So I was thinking about fanfiction (duh) and I wondered how different characters would react to fanfiction worlds.
Then I thought, "Why not the Ghost Writer?"
And so this story was born.

The Author to his Gods

You know me.

I am he who pens the script of your tales and binds the spines of your most famous legends.

I am he who only longs for a good story, whether it is I who writes it or I who reads it.

I am the scribe, the author, and the wordsmith of the afterlife.

I am sorry my mother ever bore me from her womb.

When the new world order came to be, and your kind came to dominate, my heart was bourn on the backs of angels.

At last! Fresh blood in an old body! Perchance new adventures would be had, new roads would be paved! Our world would be recreated, and we would be witness to our own renaissance.

Now I am wroth.

Livid.

Sick with rage.

And terrified for my afterlife.

The world in which I reside has turned foul with the stench of incest, narcissism, and bestiality. Around every corner, my closest acquaintances and most damned foes have made the beast with two backs, and oft times more backs than this. The velvet of old romances has been shredded into thousands of scraps and stitched together into a rough sackcloth of lust.

My staunchest foes have gone aquiver at the sight of the smallest mouse, whilst the cowards of this world have turned to dominance and impossible feats. The world has turned on its head.

Everywhere I look, there exist beings neither ethereal nor carnal. They are a host to powers far beyond the most powerful man or spirit, and our most powerful warriors cannot defeat them. These demons fight and make love with wanton abandon, and gravitate to the old, famed heroes. The heroes claim to experience pure bliss in the presence of these monsters, but I see the pain and torture which they must endure.

Even existence, once thought of as the constant of our universe, cannot escape this wretched damnation. A human of the male sex may suddenly alter its form to a female spirit, whilst the oldest spirits within our realm may revert to their carnal forms. No universe was ever as friable and absurd as the one I reside in today.

I am the writer. I have created worlds of joy and bitterness, worlds of high fantasy and science fiction, worlds beyond your mind's eye. But I had a vision: I dreamt of my stories, filled with monsters and heroes to vanquish them, and longed for such a reality. My monsters were given to me, but no heroes will vanquish them.

I have tried to escape, but my legs cannot carry me.

I have tried to veil my soul, but there is no hiding from that which can see everything.

I have tried to fight, but my blows are glass against granite.

Yet in this Pandoric hell, the proverbial hope still remains.

Some of your kind have chosen to care for their charges. These gods are not perfect, but through their compassion and devotion, have made suitable realities for the old heroes and villains.

And so I wait.

I wait for the day in which these new authors may recreate our world. I wait for the day in which my old friends and foes may live, laugh, and love without fear of the demons. I wait for the day in which I may write freely once again.

I will wait until the end of time, if I must.

Our world must be free again.

Ghost Writer

This story isn't meant to poke fun at specific fandoms, just bad writing tactics.
I apologize if I offended any writers here.