Disclaimer: Once upon a time there was a narrator who took it upon herself to screw up every story she could get her hands on. With complete and utter disregard for the opinions of others, authors and fans alike, she made it her mission to corrupt any good plot line or character development she had the means to. With the help of her tech-savvy computer and her skills of destroying anything she put her mind to, she quickly set to work on annoying the crap out of everybody. These are her stories.
La Cerveza was the longest, fastest, most crapping-of-the-pants horrifying roller coaster in all of New Jersey. Adrenaline junkies from all over the universe travelled billions of miles for a chance to have their faces ripped off by the machine. There was even a fan club for La Cerveza, dozens of people strong. And Gore Fest had brought it to the State Fairgrounds this year, just in time for Dr. House to gain all the function back in his leg. In addition, Cuddy had agreed to come along with him. Under any circumstances fathomable, this would be the best night of his life. But the narrator refused to be bound by the rules of believable fan fiction.
"So that's why you imprisoned us in a Moon Bounce?" House demanded.
"Yep. If you had your cane, it could have popped this inflatable prison, but alas you are healed," the narrator explained.
"Damm. And I suppose this story has no plot in addition?"
"Precisely." The narrator cackled maliciously, causing the sky to erupt in lightning bolts.
Cuddy giggled in the corner, biting the end of her thumb. "I made a booboo." She farted loudly, and a foul stench enveloped the plastic castle.
"Oh gaw!" House coughed and hacked and vomited and died. Cuddy laughed sweetly and sat on top of his back, making squishing noises as she did.
"Seriously? Poopy humor? That's low, even for you," Dead House grunted, but was silenced.
"Yo, you messin' with my boy, homes?" Wilson chortled, suddenly appearing beside the impenetrable inflatable. "Yo, House dawg. What you say to a game a Gay Chicken?"
"Worst fanfiction story ever."
Wilson chortled. "I hear ya, dawg. I could read 'fore I readed that crap. Now I's illiterate and can't talk no good grammar. I gotta go now, cuz my biskets is burnin'. Catch ya on da flippidy-flip."
"Wait, Wilson, get me out of here," House protested, suddenly alive again, "I need to get back to the hospital – being trapped here has given me an epiphany and I know how to treat my patient now."
"Dang, blood, I ain't got no scissors. 'Sides, I'm not gettin' involved in no more a you crap. I's clean now, blood." Wilson gangster-waddled away.
"This crappy story has no plot whatsoever. It is a monumental waste of space. Cuddy, quit peeing on me! You aren't wearing a diaper, you idiot." He flipped over, knocking Cuddy to the floor, and realized she had spikey heels on. "All the other kids with their pumped-up kicks, and she has daggers on the soles of her shoes." House forcefully tore off her shoe and stabbed the corner pillar of the castle with it. He hacked into the side until the opening was wide enough for him to escape. He turned back and dragged Cuddy by her ankle through the hole. Once outside, he tossed Cuddy onto the back of his motorcycle and sped away, making a nonverbal vow to ride La Cerveza one day when an actual plot could be conceived.
"I think I will regret posting this story deeply," the narrator speculated.
Thus the fate of the world depends on a children's card game.
The End