"Danny? What's up?"
The Jew, leaning against a wall, perked at his name and turned to the source, none other than Suzy, who was striding towards him. "Where's the rest of the guys?" She sweetly asked.
"Mm, Arin had to take a shit and Ross, being Ross," Danny gestured his thumb to the bathroom on the other side of the hall, "Decided to follow him to tell some lengthy poop joke."
"Oh, I-I see." Suzy weakly smiled at the notion, "Well, uh, can I ask you something, Dan?"
"Yeah?"
"This MAGfest went pretty smooth, but I noticed when someone mentioned the," she hesitantly across the room, "D Club, you seemed a little uncomfortable. Is it…something you want me to talk to Arin about?"
Danny felt his cheeks burning as he shifted his stare to the floor. "No, no. It's nothing. Thanks for the concern, though, Suz."
"Okay…are you sure? Is it just the sexuality part of it or—"
"DAMMIT, I SAID I'M FINE!" Dan shouted, without thinking.
At the loud sound, the bathroom boys ran out to check the commotion, Arin with his pants around his ankles and a small dingleberry poking out.
"What's wrong?!" they yelled in unison, with a slight delay from the Aussie, Ross.
"Um, I—" Suzy began, just as Danny shot off and sprinted into the distance.
Ross tried to give chase, but Dan's thin, agile body was impossible to catch up to.
Arin, on the other hand, waddled in suit for a few seconds before realizing his doody wasn't done yet.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Danny eventually stopped for a breather in some forgotten, unlit hallway. After hunching over to take a few deep breaths, he leaned back and slid against the wall, sinking to the floor, and putting his head in his knees in despair.
"I don't know what it is," he muttered, "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Everyone thinks I have a problem with it, with ding dongs and swordplay, when in truth—"
His pity party ceased when someone tapped his shoulder. He lifted his head up to see the perpetrator, a single tear rolling down his face in a depressing, je ne sais quoi beauty.
It was none other than Brian, in his ninja outfit—thusly dubbed Ninja Brian.
"Oh, Brian, I-I…How long—" Brian crouched and shushed the Jew by placing a finger upon Dan's wet lips. Although Ninja Brian was a cold killer, his finger was warm and loving, calming down his friend.
Danny's knitted brows began to loosen as he gazed into the man's eyes, orbs of unworldly intrigue.
The assassin slowly stood, with his comrade following suit, as if entranced. Still facing the latter, Brian walked backwards leading him down paths to a janitorial closet with such precision as to avoid stumbling or bumping into anyone or anything.
As the small door quickly slam shut behind them, Danny regained self-awareness, just to be reeled back by the new location.
"Wuh? Dude, how did we get in here?"
Brian didn't respond and silently locked the closet from the inside.
"Yeah, uh, I get that Ninja Brian is a silent character, but this isn't time to be in character."
Even with the closet being relatively empty, save for a beheaded broomstick, the small enclosure made Danny feel uncomfortable. Especially with Brian being mere inches away from him, and especially with said man in character, even giving off the intimidating aura of the fictional persona.
"Okay. Uh. Totally. So I'll just," Dan attempted to shift towards the door to escape, but the maniac inched blocked the way and leaned closer and closer.
"Nnrrgh," Danny uttered, with his anxiety rising.
Ninja Brian reached an index finger to his face, sliding down the material that covered his mouth.
"Wh—"
Brian slammed his face on Danny's, passionately slobbering all over his salty face, and soon sliding his tongue into the temple that was the Jude's mouth.
Once the initial shock subsided and he felt the predator's tongue, he had a burst of testosterone and slammed his friend to the wall.
"You," He gasped, "You aren't Brian!"
"How… do you know?" Asked a strange but familiar voice.
"Because Brian, he, he," Danny's face blasted in a shade of red that not even Crayola had made yet, "his kisses are way more sensual than that, you sick bastard! I should've known those eyes were off!"
"I see…" Said his attacker. "Then maybe I should enlighten you to my," He struck a very anime pose, "TRUE FORM!"
He shed his outfit to reveal he was none other than...
"WORLD FAMOUS PUGILIST TOMMY RAY HANDLEY?!"
"Yes," the boxer smirked, "But no one can ever find out,"
"Fuck you they will! Once I get out of here, I'll—"
"More like, if you get out of here." Tommy Ray readied his right hook and sputtered, "Death approaches."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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"There, are you happy?" The author grimaced.
"Yes, this pleases us," a group of painted girls purred.
"This is what they get for calling us Spinnakers," the fattest of the group barked.
"Yeah, okay. Juggalettes, Murda Hatchet Girlz, whatever, can I just get my money and go? I mean, you don't just post a Craiglist offer for a writer and then keep them hostage, that's so 2009. Like, really, just let me—"
"Oh, we're not done with you yet," The tallest squeaked, "You only got the scraggy hair guy. Now for the chin guy—"
"I wrote him in with a dingleberry and a pun about duty! What the fuck else—"
"You mentioned the Kangaroo guy with him in the bathroom," said one with Shakira hips, "make them do it in the butt, or we're gonna make you clown until you're dead in the ground. And we're all out of clown stuff."
The author covered her face in her hands and mumbled, "Barry, edit this part out."
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"Hmm, that was especially," the Juggaleader licked her lips, "Juggalicious. Especially the use of his shit."
And so the author was freed.
The end.