I'm certain there's a special Hell for me

Mike: It's called Fictionpress.

And without further ado...

Servo: Keep stalling. I'm not sure this story is going to end well.

Mike: Or end at all.

Stephen Colbert was a busy man. He had lots to do and little time to do it in…so why couldn't he get the plastic off this goddamn Ramen cup?!

Crow: He then gave up on opening the cup and hoped for the best with opening the new CD he bought from HMV.

"Time is money," he mumbled at the cup,

Servo: But the cup IS made of money.

not so much because he meant it or even abided by the phrase, but it was the principle of the thing really. He could be doing all manner of things with this time...

Mike: Like watching paint dry.

Crow: Or watching grass grow.

like, writing his first novel or fiddling around with his site, but more likely than not, simply watching TV.

Servo: Watching his show on his DVR and skipping to the parts that only have him in it.

He grabbed a fork and jabbed it into the plastic, violently ripping it off and filling the little cup with water, then shoving the lot into the microwave.

Crow: Wait, did he put the cup into the microwave or the plastic?

Mike: I think we'll find out when the microwave catches on fire.

He leaned against the counter, away from the offending Ramen cup and tapped his foot as the microwave cooked his quick lunch. He frowned as the old microwave started making strange noises.

Servo: It was talking. It said, "Jon Stewart is better."

Damn thing was so old. He really needed to replace it soon. The microwave's humming got louder and more erratic.

Crow: Ewwww!

Mike: Erratic, Crow. Erratic.

Crow: Oh, okay…ewwww!

The counter started vibrating and Stephen whipped around to investigate. What the hell was wrong with the damn thin—oh shit. The fork he had used to open the Ramen was in the microwave.

Servo: That was supposed to be the spoon…or at the very least, a knife.

Mike: Wait. Is that why our microwave is constantly bursting into flames?

As he reached to open it, the microwave gave a jolt and, to his horror, exploded.

Servo: Even inanimate objects hate Raman noodles.

He shielded his face but nothing hit him.

Mike: …in the face. The rest of his body was the reason he was in the spirit world.

Something strange was happening. The pieces weren't exploding…they were imploding. The shrapnel was being sucked into a gaping portal of indeterminate color and texture.

Crow: So, its being sucked into New Jersey.

He backed away from it, sure that even if he got out of this encounter alive he would die soon after of radiation poisoning or cancer or something equally as terrible.

Servo: Like watching Battlefield Earth 3 times in one day.

Mike: Or listening to too much Dick Dale.

He tried to run, but he found himself being pulled steadily into the portal. His feet scraped against the ground and he grasped for anything that could anchor him, but he couldn't resist the pull.

Crow: The pull was seducing him. He couldn't resist it any longer.

As his feet were dragged into the portal, all he could think was, "I always thought radiation would be…greener."

Mike: Well, portals lie about the color of radiation…like the cake.

***

Adolf stormed out of the Academy of Arts cursing furiously.

Mike: As opposed to cursing joyfully.

When he had first received his rejection letter, he thought that surely a mistake had been made. How could the dean not recognize such raw passion?

Servo: I cannot believe the dean can't see the passion in muss murdering.

He had come down to the school to present his portfolio once again and assure them that he was worthy of attending their prestigious school, but they had rolled their eyes at him and told him that they had declined his application due to a lack of talent.

Crow: They suggested that he should create various reality TV shows.

Become an architect, they said.

Mike: Ummm, don't you actually NEED talent to become an architect?

Servo: Only in his dreams.

Lack of talent; this was clearly the pinnacle of all the stupid things he'd heard in his life.

Crow: Clearly, he has never been to a Blue Collar comedy special.

He was nineteen and already his childless father pension was running out.

Servo: …of drugs.

He needed to be in school to better his art and hone his artistic vision.

Mike: He needed bodies.

He cursed the Jews on the school board under his breath. He glared back at the gates,

Crow: …of Hell.

shaking his head angrily. Of all the stupid things! Without warning, he was hit by something rather large and heavy.

Mike: John Goodman?

After a few seconds of confusion and hustle, he realized that it was a handsome older man in a strangely tailored suit.

Servo: Clarista Flockhart?

"Machen welche die Hölle Sie?!" Adolf shouted, jumping to his feet and dusting himself off indignantly. The man quirked an eyebrow up at him and said slowly but not in a condescending manner, "Speak English?" "I am…sorry." Adolf conceded in his best English, offering the man a hand up. He searched for words for a minute

Mike: (as Hitler) When you fell on me, some words fell to the ground. Can you help me find them?

before saying, "How are you called?"

Crow: An idiot savant?

The man smiled, looking relieved. "I'm Stephen Colbert," he announced, extending his hand to grip Adolf's in a formal handshake. Adolf took it,

Mike: …by pulling out his ax and chopping it off.

more than a bit puzzled. "Is French?" Colbert nodded, grinning vaguely. "…Vere did you come from?"

Servo: From the space in between spaces.

Colbert shrugged. "Where am I?" A smile touched Adolf's lips. What a cryptic answer.

Mike: If a cryptic answer means generic question, then sure.

He was intrigued, but who was this man? "Vienna. I am Adolf Schicklgruber. You need a place to stay? Is not much, but…" Stephen looked pensive for a moment. Schicklgruber; why did that sound familiar?

Crow: I would be more concerned about the name Adolf.

Either way, he really didn't have any place to stay, but how did he end up in Vienna?

Servo: He was at a bachelor party with the guys from The Hangover movies.

And for that matter, how was he going to get back home? Oh well, he'd think about all that later as, for the moment, he had no money on him and no other options.

Mike: And, worst of all, no Flux Capacitor.

***

Adolf's apartment was small and sparsely furnished, but cluttered with paintings and drying postcards, art supplies and books, various random knickknacks, and an ancient phonograph.

Crow: Every art student's wet dream.

Adolf sank down onto the stiff bed and gave Stephen leave to take the sturdy chair across from it. He picked up a newspaper off of it and sat down.

Mike: Sit on the chair, not the newspaper.

It was typed up in German but the date read 1908. He laughed, giving the paper a tap with the back of his hand. "How old is this thing?"

Servo: The back of your hand is the same as your age, you idiot.

Adolf looked puzzled as he took the paper from Stephen, giving it a quick glance. "S'at's yesterday's paper." Stephen frowned. Adolf studied his form intently and tentatively asked, "May I—may I paint you? I am an artist, you see," he hastily added.

Crow: That's his excuse to draw anyone naked.

Painting from landscapes and postcard pictures could only get one so far.

Mike: There were only so much sexual undertones that the landscapes could provide.

He didn't have the money to pay a model but maybe he could rend something beautiful from his guest. Stephen laugh, a bit taken aback.

Servo: A Stephen laugh? What the Hell is that?

No one had ever asked to paint him before but he couldn't see why not. At least he could have some time to think about his situation while Adolf painted.

Crow: …him nude.

Mike: You've already made a nude joke already.

The young German switched places with him so he could have adequate lighting and then threw open the drapes with a dramatic flourish. He set to sketching Stephen's relaxed body, smiling contentedly and making quiet conversation.

Servo: As he's painting, I keep expecting Celine Dion to pop out of nowhere and start singing.

When he was finished with the last bit of shading on his preliminary sketch, he plopped down next to Stephen to show him. Stephen laughed. "Oh you're good. My face isn't that lined already is it?" He asked playfully.

Mike: Why didn't anyone tell me that my nose was that big?

Adolf frowned, slightly crestfallen. "No, Mr. Colbert, you look goodt. Youthful." He wasn't blowing smoke either.

Crow: As far as I know, you can't smoke heroin.

Servo: How DO you blow smoke.

Mike: It's not being literal.

He was actually kind of scared at how attracted he was to the man, but he couldn't back down from his statement now or he'd make things awkward.

Servo: More awkward then when you asked him to draw him?

Crow: Out of nowhere too.

Stephen shook his head, grinning. "Call me Stephen. Or if you become a really good friend of mine, Ted Hitler."

Mike: The combination of his heroes, Ted Bundy and Adolf Hitler.

Adolf knew that there was a joke he wasn't getting but felt stupid having it explained to him, so he simply said, "The name of my father is Heidler, but Hitler sounds better."
Stephen's brow furrowed at that and Adolf was afraid he had said something wrong. He quickly searched his brain for another subject he could adequately express in English.

Crow: (as Hitler) Have you ever thought about murdering a whole bunch of people for no adequate reason?

He bit his lip and Stephen let out a boyish giggle,

Servo: Adolf! Bite your own lip.

reaching hesitantly to push a strand of hair back from the German boy's face.

Mike: Please tell me this isn't going to be that kind of fanfic.

Adolf took Stephen's wrist lightly in midair, inhaling sharply as he felt the older man's smooth skin. He leaned into Stephen's gaze uncertainly, his lips brushing Stephen's.

Crow: Stephen's what?

Adolf ran a hand through the man's dark hair and deepened the kiss,

Servo: I must be high because I'm reading that Hitler and Colbert are kissing.

Mike: We're reading it too and we're sober.

Servo: Oh. Okay. Let me change my reaction. AAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHH!

pressing his taut young body up against Stephen's.

Crow: STEPHEN'S WHAT?! WHAT IS HITLER PRESSING AGAINST?!

Stephen gasped into his mouth and broke free, wrenching his body back away from Adolf. "I—I can't do this," he sputtered breathily.

Mike: Not without a condom.

"I'm in love with someone else."

Servo: Charlie Manson?

Mike: Jack Ruby?

Crow: Bin Laden.

Servo and Mike: What?

Adolf cast his eyes down, his cheeks burning, and pretended to be interested in the worn sheets he was picking at.

Mike: (as Adolf) Wait. This isn't cotton.

"Vith whom?" Stephen sighed. He wouldn't even be born for another half a century. "Jon Stuart Leibowitz."Adolf's eyes stung with tears of embarrassment.

Crow: Yeah, I'd be embarrassed if someone left me for Jon Stuart.

He batted them away angrily with the back of his hand. "Gottverdammen Juden," he murmured in an attempt to console himself…

Mike: Wait, that's the end?

Servo: It was bad but then it just stops? What the Hell?

Crow: You wanted it to keep going? You guys are sadists!