"Let me tell you a story"
Fred Abberline leaned back in his creaking chair, his hands clasped firmly underneath his chin, a crooked smile appearing on his otherwise serious-looking face. He laughed, his ginger bags skating over his eyes as he lowered his head as if to gather his composure, then looked up again, and was once again serious, though it was obvious that his composed visage would not remain for much longer. He sighed a withering note, then leaned back even further on his desk chair, toppling, files and all, onto the floor behind him.
Let's start that one again, shall we?
Take two.
"Let me tell you a story," said Mr. Abberline, covered in plasters and struggling to speak through his tight facial bandages, "a strange story, which to you may make no sense at all, and you may pass it off as sheer nonsense if you will, but I can guarantee from evidence, reports and sheer scientific truth that what you are about to hear is completely and utterly true. It is out of habit, out of the ordinary, out of character even, but it is truth all the same. For my dear readers, the truth is a strange and dangerous thing, that..."
Cut. I'm dying of boredom here, maybe something a little more...snappy.
"Let me tell you a story..."
No.
"Let me tell..."
No.
"This is a story and by god if you don't get it, you can shut the hell up."
...
Better.
Now that that idiot's out of the way, let me tell you a story, a strange and mystical sparkle story about a vampire, an emo hipster, and some topless men in crap...
Oh shit sorry, that was Twilight. I am so, so, soooooooo sorry. Though the topless men are probably the closest way to describe what this story actually is, and as am saying this it appears to me that you're bored out of your tiny little skulls. Then again, that is what narrators are for, right?
...
Right?
...
Who's with me?
...
...
...
Ah fuck it, let's just say it's a weird fucking story and leave it at that.
It all started merely a few weeks ago, in a place called London, at the wedding of two people who would rather not have their names disclosed (but left the initials C.P. and E.M., so it's fairly obvious either way), and who just happened to hold a midnight satanist wedding on the night of a full moon in a strange little strategically placed plot-central countryside spot just outside of some big part of London, god knows where, it doesn't really matter. But they are not who this story is about, rather, their groomsmen, who were uncharacteristically making gooey labu-labu faces at each other for the entire ceremony ad just could not wait to get to the ceremony so they could blow a fag for a while, if you know what I mean. Of course, there were children at the wedding, and unfortunately for them there was no more room in the loo because of the fat grandmother of some distant relative of someone who only turned up for the cake, and the gents had already been 'taken' for the night by the bride's highly intoxicated brother and his weed stash. There was a vast array of portaloos too, but everybody knows that that'd be practically impossible, especially with these imbeciles. Anyway, even if they had been acrobatic enough to fit in one of those, their chance was already gone, because in their boredom the kids had piled them up into a heap and had taken to setting them on fire in their own cute little satanist way.
But lack of room besides, they thought "oh, fuck it", and proceeded to heavily make out on the personalised satanist dancefloor, which was smeared with blood from the hog roast, and sort of on fire.
But who cared, this was fanfiction, anything could happen.
So, the two lovebirds, or "love-crows" as a certain Mr. Emo liked to call them, were getting rather busy on the dancefloor when the band came out, and the first dance was announced - the ever-sweet and sentimental Mr. and Mrs. Emo had decided on the ever-classic wonder "I LOVE YO BITCH NOW TAKE IT AND DIE!" by DEATHmosh, and they had taken to the fiery dancefloor in an instant, lovingly tearing into each other's eyes, their platform heels digging into our two love-ravens' backs. Nevertheless, no one noticed their appearance, and it wasn't until the newlywed Mrs. Emohive had slipped on something white and sticky and broken her leg that things started to get a little ... strange.
Of course, for the sake of the plot, everything went up in shit. Mrs. Emo and Mr Emo were immediately engulfed in the flames, and with the added fuel of the nondescript-nameless-sticky-substance that had led them to their glorious and oddly fitting death, the flames spread like wildfire, and pretty much everyone died.
Other than the bride's brother, who was currently choking on his own vomit and was to die later of 'unknown causes' and the fat grandma with digestion issues who really needed some Weetabix.
Unfortunately for our two lovebirds, this was by no means good news; that grandma was a bit of a bitch when she wanted to be, and seeing her precious emo cake engulfed in flames was the last straw in a huge pile, and she began to morph into a creature unlike anything they had ever seen. Fat, grotesquely so, with moobs up to its arse and bum flabs that could wipe out an army in one sole shake. It was one fucked up beast.
So, snapped out of their ravishing by the creepy fucking monster, they got up and ran, completely naked from the waist down, and oh so confused, until they reached the closest portaloo on the satanic mound, shut themselves in, and hyperventilated like hell.
"Welp" said Sebastian, "That was an amazing idea."
"Sure was" replied Will, who was straightening his blood-soaked tie and grinning like a mental person, "Fancy marrying me, my dear?"