About The Author: Absolutely giddy with malevolently yeasty potential at the realization that both Mickey Mouse and The Lord of the Rings will be public domain in Canada as of 2024, Buster Manwomb is actively trying to get either Disney or the Tolkien estate to send armed mercenaries to assassinate them so that they can pull a runaround and get all the mercs to fight Hasbro's Pinkerton death squad. Why? They think it would be funny, like calling the police to Grove Street in GTA5.

Chapter 3: "Hi, I'm Stevo Bortz, creator and Host of the Blockbuster Podcast Friday Night Fanfiction, and I think Highlander 2: Renegade Cut on VHS is a dangerously efficient Aphrodesiac. I would not be a father if it wasn't for Michael Ironside going 'wheeeeeeeee' on a train."

In 1986, near the town of Hinton, Alberta, a passenger train collided with a freight train, killing twenty three people and destroying several cars full of grain. It was a terrible tragedy and one of the most tasteless Canadian vehicular tragedies that could be made light of if not for the fact that longtime readers will recall mention in 69 Hues of Disney 2 that Mickey Mouses penis resembled a crashed greyhound bus and was named #HumboldtSchlong.

In a confusing display of two wrongs not making a right, but happening anyway because the universe has a sick sense of humour sometimes and shock humour is how I cope, the hijacked train containing Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, The Tomato John Noble Eats in Return of the King, Jesus, Mickey Mouse (Specifically from Steamboat Willy, which it turns out has been in the public domain in Canada for some time thanks to a twenty year difference in protections following a creator's death compared to in the US or the UK), and three hapless train conductors, all of whom were due to retire at the end of today's shift, had flown several hundred kilometers over the Canadian border, crashing exactly where the ill-fated passenger train had crashed nearly forty years prior. Fortunately the crash site was pretty out of the way of any major urban area, so the only casualty was a random tourist with a metal detector hoping to find rusted watches and tooth fillings and all the other useless crap I assume Metal Detectors get hard over, because finding trash is fun if you need to work for it.

I say this half sarcastically. I'm actually an avid treasure hunter. If you're wondering why I'm going on an awful lot of tangents in this fic, it's because a combination of post-covid burnout, moving provinces for a new job, living in a camouflaged tent on crown land for the whole spring and summer because I'd been screwed out of an already unhealthy living situation trying to relocate for said job, and altogether execrable general mental health had stifled my creativity for the last couple seasons, and I'm trying very hard to write anything and get back in the groove. Also, you're reading this paragraph in real time after the crash, and by the time you're done reading this paragraph with be the exact amount of time that it took for Oswald the Lucky Rabbit and the Tomato to regain consciousness and lay eyes upon several seconds of violent sexual tension between Mickey Mouse and Jesus coming to a frothier head than a chronic masturbator with a fetish for shittily poured pints of Guiness.

While the train was flying through the air, Jesus had slammed Mickey Mouse into the wall. At first it was a matter of violence, attempting to move the gun out the window that Oswald had opened to give the blockbuster near-literal trainwreck Unstoppable the ending it deserved. But as they were pinned against the wall with the help of several Gs of centrifugal force as the train spun in midair, their eyes met, and they got horny.

Unfortunately, Mickey Mouse wasn't public domain in every country yet, so he still had Escape From New York-style bombs in his neck that would blow up if his face and penis were showing at the same time. Thankfully, the fine workers of the Canadian railways are notoriously homosocial, and Mickey Mouse was within arms reach of a commemorative Harambe mask in a frame with the words "in case of desire for the illusion of anonymity during on-the-clock sexual relief, break glass."

It was so that Mickey Mouse broke the glass and donned the mask, that he and Jesus softly locked lips, give or take a milimeter of monkeyish latex.

The soft nervousness of their kiss increased in passion, giving way to freaky animal lust. Jesus ripped open Mickey Mouses outfit. Mickey, in turn, began using sucking Jesus' nipples through the mouth slit of the harambe mask and tonguing them, like a soft-shell sea turtle eating jellyfish from a wet sleeping bag.

It was then that Mickey Mouse (deftly disguised as Harambe to throw off Disney's lawyers) tugged open his trouser zippers, letting his marital protein slither out. It was not in fact a perplexingly faithful recreation of a Canadian vehicular tragedy. That was a different Mickey. This one looked like a creature from the Cambrian Explosion, from the phase of evolution when fish were still trying to determine the appropriate number of eyes to have.

"Goodness!" Jesus gasped like a pleasantly surprised woman in a Jane Austen novel. "Mick- I mean Harambe! Your penis looks like it could use…." Jesus raised an eyebrow sensually. "an epipen."

"Oh, clumsy me, I Left mine at home!" Mick- I mean Harambe said. "You're going to need to use your mouth."

"Glompff" Jesus glompff, putting the prehistoric genital goodness within his mouth to the hypnotized amazement of all sentient creatures present with the medically perplexing enthusiasm that made the three train conductors accept that no just god must exist in this universe. "Oh, it's so veiny, yet chitinous!"

"Yes, satisfy my genitals with your mouth friction, you messianic whore!" Harambey Mouse said before ejaculating and slathering uponst Jesus' eager ahegao face quivering ropes of his many testicular syrups. "Was it good for you too?" Harambe said, resuming his rightful identity as Mickey Mouse all along (!) and falling asleep, using the train conductors as an unwilling mattress.

"Let's go get some food." Bukkake Femboy Catgirl Jesus said to Oswald the Lucky Rabbit and the Tomato.

"Should you wake up Mickey, or at least drag him with us?" The Tomato asked. "I've never sucked off someone in a train wreck before, but I imagine etiquette would demand one not leave the person whose semen you're drenched in to die in the middle of a barren, wintery wasteland."

"You know so little about the world." Jesus said, opening the door and stepping out."

"Toons can't die." Oswald assured the tomato, following Jesus. "Besides, all of Disney's copyrighted characters have a tracking device where their spleens should be. They'll find him in a matter of hours."

"What about the conductors we kind of kidnapped?"

"Did they die from choking to death on our eggy sex fumes?" Oswald asked.

The Tomato took a moment to investigate. "Only one of them. Wait… no, it might have been blood loss. Or a broken neck."

"Works for me!" Oswald said, flexing his responsibility of care with the same haphazard concern of a man with three different pairs of douche glasses sending dick pics without even removing the dried tissue left over from one of his recent masturbation sessions. "The ones that are still alive should spawn out as soon as we walk out of render distance."

"That doesn't sound right…" The Tomato stood ponderously. "But I don't know enough about the world to refute it."

Despite the fact that it was summer when they had their crime spree in America, their surrounding area was more covered in snow than Jesus' face was covered in cum. "Where in the fuck are we?" Jesus asked, turning his head and noticing a sign that conveniently said

"Welcome to Alberta: Home to Canada's largest population of Newfoundlanders" The Tomato read the sign aloud because believe it or not, but jesus was illiterate. More odd than Jesus' illiteracy however was the needlessness of the sign, as they were a nearly two-hour drive from the nearest provincial border.

"Dad-dangit." Jesus said, cummy icicles breaking off his chin in frigid disappointment. "I was hoping we were closer to Niagara Falls. I'd assfuck the Pope for some Outback Steakhouse right about now!"

Then, as a matter of coincidence so astronomically slim that Douglas Adams would struggle to justify it, an anthropomorphic Bloomin' Onion was walking down the nearby Trans-Canada highway with his thumb out, calling back to my surprisingly-not-recent fantasy epics: the 69 Hues of Gay Chick Fil A duology.

"You!" Jesus said, tackling the blooming onion to the frosty Canadian ground. "Where are they! Where are they you son on a bitch!"

"I didn't kill them!" The Bloomin' Onion swore, surprisedly. "There was a moose tornado, and a witch! And buttsex! I lost track of them! Please don't kill me!"

"What in the cheese curd-less poutine giving Quebexicans seizures are you talking about?" Jesus blaffed. "I'm talking about The Outback Fucking Steakhouses!"

"They're all gone!" The Bloomin Onion screamed. "They've been gone from this half of the country longer than fucking Greyhound buses! I'm all that's left, and I'm long past my sell-by date!"

"Nooooo!" Jesus screamed to the heavens. "Damn it all, where am I supposed to get a steak now?!"

"You're in fucking Alberta, you cum-stained bastard." The Bloomin' Onion hollered from thirty feet down the road, already resuming his trip by the time Jesus had finished screaming. "Even the shittiest small towns have a steakhouse."

Heeding this information, Cum-Stained Jesus, Oswald the lucky Rabbit, and the Tomato walked along the highway until they found a Husky gas station with a restaurant attached, in which they all sat down and ate food. Oswald and The Tomato made the safe choice and both ordered chicken strips and fries. Jesus ordered an unfortunate specimen advertised as 'steak' that wound up being chewier than Mickey Mouse's dick, and half as flavourful.

THE END

ALMOST

Epilogue

Deep in the offices of some daunting corporate-looking building, John Chickafilla, CEO emeritus of Chick Fil-A sat in his desk chair, seething over two things. One, that his workers were being greedy and demanding pay adjusted to inflation again. Two, there were two Chick Fil-A sandwiches out there being GAY, and tainting the pure sanctity of Jesus' name.

And then his secretary came in with a tablet streaming cumstained femboy Jesus playing a heavily modded Kane and Lynch 2 still. Someone in their IT department claimed an completely different employee was watching it, and reported it.

"Lovely." Chickafilla said. "Fetch me my holy water eye rinse station, then clear out your desk. How dare you subject my eyes to such tantalizing filth while my door's open."

"But sir, look!" The secretary first rewinded to the bloomin' onion, than to the present.

"Why would they mod a Husky Family Restaurant into a Kane & Lynch Level?"

"Sir, look and the two sandwiches in the booth behind Jesus. This isn't a game!"

Noticing the two anthropomorphic sandwiches sitting in the booth behind Jesus which secretary was pointing out, Chickafilla slammed open his phone. "We have a lead."

"Orphans..." A gruffly voice grumbled in response.

THE END