"A Fault in Our Stars huh? More like...a FART in Our Stars! As in I farted enough on this book all the stars would gather enough methane to make the entire universe explode! The Not-So-Big-Bang-Theory!" The hideous, contemptuous man snorted and shuffled his purple overalls to not see his (flattering) creases from the night he ate all he could in Golden Corral before he was kicked out. Book reviews of indie, nerdy titles were collected on his coffee-stained table, lambasted by the footprints of possibly the foulest coffee concoction he could brew. The smell of rhubarb and garlic stuck to the newsprint like permanent Silly Putty.
Flattering reviews for John Green's books were on the black and white cheaply produced paper again, and again, and again. Frowning harshly, as if Mona Lisa had encountered an orphanage being bombed while puppies were simultaneously kicked for no other reason but to just make her cry, the balding, yet hairy man of about 40 years old felt that he lived too long to see the decay of youth growing ever more persistent. First televisions fostered their attention instead of their parents. Then the videogames his brother introduced. Then they all spent at high-dollar clothing establishments to be considered individuals when they would've been slightly more of an individual if they "donated" the money to this poor stout man who had scorned, yet never loved anyone but himself and the scintillating golden gleam of money that promised to kiss him back every night.
"WAH! These dumb kids! Here they are, just quoting that lousy Wallflower book, then they spend too much on outdated technology and ripped clothes when they could just go to their local garbage dump! Then they play-a me brother's games and they give-a him money! But not me! Not the one who was been working his lovely plump arse for all of these years!"
A treasure awaited in his mystical nostrils. Once finding the gold that was rumored to be worth a thousand fortunes, he saw it was only a booger, and wiped it on Waluigi's shirt.
"WAH! Why did-a you do that for, brother?"
"For the last time, you're not my brother. You're just some guy who decided to play hooky from college because you got bored of Shakespeare and went to play tennis instead."
His alleged "brother" Waluigi, was actually a man with a prosperous education and often made outings to poetry readings in local coffee shops, and had a Bachelor's in English literature and a minor in psychology. He never used these fruits of his labor to use. Wario gave him a somewhat decent lodging provided he try to pick up his mess once in a while and cook him a meal of spam and eggs and garlic every morning. Once in a while Wario would try to make amends with his college fund collectors and pay what (little) he can. Despite the college's suffering, Waluigi was content leeching off this brother of his. The smell of garlic and spam roasted his nose hairs to a fine curl that made him look obscenely French, and he thought he could get a Bachelor's in being a chef who specialized in spam and other canned meat. Alas; college cost too much and the end result was too little.
Wario strutted off to do his daily bathroom habits, of washing his armpit hairs with garlic and vinegar and bathing twice a week in basil pizza sauce. There were claims that it made the pitiful man many years younger, and Waluigi dared not to question of his master's odd habits anymore than he was never questioned of why he got a minor in psychology.
More onions and garlic sizzled and hissed in the greasy pan. Spam was laid out like a delicious meal in a Ghibli film. Years spent studying such Japanese cinema like Howl's Moving Castle and Totoro was laid to waste. He never mentioned to Wario he also studied Japanese culture and media before he the heavy debt came to cease an end to his enlightenment.
More newspaper clippings scattered on the tiled floor tinged with dirt and fungus, on the balsamic pizza sauce that gave Wario character and revived his heavenly perfume to enchant the ladies. Never question or answer the master, his brother thought, scraping the forlorn pieces of discarded scrapped meat. His scent never attracted anyone but the starving dogs in the poverty line of the Mushroom Kingdom. A frumpy meal was served to his king, but Waluigi also felt it fain to garnish this garrulous breakfast with anything else but a few diced canned pieces of pineapple, in hopes he would have his daily serving of fruit (he never did).
Look at John Green, his vicious eyes scanned the red dissolving newspaper. Look at that dork smiling. He thinks he's got such a twinkle in his eye, that he's so charming, that it's okay for all these teenagers to worship him and to think it's cool to know nothing about anything but self-loathing and depression. Look at this cult gather around him, sacrifice the sanctity of the publishing industry, giving money to a guy who just quotes stuff in his book like a parrot from all these little in-dey movies I think have always belonged in my toilet. A proud, pretentious sniff erupted from him, the words of Wario always having that rightness and that ring of justice whenever he said his piece on anything. Ever since the end of go-kart season, Wario was bored stiff, believing mocking the celebrities and artists of both yesteryear and today was the only way he could spend his overabundant time. Trolling on Reddit got old after a while. It was too easy to wedgie the metaphorical pants off Tumblr. He was banned from 4chan for admitting he liked Naruto.
The TV had been deaf and mute for what seemed to be years. Wario "forgot" to pay the cable bill. The bill collector offered to at least keep basic channels, or PBS if Wario found it too difficult to pay his bills on time. He said the initials for PBS stood for something that isn't appropriate for our younger readers.
It stood, its rabbit antennae begging for its screen to be fed with wandering, vicarious eyes. Life was better if everything was mute. If silence overrode the world until it became too overwhelming for those who felt noise was the only thing to live for, that they went Turbo and died in another videogame. Duck Dynasty Hunt was a popular choice.
Dashing and dishing and dillying and dallying from Waluigi simmered as Wario sat, pondered about life's most intimate mysteries. Why didn't he ever had enough money? Why were teenagers today so frivolous and stupid? Things were better at his age. Things were better when Wario was a wee child, trying to collect quarters and nickels to buy a lolly from a candy shop and maybe steal a few bars of chocolate if he could. Momma Wario didn't care. She was too busy listening to the ancestors of Jeff Foxworthy rattle on about her own kind, her salvaged kind that only believed in the good old traditional values of the Mushroom Kingdom/America AU while drowning in her own drool and copious amounts of blush and concealer. Her pigtails reflected in the trailer's waning light. It waned until it vanished suddenly into the blue cold midnight, when she forgot the electricity bill was something that had to be paid every month.
Kids had too much these days. It was time to take these things away. Let them only have bricks to play. Only their passed out mother pallor and gaunt as she smoked too many cigarettes and ate too many sugarcoated Dexedrine. What a wild time, the 60's. His mother converted herself to veganism and this New Age spiritual farty-tarty and garlic was what they ate along with a side of beets. He was used to the acrid taste of garlic and onions, but beets were always out of the question and why they existed on Rosalina's green Earth he didn't know.
God, John Green. Giving teenagers indolent daydreams and forgetting about Wario. Wario wanted to be remembered. Not this nerd. He could tell tragic stories better than this guy who believed Indiana was full of pretentious cosmopolitans. He wrote one, a children's story, and stamped it with a lopsided outdated Nixon edifice, and spelled everything but his name wrong because Wario was about the only important thing that could ever exist. The only name that deserved to be spelled right. Too much time slipped through his dirty-grimed fingers, and he recollected that he spent time gazing at the booger collection on the ceiling. Waluigi never bothered to clean it, or felt complied to. His master shouldn't ever be questioned on such strange matters.
Drifting into slothful waves of sleep, he thought there was a sound of a typewriter, slurping of coffee and quotations of such nerdy literature such as O. Henry and Hemingway, and it may have been the phenomena he attempted to read about called Exploding Head Syndrome. Hallucinatory sounds that burst in their blossoming shrieks as soon as Dreamland called your name. Despite its namesake, his head never exploded. He prayed that it would happen to everyone else but him. And he could come to their abandoned homes and take all their money and make a mess of their pots and pans.
Submissions of his tragic sojourn childhood story came back to him, with an insultingly red RETURN TO SENDER boldly imprinted. He kept submitting them. He believed they were the true senders and everything he crapped out had to be sent back to them, whether they liked it or not.
Like the faint beatings of his fatty heart, he heard the clacks and clicks, metallic teeth shuttering and smiling and speaking as a new story was being told in the Wario Bros. Trailer Home. Shouts of genius came from the spirits of authors long past. Needle teeth of this mechanical machine had filtered through the roughness, the dirty and nasty bits of this writing process, and everything beautiful and bright was being created like a masterful artist's stroke of the brush. No one was a genius in the Wario home. Wario was fine having only street smarts and business smarts and nothing else to back himself up against. Waluigi was only a college student who believed he had seen both the genesis and the revelations through a droplet of LSD.
Inching closer, the chattering was louder, he heard sweat being dripped from the pores of beautiful Italian skin, fingers intricately working the threads of this story that he perspired in his brain for too long. It begged to be made, since he studied so much English literature over the past 4 years that everything had to gush and flow to people who could stand to read his tangents and vignettes.
"Waluigi, are ya a nerd writer like that John Green dork? And I-a thought I-a could trust ya!"
No reply, or at least; a conscious reply came from Waluigi. Everything was all automatic, like the machine that tilted the ink onto the canvas as soon as his brushfingers had tipped them.
"A nerd writer? Maybe. I-a can at least assure you that I-a can write better than-a that John Green smuck though!"
His one lazy eye scanned disinterestedly in the many pages Waluigi painted. A condition he unfortunately inherited from his father. The condition of Wario was unfortunately inherited from everyone in his lineage who thought having sex would be a good idea and would have no disastrous consequences whatsoever.
Ideas formed in his head, little by little, the traces of his brain cells linking like amoebas that there was an industry for such geeky talentless celibate writers like John Green; Waluigi as well.
An industry that makes quite a lot of money, especially selling YA fiction that was shoddy and ended up destroying the professional lives of teenagers moreso than saving them. Lots of money. Lots of money making Twilight fanfiction. Lots of money claiming your Sonic the Hedgehog fancharacters were your original idea and making your own separate series and making a comic that started being good start over again. Lots of money over the phrase "Original story; original character. Do not steal, or Wario will steal everything that is valuable and precious to you."
Money was nice. Gold was nice. Wario could deal having nothing but a life with a crown of golden branched thorns on his head and a cigar made of the finest rolls of the American Constitution.
And then, it came. A glorious idea that Wario came to rest on the dingy laurels of his mind that both him and his adopted brother Waluigi, could make the entire US of A decay at its roots.
Waluigi's entire novel was titled The Woes of Capitalism: Also Guns Are Like Bad and Stuff.