Hardy har har.
Five more chapters!
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny, Sam, Tucker, or Vlad. The three belong to Butch Hartman.
I do not own the band AFI; I do not own the band MCR; I do not own the band Linkin Park; I do not own the band Blaqk Audio.
Some ideas in this story were taken from Glamorousdeath, a member of the website from her story "Will You Cry for me?...or Will you cry with me?"
I do, however, own most of the plot to this fanfiction. IF SOMEONE STEALS IT I WILL EAT THEM.
Warning (so you guys don't eat my brain): DANNY FENTON AND SAM MANSON ARE ALTERED IN THIS FANFICTION. SAM IS TWO YEARS YOUNGER THAN DANNY; DANNY GOT HIS POWERS AT AGE TEN. If you do not want to read a fanfiction that is not "true" to the series, then please, do not read this. I'm sorry, but in order to make the fanfiction work, they had to be seperate ages. Once again...Danny and Sam are different ages; this fanfiction does not correspond whatsoever with the actual series.
This fanfiction is a work of fiction that came from the screwed up hole I call a brain. It is flufftastical, romantic, terribly tragic, and using the characters and most of their family history/backgrounds as bases. Thank you for understanding!
Yesss. PS - Ms. Kuhn was my Reading/writing teacher from the past year ;D-Danny's POV-
Bitterness arose in my mouth as I raised my hand to challenge the teacher. "But, Ms. Kuhn," I said sarcastically. "Why does the good guy always get the girl, the bad guy always lose? In real life, it's so often the other way around. The good guy gets the short end of the stick, when the bad guy is lavished with riches, women, or other things that they desire. The good guy is the scapegoat; the bad guy loved above all others. As his reward for doing bad deeds, he earns a pat on the back and a sack of gold; as a reward for doing good deeds, he earns a kick to the head and a wound to his pride, along with a fistful of flies."
Silence, before she blinked at me and scrunched her face up in confusion. Her emotions were displayed upon her shoulder as if she were shouting them to the world; it was so easy to see what she was thinking. She was thinking, what's wrong with Danny Fenton? He's normally quiet and dumb. Why is he answering my question?
"Does anyone have an answer to Mr. Fenton's question?" she asked after a few moments. When no one raised their hands, I did.
Ms. Kuhn stared at me strangely. "It's because of a simple fact," I answered myself, my voice still as acidic as it had been before. "Because humans try to create a world for themselves in which the good guy wins and the bad guy looses. Writers aren't anything but defenseless, shameful people disgusted with the human race. They merely create a world for themselves in which they can hide in, a world in which the sky is painted vibrant blues and the sun a mass of yellow that you can look at. When, in reality, the sky is a dark endless mass of space; stretching out until it makes you dizzy. When, in reality, if you look at the sun too long, the light burns your eyes and causes you to go blind.
"Writers have a way with creating their own world which captivates other people." I fell into a short silence, before starting up again, cruelty awash in my voice, unable to stop when it was needed. "Because, in reality, writers are unstable. They can't handle that humans are humans; they accept the big, strong, rich bad guy over the poor, disheveled, young good guy. And soon enough, before their very eyes, the good guy becomes a bad guy." I clapped my hands sarcastically. "The end! Good guys are just men in denial, who refuse to accept their fate. Like writers, and readers, and dreamers."
I looked around the room, looked at the mouths that were semi dropped open in surprise at my outburst. But I wasn't done. "The thing is," I said slowly, "We're all dreamers. We're all readers. We're all writers. We're one of the three. All of us. We all fall under the category of 'naïve child' when it comes down to the final act. In books like these," I said, holding up the book we were reading, "we get to pretend momentarily that the world is different. We get to pretend that good overcomes evil; that evil will never prevail. We get to pretend that as we step across the sidewalk, if we accidentally step on a crack, our mothers back's will remain unbroken." My voice fell into a whisper. "But you know? If you're not careful, you're mother's back will break. If you're not careful, evil will take hold of you and grip you with its iron fist. And once it gets it's tight, metallic fingers around you, there's no breaking free. No escape. All you can do is sit and cry as you watch your dreams, your writing, your reading fantasy world crumble around you. All you can do is accept the big, bad, terrible truth that we as a whole race seem to disguise. And that truth is that as long as humans remain the way they are—and they show no sign of giving up their selfish ways any time soon—evil will always prevail."
A rare twitch of a smile from Ms. Kuhn. "Thank you, Danny," she said. "Does anyone want to fight Mr. Fenton's statement?"
I looked around, relishing the chance to attack someone in a debate. I loved debating when I was in this type of mood; A.K.A. Mr. Bitch.
No one raised their hands, but a lot looked at me as if what I had said made a lot of sense. Just then, the bell rang. Ms. Kuhn asked me to stay. I rolled my eyes, grinded my teeth against one another, and waited as everyone in the class left.
When it was just me and her, I walked towards her.
"What's wrong?" I asked rather wearily.
"I want to thank you for that speech you gave," she said. "It made a lot of people think; I could see it. Heck, you even made me think." She laughed, as if that was something to be proud of. "I just wanted to thank you for taking charge."
"You're welcomed," I said, sort of uncomfortable. I wanted to just leave; I was planning on skipping the rest of the day. Oh, what a good student I was.
She finally dismissed me, and I darted from the school in a rush, walking back to Vlad's castle.