A/N:

I thought about calling this a crackfic, but it's actually based on all the ridiculous Rick and Morty promos so the premise of the whole story isn't all that implausible. So, yeah, idk what this is. Possibly crack. Definitely not serious, bro.

It is day.

Tammy and Birdperson's melding ceremony is in full swing.

Rick is, of course, taking full advantage of the bar as an alcoholic is wont to do. This is all… sort of okay as long as he's getting drunk. Except for the Jerry part. Jerry, who is whining in his ear about something inconsequential. Jerry, who is probably the weakest being Rick has ever come across in his lifetime. Jerry, who is kind of the opposite of alcohol—sobering, anxiety-inducing, an all around party-pooper.

Oh, is he still talking? He is, isn't he? Rick glances over his shoulder, a little vodka dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Confirmed: Jerry's mouth continues to flap uselessly as it always has.

"Jerry, jerry, jerryjerryjerry." Rick puts down his drink and turns on the barstool to grip Jerry's shoulders. "I need you to—uUURhp—shut. Shut the fuck up."

Jerry opens and closes his mouth, brows knitting, "Wha–? No! I will not! You let that-that gross meatball carry me across the galaxy, and you're not even gonna apologize?!"

Rick rolls his eyes and releases Jerry, turning back to the bar where he waves to the bartender. "More vodka. Like, the whole bottle if you—just—gimme the whole, the whole bottle."

"Rick!" Jerry cried.

"Bartender, do you know why I'm ignoring Jerry?"

The bartender slides a bottle of vodka towards Rick. "Dude, I just work here. I don't give a fuck."

"Just–just take a guess. A quick guess."

Jerry is shocked into silence, staring opened mouth at the back of Rick's head. "Are you serious?" he hisses.

The bartender shrugs. "He's whiny?"

"No," Rick takes a swig, "He's an–uuUURp–he's an idiot!" Behind him, Jerry says, hey! and Rick swings back around to face Jerry. "Jerry, jerry. It's pointless, yelling at me."

"Don't I know it," he mutters, and then his shoulders slump. "I guess I just wish that for once, you'd be sorr–"

"No, Jerry, be quiet," Rick interrupts, "I'm not Ri-uuRp-iiiick. I'm–I'm a shoddy copy! A-a-a piece of shit misrepresentation of the show, Jerry!" Rick slams the bottle onto the counter.

Jerry's eyes are wide. His anger is, as it usually is with Rick, doused by unwelcome confusion. He doesn't want to know where this conversation was going. Maybe he should've just left Rick alone. Who is he kidding, of course he should've left Rick alone.

He tries to back away, but Rick catches him by the wrist.

"I'm not Rick! You-you're not even Jerry! This isn't even," Rick gestures around him, and for the first time Jerry notices they're… well, they're nowhere. They're surrounded by colorless space, endless in every direction. "We're not even anywhere! The god-damn–the lazy ass author didn't even give us a setting, are-are you–you're serious?"

Rick releases Jerry and glares at what should have been the sky.

"You're not even gonna bother describing the wedding? I mean—you have so many creative opportunities. It's a fuckin' alien wedding—you could, there's a… there's plant people for fuck's sake! And what do you do?" Rick shakes his head. "And the bartender—you didn't even, you coulda said he walked away, but you just ignored him and now he's gone!"

Jerry, meanwhile, has already curled up in the fetal position at the base of Rick's barstool. He's whimpering or something, pulling at his hair in a way that Rick realizes is totally out of character. Jerry's a tool but he's usually too stupid to panic about his existence or lack thereof.

But as it is, Rick has to go with it. What choice does he have?

"Jerry, get uUURp," he burps, "You're embarrassing yourself."

"Oh god, oh god, oh god, where are we? Rick!" Jerry rises to his knees and grips the lapels of Rick's lab coat. "We gotta get home! I-I hate this!"

Rick rolls his eyes. "Jerry, you fucking idiot. This is a fanfiction. There's no going home!" He shoves Jerry away and rolls back to the bar with his vodka, which has for some reason now turned into Jack Daniels. Lazy-ass author. "You-you-we can't get out of here. Just, do whatever you want, go wild, pretend Beth actually loves you, I don't-uURRph-I don't give a fuck. It's a fanfiction, no one cares."

Jerry stares open mouthed at Rick, and then at the nothingness surrounding him.

"Hey, bartender!" calls Rick, "Order me up some sweet ass K-lax, am I riiiiiiiight? I wanna snort that shiiiiit! Uuurrpph–fuckin' fanfic Riiiiiickkkk! Gettin' high, stickin' my dick in all them plot holes! Whooo!"

Suddenly, the entire white room becomes a booming party. Tammy is strung up by the neck from the ceiling, a disco ball rotating in her mouth, which Jerry finds strange because—well, it's just kind of violent, especially since Tammy never really did anything besides accept a forty-year-old Birdperson's creepy marriage proposal. Speaking of which, Birdperson is squanching it up with Squanchy in the corner. Totes a new ship for the weirdos out there.

Rick dives into the crowd, chugging his alcohol (see, now it's some kind of alien moonshine) as he surfs across them nameless peeps. "Yeaaaahh, boi! I don't give a fuck! Turn-uUUUurp—turn up that mothah-fuckin' muuuusiiiiiic! I'm Fanfic Riiiiiiick!"

Jerry just sits on the ground, crying. The author has the power to remove him from this situation, but she instead chooses to sit back and smile. And then, because she doesn't know how else to end it, the fic just kind of