Chapter: The Beginning/The Diddle Mouse

A/N: I'm sorry for writing this. I'm sorry you're reading this. It didn't have to be done but c'est la nature of the crackfic. Proceed at your own caution, with lots of water and a way to call for an ambulance, just in case you have a stroke while reading this.

A/N 2: If you're having a stroke right now, make sure you use lotion and have tissues at hand, to make it more enjoyable and the cleanup far easier.

Chapter: The Diddle Mouse

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it "the Diddle Mouse," even though it had been many years since a Diddle Mouse had been alive. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its many threatening eyes boarded over to prevent the infrequent lasers from injuring people. Once a fine-looking Titanic Mouse with Lasers for Eyes, easily the largest in Britain, the Diddle Mouse was now moist, putrid, and occupied like every single Port-a-Potty at a Kansas County Fair.

The Little Hnngggs, as they called themselves, all agreed that the old mouse was "absurdly creepy and the weirdest fucking thing I've ever seen." Half a century ago, something even worse had been in its spot - a live TMw/LfE. It was strange and horrible, something that the older inhabitants of the village still had nightmares about it when other topics for nightmares were scarce. Fifty years ago, at daybreak, when the Diddle Mouse was actually alive and impressive, a maid had been sacrificed to appease it and found unworthy.

It puked her back up and began charging its lasers for eyes.

"It was lying to me through its esophagus! So cold! I wasn't just a dinner thing to it!"

The police were sumoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiousity and not very well disguised hunger. The maid was a tasty little thing, and the mouse had clearly not wanted her. They could eat her, finally. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel their impending doom, the mouse had eradicated people before. All the villagers cared about was the taste of her flesh - for plainly, she was coated in ketchup and gravy of natural causes.

The Hung Man, a village man, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to turn out to enjoy the Spit-roasted Maid. They were rewarded by leaving their firesides when the Diddle arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the very quiet pub that a man called Bank Fries had been eaten.

"BANK?!" cried several people, "BANK, BANK, BANK."

Bank Fries was the Diddle's next offering. He lived alone underneath the Great Mouse's, ehrm, tools, in a shack. He had come back from the war with a German accent and had dropped a hundred pounds when he handed his wife to the Nazis. His perpetual erection left him very stiff, and a great dislike of being in public. There was a rush to bring the mouse several kegs of ale to sate his unending thirst.

"Always thought he was hot," Matilda Baggins told the eagerly listening mouse after her fortieth sherry. "A hermit to be sure, but every time I saw him, I offered him a good shag. I've offered him a hundred times. Never wanted to mix genes, he didn't."
"Ah, now," spoke a woman at the bar, "He had a hard on, Bank. He was probably afraid to show it off. That's no reason to-"

"He was a furry, Sharon," barked the mouse. "He had lived under my balls for as long as I can remember! I didn't force him to come out, didn't break in or nothing. All I had to do was ask him to hop in my mouth while you was all busy…"

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

"I always had a nasty thought about him, right enough," grunted a man at the bar.

"Hitler turned him gay, if you ask me," said the Hung Man.

"Told you I wouldn't like to be a woman," said an excited woman in the corner, "If that terrible man's terrible mustache was enough to turn him gay, I'm sure he could've shagged me right up the exit."

"Horrible temper, you have," said her friend, "I remember when he was a kid. A looker, to be sure. I wish he were 30 years younger than me. I would've liked a slice of him."
By the following morning, hardly anyone remembered the night. Their incoherent conversation with their fifty foot tall Godzilla overlord mouse had been forgotten, as had been Bank Fries.

But over in the city of Great Hangleton, Bank's remains were all that was on the menu. The Massive Mouse had dropped a colossal crap of human, which was quite the beautiful meal for them. Things were looking rather dull for Bank, as he was rather clearly dead.

Then, when things were looking serious for the devoured and shat out man, the report on the Diddle Sacrifice's body came back and changed everything. Nobody had ever read nor seen such an odd report. A team of doctors had been eating the remains and concluded that he wasn't dead. No, he hadn't been chewed, or digested, or suffocated, or bludgeoned by sphincters. In fact, the report continued in a tone of unmatched enthusiasm, he appeared to be in perfect health apart from the fact that he was being eaten. The doctors did note, however, that he had a look of bliss on his face. As there was no proof that he was dead, the people of Hangleton were forced to replace all the bits of him they had eaten. To everyone's surprise, Bank Fries returned to his nutshack under the nutsack.

"S'far as I'm concerned, he's still hot, and I don't care what he says," said Matilda to the Hung Man. "And if he had an decency, he'd let me shag him, knowing as how we know he's that weird."

But Bank did not. He stayed under the Mouse's utilities and watched as the town was slowly torn apart by laser beams and drug abuse. Perhaps it was a nasty feeling to see everyone die, but it wasn't his problem.

The few people who owned property in Little Hangleton these days neither lived there nor put it to much use. They said the village was kept standing for "tax reasons," and "to appease whatever spirit lives in the long-dead laser corpse of the mouse," though nobody was clear what that meant. Bank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday in his nutshack, very deaf, and harder than any elder had reason to be. He could be seen grooming the remains for the psilocybin mushrooms the village people had always been so fond of. It was well known that the city had succumbed to a massive poisoning of the water systems with lethal levels of LSD. A maid had been partially devoured and a cult had formed, while built a huge organic statue of a mouse. Mushrooms were not the only thing Bank was concerned with either. He was destined to keep the cult alive, so when Bank fell asleep on a September evening, he was rather upset - the mouse would be upset that he fell asleep on the job. It was a chilly night in August when he woke to the sound of people moving about in the village, hundreds of meters away from him. His chronic use of hallucinogenic drugs had left his senses painfully heightened. He got out of bed and crawled to the window, blinded by a candle flame on the other side of the village. Withdrawn and absurdly dehydrated, he womped his way past the rotten statue and derelict buildings. The house he saw the light in was vaguely familiar. A family or two had been murdered there, but that was nothing new for his beloved cult. Foreigners had broken into the sacred grounds as normal for a Saturday night.

Bank had no contact to the outside world, but that wasn't terribly important to him. He deeply mistrusted any police he could call to the village to assist him in dining on the invaders. Crawling to the door, he moved quieter than he had any capability of, sliding the rusty door off its hinges to avoid any creaking. Bank had not entered this house for a ritual in many years, and though it was very dark, his drugged body could do what others could not. He contorted his way through the rotting kitchen, his senses moaning. His eyes saw the molds that had built up, his nostrils sung the song of decay, and his mouth watered at the taste of fungal spores. He grasped his way upon a counter, and leapt like a creature to the next, where the light from doors allowed him to fully see his way. Prawling up the stars, blessing the ground beneath him, he began to hear voices. By the time he was on the landing, he could hear them clearly.

He hung from the ceiling and listened hungrily. The timid voice he could hear watered his loins at the prospect of tender flesh. Carefully, he caught his drool to keep silent.

"There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry."

"Later," rasped a second voice, this too belonging to a man. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."

Bank clambered along the boards carefully, silently impaling his bone-like fingers in the wall to lock him in place. His ears went to the door as he listened ever more intently.

"Where is Nagini?" said the higher voice.

"I - I don't know, My Lord," nervously spoke the first voice. "She set out to explore the house, I think…"

"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," said the second. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."

Bank recoiled at the thought of fightless prey. Flesh was best enjoyed tense and warm from battle. Furrowing his brow, he returned to the door.
"My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?"

"A week," said the cold voice. "Perhaps longer. This place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."

Bank wrapped a gnarled finger around the doorknob and turned ever so slowly as he listened for the opportune moment to strike.

"The - the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" said the one he knew was Wormtail.

"Forgive me, but - I do not understand - why should we wait until the World Cup is over?"

"Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with secutiy, lest the muggles notice anything. So we wait."

Bank had stopped listening by that point. His hunger overwhelmed him as he burst through the door, scanning the room. The fatter man appeared to be addressing something on the chair, but he could see no other person in the room in the split second he observed.

He flew onto the man and rolled over, flicking him into the now-blazing fireplace. For a brief moment, the sight of an emaciated and scaled baby halted him, just long enough for the stick in its hand to end his life.

"What the fuck?" voiced Voldemort over Wormtail's flaming screams and Nagini's confused hissing.

A/N: Yeah, that's it. I don't know why I'm writing this instead of something of high quality, but I am. Time to write the other thirty six chapters….