Author's Note: I am not Jhonen. That much is clear. ALSO, I do not know if I will want to finish this fanfic, as I foolishly took on a very complex task here. Seriously, I could have picked anything else to write about, and I had to choose the most difficult JV-theme. How am I supposed to know what Johnny was like before all that stuff? However, if I do decide to go through with finishing, it should come out as close as possible to the NNY that we first meet in Issue 1. That is my goal. Thank you for clicking here, and enjoy the story. Yes, I know the beginning is confusing. Read Issue 6 again and you will see my point here, though.

swish

"God, the lifespan-drawings have failed for the third time on Earth. I need for you to create a suicide-encourager for the current waste-lock. We can't have any more murder on our hands. He's not functioning as intended. He's drawing far too much attention to himself, yet he's spreading evil unchecked. Your first waste-lock had a similar situation, though on a much smaller scale, if you recall."

God shifted in his new Laz-E-God armchair. "Of course I recall. But that one was no problem in the end. I'm sure it'll turn out fine with Johnny C. as well, whatever the scale. Thank you, Master, for bringing this to my attention."

"If I didn't, you would never have noticed. We're gonna need a new God sometime soon, too--"

"What do you mean by that!" exclaimed God, his eyes opening wide. He'd only been working for the last 6,000 years or so, and he thought he was doing a fine job of running the cosmos. Better than his predecessor, anyway.

"Nothing, nothing. Just have little Johnny's art betray him; you know the drill. Do this, and I'll give you extra snacks."

"Goodie!" said God. He loved snacks. "Do I get to pick Earth's next waste-lock?" He didn't want his own son to be used again--what a nightmare. At least it was publicity.

"We'll see."

"Done!" Johnny set down his paintbrush on the table next to his latest work. Earlier that day he had seen an especially grating commercial for Pillsbury crescent rolls, and was inspired to make a Doughboy of his own. It wasn't hard to find a styrofoam sculpture of him, though he was disappointed with its height: only about two feet tall. But it wasn't like he was making a public statement with it. It would probably end up lying in the corner of a closet or in the trash. No one would buy styrofoam sculpture, especially something this deranged-looking. Anything with eyes like that... He'd had a dream with eyes like that staring at him... Then he woke up to see the television was on in front of him. It was playing that Pillsbury commercial. Johnny had a curiosity as to how those spiralling eyes would look on that ticklish little Doughboy.

Johnny's version, however, had quite a few further adjustments, not the least of which was the word "Fuck" printed across that ticklish belly. "I'll call you Psycho-Doughboy," he announced. A fitting name for this travesty. Just another middle finger to the commercialism. Commercialism meant people, and that was never good.

He turned around, about to play some Sega, but the phone rang. He ran to the kitchen. He was hoping it would be anyone --prankster, ex-girlfriend, telemarker-- except...

"Oh, hi, Mr. Crenshaw. No, I don't have the rent. I promise I'll get it to you by--"

"Mr. C., I'm afraid this cannot go on any longer. Last time I called it was the final warning," the caller interrupted. Johnny could just see his fat tush sitting in a leather recliner somewhere across town, getting fatter on bon-bons and pork rinds. The expensive kind. "I have no choice but to evict you. You haven't paid in months, and I've been very generous. I'm sorry."

"Like Hell you're fucking sorry," Johnny snapped, and then hung up on him. What was he going to do now? He had seen it coming, but what else could he do but wait? He wasn't exactly a businessman. People with records like his could hardly be expected to support themselves without help. Someday he would get old Mr. Crenshaw. So much fun it would be to raid the dead man's pockets and buy all the Brain-Freezies he wanted, without ever worrying about next month's rent.

Such thoughts had never bothered him, but they were often very distracting. He had tried day jobs, but violent fantasies kept him from being a good employee. The occasional acting upon those fantasies never helped, either. The only thing that made them come to life, however, was when people would distract him from his distractions. He hated distractions. Just once in his life he would like to truly focus on something worthwhile, not that a pathetic job working at a cafe could be considered worthwhile.

Johnny decided to start driving around the neighborhood to see if there were any apartments for rent even cheaper than his own. He didn't doubt what a difficult time it could be for him to find one. His own residence was somehow even cheaper than his car, which had been given to him by his father before he mysteriously vanished.

He grabbed his car keys, and, taking one last look at Psycho-Doughboy, he shut the door behind him.

He had left home at about 6:30, but now it was past 8:00 and still he had found nothing. Unless of course you count a gaggle of jerks standing outside a bar. But he dealt with the ones who didn't manage to run away from his crowbar. He didn't care about getting the rest, as it was already dark and he was getting tired of looking for apartments.

Stopping at an intersection, Johnny heard a faint hammering sound farther up the street where he was going. When he approached he saw a blond man in glasses and a business suit hammering a wooden sign into his lawn: "For Sale." The house behind him looked even worse than his apartment building, so it wouldn't sell for much, he figured. He stopped at the curb and got out before the man looked up.

"How much are you asking for this place?" he asked, approaching the man.

"Five hundred thousand."

Johnny stopped walking. "You're nuts."

The man laughed, holding out his hand. "Ha ha, just kidding. Juan Diablo, and you are...?"

Johnny was a bit repulsed by his outgoing behavior, but finished the handshake and answered, "Johnny C. Nice to meet you." Of course the second sentence was a lie; he just wanted to know how much the house cost.

There was a pause where the man was apparently trying to remember something, but he soon snapped his fingers. "Johnny C.! You're the-- Are you looking for a house?"

"Well, an apartment, maybe, but..."

"You can just have this one! No charge!" Johnny looked at Juan suspiciously when he said this. "Uh... My wife just had a baby, and we need to upgrade as soon as possible. I think you'll enjoy some of the things I've left in the basement! I'll even help move your things!"

"Uh, that's very kind sir. Why--" Johnny started. Juan snapped his fingers again and both he and the sign were gone, leaving only two mysterious scorch marks. Johnny cursed and got back into his car. He wasn't sure why he was angry, though. Oh well. He was always angry at something, it seemed.

Soon he was back at the apartment that was no longer his and opening the door. But then he saw that Mr. Diablo wasn't joking. All of his things were gone. The place was empty. He checked in every room, but there was no sign that anyone lived there anymore. This creeped him out. He would have called Mr. Crenshaw for one last insult, but the phone was gone too. He returned to his new house.

Inside, the place was just plain cruddy. There were no decorations, no carpets, not even panes of glass in the front windows. All but one were boarded up. No wonder it was free. Still, Johnny was suspicious. Sure, the house was miserable and decrepit, but there had to be something about it that made the man so eager to give it to him for free. He had mentioned things in the basement... Wouldn't that just make it more valuable? What were they?

Johnny was pleased to see that the house had been furnished with his own property, probably in the instant after it all disappeared. Though strong in his own right, he didn't have the muscle to move all his furniture across town. Or the money to. He decided not to devote much thought to Mr. Diablo's obvious powers, as it would probably just hurt his head. Try as he might, some things (like crop circles) just could not be figured out. This was simply one of those things to him.

About an hour of nothing later, the whole house shook. Alarmed, Johnny got up and looked out a nearby window through a gap between the pieces of wood. He kept looking until it shook again, which was when he noticed that nothing was being affected outside. It was something in the house. He set to exploring.

What he had assumed to be a closet near the back of the house was actually a staircase to the basement. Another, more violent quake made some dust fall from the ceiling of the staircase when he opened the door, so he went down there to investigate the noise.

His growing fear was enough to keep him from being distracted by the complexity of his basement, which was actually quite startling, so he found the source of the noise in just a few minutes. One room down there was particularly loud, and one of the walls was starting to crack from all the shaking. He was just about to approach it when it emitted a loud, creaking groan, like the awakening of a huge rusty robot from Hell. At least that's what Johnny thought it sounded like. He gasped and staggered backward at the hideous noise, which was accompanied by another shaking. He could actually see the wall thump this time.

"Bloooood..." It whispered sickeningly to him. The voice was hoarse, and not at all human.

Was this why the house was free?

swish

Author's Note: Didja like it? Tell me in the form of a college-educated review! Thanks.

I'm working on a chapter that will almost certainly appear in here later, concerning Nailbunny.