? Thanks for reminding me, Matthew."
"My name's Terrence."
"I knew that, Matthew. Now hold on a second. I just need to reach into my pockets . . ." The old man reached under the table. Terrence decided not to ask how the old man could have pockets when he was essentially in the nude. He knew the answer would most likely prevent him from ever sleeping again.
"And there you are!" The old man proudly presented his 'payment' to Terrence, that being a picture of himself. Terrence stared at it for a moment.
"Dude, this is a picture of yourself."
"I know! Although you really don't have to re-state what the narration just said, eh. Anyways, pretty sexy, huh?" The old man grinned. "That should suffice, correct?"
"I don't think I made myself clear. You have to pay me with money, bro."
"You can make a lot of money off of that photo," the old man said, admiring his own picture.
"I highly doubt that."
"It's true! I'm a former celebrity, eh. I was on a show where I turned into a rabid monster and fell into a volcano," declared the elder proudly, as if accomplishing this feat were a badge of honor.
"Uh . . . okay, dude. That's great for you. But you still have to pay with money," the cashier demanded, before tossing the picture into the trash. The old man squealed in horror.
"WHAT THE F**K, EH?! That's a valuable masterpiece! AND YOU JUST SOILED IT!" The old man stood up, scowling. "You better pay me back for that!" The manager of the restaurant heard the commotion once more, and quickly sprinted over.
"What's going on h—"
"TERRORIST!" The old man screamed as he punched the manager across the face. The manager then toppled over onto the ground, unconscious. Terrence stared down at his manager's body, before glaring back up at the senior citizen.
"What the hell did you do that for, man?!" Terrence yelled, drawing the attention of the restaurant. The old man swallowed deeply, looking down at the manager's unconscious form.
"Whoops. I thought he was a terrorist." The old man began to hear angry murmurs from the crowd of restaurant-goers, and, without a second to spare, he frantically stood up on the table to address the restaurant.
"Everybody, just calm down! Rest assured, there ain't no terrorists here, homies." The old man was unfortunately unaware that his trash bag was far too short, thus quickly plunging the fic into M-rated territory and prompting disgusted groans from the other patrons. Soon enough, these groans turned into yells, and before long, the whole restaurant was rioting, with the old man frantically trying to calm them down. It was not working.
Meanwhile, outside the restaurant, a cop car had just pulled up. It came to a stop, and the doors swung open. Two police offers stepped out onto the curb. One was large and burly, with red hair and freckles, wearing a uniform that struggled to contain his massive form. The other stood much shorter, with dark skin and a permanently frustrated expression. Grabbing the keys from his partner, the shorter cop turned back to the car, preparing to lock it up, but stopped in his tracks. The vehicle was, somehow, taking up four parking spaces.
"Seriously, Rodney?!" the shorter one groaned.
"What?" Rodney asked, completely oblivious.
"What? I think you know exactly 'what', man," Rodney's partner sighed, pointing to the car. "That parking job is literally so bad that it breaks the laws of physics!"
Rodney laughed. "Relax, Dave. We're cops! We can't get in trouble with the police!" Rodney smiled assuredly, patting Dave on the back.
"Uh, yeah we can."
"Says who?"
"Says the law, you dumb, lumbering—ah, forget it. All I know is that I'm driving on the way back." Dave snarled. Rodney frowned, obviously hurt.
"W-why?" Tears began to fall down the Rodney's cheeks. Dave moaned to himself.
"It should be obvious, man! Every time you saw even a remotely attractive woman driving past, you decided it was a good idea to CROSS THE FREEWAY BARRIER AND TRY TO REAR-END THEM! Why did you do that?!"
Rodney placed a solemn hand on his heart. "I did it for love."
"Yeah, well, you almost killed us on seventeen different occasions. On our way to McDonald's. A place where we're going to die anyway, because they probably clean their cooking utensils in the restroom's toilet!" Dave shuddered at the thought, and quickly began sanitizing his hands. Suddenly, his phone went off in his pocket. Dave reached in and snapped it open.
"What do you want?" Dave growled.
"We have a situation, David. You're going to have to handle it," said an intelligent-sounding woman's voice on the other end. Dave shook his head.
"I'm on my break, Scarlett."
"I believe you can delay your daily makeout session with Rodney by five minutes and still receive the same satisfaction you always get out of it."
"WE DON'T MAKE OUT!" Dave screamed. He then began biting at his nails in anxiety, breathing heavily. "Does Sky think that? Does she think I'm gay?! I mean, sure, sweater vests aren't exactly hetero, but—"
"David, I'm sorry to inform you, but it is statistically proven that you're never going to mate with Sky. Nothing you do will change the course of that equation. She's highly attractive, socially adept, and a gold-metal Olympic athlete. You're not."
"So?! I'm a POLICEMAN! What's manlier than that?" Dave grinned, flexing his nonexistent biceps proudly.
"I must remind you that you are a policeman in Canada, Dave."
"So?"
"So I think that statement speaks for itself."
"Whatever! So what's the situation?"
"Just the usual. Ezekiel escaped from his retirement home at approximately 1 AM this morning. You have to bring him back." Scarlett stated matter-of-factly.
"Are you serious?! No! This is the third time this week! I'm done being traumatized! I CAN'T STAND THIS JOB!" Dave yelled back into the receiver, about to cry.
"Dave, you literally spend ninety-five percent of your time dicking around with Rodney at an arcade. The five percent you have to sacrifice doing actual work shouldn't be causing this sort of hyperactive neuron malfunction in your Amygdale."
"English please?"
"Stop being a little bitch. Anyways, he is currently situated at a McDonald's, approximately five feet in front of you."
Dave sighed. "Well, at least it isn't a strip club like that time. That was awful."
"And yet, for some reason, you still felt it necessary to spend five hours there."
"I was doing important . . . uh . . . research!" Dave stuttered.
"Hmm. Interesting. I wasn't aware that 'research' involved arriving back at the station in the middle of the day, inebriated far past the socially acceptable level with your pants at your ankles, bragging about how you 'hit the touchdown', which, if my knowledge is correct, is not even a correct sports term."
"Okay, I'm hanging up now." Dave angrily slammed his phone shut, and jammed it into his pocket before turning to Rodney. "Now let's just get this over with."
Rodney had been staring through the window at two females in the nearest booth. Dave grabbed him by the collar and made his way inside the restaurant. Immediately, he was greeted with the sounds of shouting and babies crying, as most of the customers were now on their feet, yelling at Ezekiel (a.k.a the old man, if you hadn't figured that one out by now), who was still standing upon the table, trying to calm them down.
"Okay, settle down, peeps! If you want my autograph, get into an organized, single-file line! I can't take all this chaos, eh! Whoa!" Ezekiel yelped as he dodged a shoe that was thrown at him. "I don't want your articles of clothing either! I know my presence is probably bringing you a great amoo'nt of sexual excitement, but stripping doo'wn is not the solution!" Ezekiel suddenly noticed Dave and Rodney, who were walking towards him, handcuffs at the ready. He beamed at the sight. "Finally! Some help has arrived! Can you cops get these fans in order? I don't think I can fend 'em off much longer! That'd be great! Thanks!"
Five minutes later…
Ezekiel now sat strapped into the back seat of the cop car as it sped through the streets of the city. The old man laughed with approval, grinning.
"Great idea, guys! Pretending to arrest me will totally throw them off my trail," chuckled Ezekiel.
"Uh, sorry to burst your bubble, but you're actually being arrested right now," Dave sighed from the front seat, as he drove the car.
"What?! Why?!"
"We have this conversation every time I arrest you, Ezekiel. You can't storm into whichever fast food chain you want and assault people's eyes like that."
"Oh, come on! They totally wanted it, eh. They're probably huge Total Drama fans." Ezekiel argued.
"No. No they are not. Total Drama has been off the air for 30 years. And even then, you were in, what, 5 episodes? Nobody remembers you, okay? It's time you moved on. Take up a new hobby! They offer plenty of wonderful options at the retirement home. You can knit some clothes! Because seriously, you need to get some f**king clothes, dude. You're not even homeless," Dave muttered, glancing at the old man's trash bag getup. Ezekiel crossed his arms.
"No! I aint never goin' back there again!"
"Well, actually, yes you are. That's where I'm taking you now."
"NO!"
"Yes, Ezekiel."
"YOU'RE LYING TO ME! If you're taking me to the retirement home, why aren't we moving right now, eh?"
"Because we're at a stoplight, and the light is currently red."
"So?"
"So we can't go."
"You live your life by such trivial rules. ONWARDS!" Before Dave or Rodney could stop him, Ezekiel was suddenly in the front seat, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal. With a screech, the cop car sped forward, right into the oncoming traffic.
"GAH!" screamed Dave, frantically grabbing at the wheel and swerving to avoid the other vehicles. It was to no avail, however, as the car slammed right into a truck going the other way, sending it spinning across the intersection, before colliding with another car and flying backwards into the highway barrier with a huge, jolting thud. There was silence for a moment. Then the hood burst into flames. Dave took a deep breath, as he stared at the fire before him, listening to the angry car horns and swearing filling the air outside. He turned back to Ezekiel, who sat in the back seat, an innocent expression on his face.
"That, Ezekiel, is why we don't go when the light is red."
"Hmm. I actually believe that experience gives us all the more reason to," Ezekiel stoically noted.
"No it does not! Now let's just get you home before we all get arrested," Dave groaned, as he started up the car once more.
Elsewhere...
Alejandro Burromuerto sat in a plush armchair, his long, gray locks flowing back behind his head as he tilted his face to the ceiling, deep in the middle of one of his famous 'Alejandro fables'. Surrounding him was a crowd of beautiful, young women, all listening intently to his story and all about one third his age.
"Seven days later, I had finished my fight with the bull. It was long, it was bloody, but I had come out victorious." Alejandro crooned, and all the girls giggled as if this story of animal brutality was a romantic love poem. One of them then raised their hand, like a child in a classroom. Alejandro pointed to her, smiling. "Yes, my love? You have a question?"
"Yeah, I do. I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you just randomly choose to fight with a bull for seven days, when you had literally nothing to gain from the experience?" Alejandro stared at her long and hard. Slowly, a grin crept onto his wrinkled yet handsome face. His gaze was mischievous and playful, yet passionate and solemn. He slowly spoke, his voice but a whisper.
"Because . . . I am the Alejandro." All the girls immediately swooned. Another girl raised her hand.
"Can you say something in Spanish?" Alejandro's eyes narrowed at her, building within them a fiery intensity. Slowly, his lips parted, and single word exited.
"Hola," he whispered. Alejandro then listened in content as all the women's ovaries promptly shattered. Suddenly, the door to the room slammed open, and in strolled Ezekiel.
"Alejandro, I brought you your adult diapers, eh. I shoplifted them from Target on my way to the restaurant. Where should I put them?" Ezekiel then noticed the women. He cringed. "Whoops. Did I interrupt your harem?"
"Yes, you imbecile, you did!" Alejandro growled, "How dare you intrude on my time with these wonderful . . ." He trailed off as he realized that all of the women were now filing out of the room, glancing back at him in disgust. Alejandro stuttered frantically. "No wait! Come back, ladies! It's all a lie! WE CAN STILL MAKE THIS FAIRLY CREEPY RELATIONSHIP WORK!" But they were gone. Alejandro turned back to Ezekiel, fuming in rage.
"You moron! I thought you were at McDonald's!" Senior citizen Al groaned, gritting his teeth in frustration. "You always do this when I have company over! You show up at the least opportune of times!"
"I think they might've been a little young for you, Al."
"DON'T CALL ME AL! And age is but a number. Love is eternal."
"That philosophy is somewhat pedophilic, eh," noted old man Zeke. Alejandro shrugged.
"Whatever. Anyway, I don't even wear adult diapers, you blithering fool! The colon of the Alejandro is as strong as it ever was! It requires no assistance!"
"Woo'w, eh. I just wanted to do you a favor."
"Well, don't! Just leave me alone!" Alejandro growled, and put his head in his hands. He sighed to himself. "Of all the retirement homes in Canada . . . thisis the one I end up in. Of course." Ezekiel frowned, and walked over to sit in the seat across from him.
"Listen, Al. I know you're going through some rough times."
"'ROUGH'?! Aging has been a nightmare, Ezekiel. My beautiful body is slowly deteriorating into nothing but a wrinkly dough sack with too much hair in all the wrong places. And worst of all, I have to spend that time with the most annoying prick on the planet!"
"Aw, Al. You're too hard on yourself," smiled Ezekiel. "You're definitely not the most annoying prick on the planet." Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "What you need is a story. How about I tell you aboo't my life after Total Drama, up until today?"
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"NO!"
"YES!"
"NO! I DON'T EVER WANT TO HEAR WHATEVER STUPID SHIT YOU DID AFTER THE SHOW ENDED! THERE'S A REASON I AVOID YOU AT ALL COSTS EVERY TIME I SEE YOU, BE IT LOCKING YOU IN THE BATHROOM OR PUSHING YOU INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC!"
"It involves Heather."
"Please, continue."
"I knew that would catch your attention." Ezekiel chuckled. Alejandro frowned, scratching his head.
"But wait . . . are you serious, hombre? I lost contact with my dear Heather just a month after Total Drama: All-Stars ended. She never returned another one of my calls! I haven't been able to find her since then, and I've traveled the globe! How . . . what . . . WHY YOU?!" Ezekiel smiled.
"It'll all make sense soon, little one. But first, I have to start from the beginning," Ezekiel said, before clearing his throat.
"No! Just skip to the part with Heather!"
"But where's the fun in that?" Ezekiel laughed. Before Alejandro could protest, the elderly homeschooled student began.
"It all started on a rainy night . . ." Alejandro quickly interrupted him.
"What started? And that is the most cliché opening ever!"said the Hispanic elder.
"I'm setting the tone! Now be quiet and enjoy the story!" Ezekiel responded, before tapping his head in confusion. "Now, where was I? Oh yeah."
It was a dark, stormy night…
The Cheesebub:'Sup guys. Hope you enjoyed that little prologue. It's the beginning of what I hope will turn into a truly epic fanfiction. We're writing this with one goal in mind, and that's to change as many negative opinions about Ezekiel as we can. If we can convert just one new Ezekiel fan, then this fic will be success. Now, you're probably wondering why I'm using "we" when talking about this. Well, it's my pleasure to announce that I've teamed up with another avid Ezekiel fan to write this fic. We're two of the only Ezekiel fans there are anymore after all the canon writers have done to his character, so it was natural that we work together. He goes by the current username of "TIAW Mr. Coconut Beatles", but he is best known as "TheImpossiblyAwesomeWriter", or "TIAW" for short. I'll now turn it over to him.
TIAW:Hey all, it's TIAW! I'm sure at least a few of you have heard of me. But if you haven't, well, you have now! I'm best known for my Psycho Trent one-shots and my survival fic "Total Drama Jurassic Park", but my true passion in TD fanfiction is writing Ezekiel, and not the tame, naive Ezekiel you see in many other author's portrayals, but the insanely crazy Zeke his true character arc was meant to flow into before the writers screwed with his character and turned him into Gollum 2.0. The Cheesebub and I are writing this together, like he said, to show the world just how awesome Zeke can be. We already have a long story arc planned out, so expect this fic to go on for a long while. It'll be an enormously fun ride!
Just for reference, this fic is rated T because of some moderate language, some crude and sexual humor, and violence. Nothing too bad, though. In the next chapter Ezekiel's story will truly begin, picking up where All-Stars left off. See you then!