Schmergo and Koko's Amazing Short Stories

[Schmergo]

My little sister and I were very, very bored on our long car trip, and we wrote some amazing stories, usually alternating one sentence at a time (or one paragraph at a time.) They make no sense.

Story number one is called "An Epilogue To Breaking Dawn." Neither of us have read that book, but we read the summary on wikipedia, and think it sounds hilarious. The two main characters are Jacob Black, a rather muscly werewolf from the Twilight books, and John Willoughby, the villainous cad from "Sense and Sensibility." It is packed full of inside jokes, so if something makes no sense, that's why.

AN EPILOGUE TO BREAKING DAWN

“Yum! A baby!” screamed Jacob, getting out a knife and fork. “Them’s good eating!”

“But that’s your baby,” insisted his wife.

“Willoughby, you can’t expect me to let this delicious morsel go to waste!” Jacob cried.

“But you’ve already eaten our other eleven children, and it’s not like you need any more nourishment… you’re already nineteen feet tall and eight hundred and fifty pounds,” Willoughby moaned, touching up his lipstick.

“Yeah, but most of it’s muscle, and the rest is teeth! Besides, last week, you let Gaston eat seven of my babies!”

“WELL, MAYBE YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT GASTON AND I ARE HAVING AN AFFAIR, AND WE ARE MAKING MANY A SANDWICH!” hollered Willoughby.

“Willoughby, Willoughby, where is your heart?!?!?!” Jacob sobbed.

“I believe you ate that for breakfast,” Willoughby informed him stiffly. “Do you like ANYTHING other than eating and producing children?”

“I like making those wonderful crocheted tea cozies,” Jacob said eagerly. “And I like French braiding your hair and trying to grow a mustache!”

“Jacob, you tried growing long hair to impress Bella, and all you ended up with was one extra-long armpit hair.”

“And one quarter of a mustache!” Jacob hollered, throwing a case of booze against the wall emphatically.

“I WAS GOING TO DRINK THAT!” Willoughby screeched, belching angrily.

Suddenly, Gaston burst through the door, singing, “You’ve been dreaming just one dream nearly all your—” Jacob grabbed him by the waist and bit off his head.

“Tastes like my favourite dish!” he grinned.

“What’s that?” asked Willoughby, hoping desperately that his husband didn’t say ‘babies.’

“Oh, come on, Will! It was in the paper… BEEF!”

“I stopped reading after the part about how you like collecting coins in your spare time. The only thing I’ve ever seen you collect are dead babies.”

“THEY COUNT AS CURRENCY IN THE QUILEUTE RESERVE!! IF ZACK CAN BUY A DISUSTING PORK TACO WITH A SHREDDED TEN DOLLAR BILL AT THE NATIONAL ZOO, THEN I CAN BUY ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES WITH MAULED FETUSES!”

“You’re as bad as that man who pays for everything with fish. What use do people have with mauled fetuses?”

“They are incredibly useful!” pouted Jacob. “You can make delicious appetizers, you can plug up leaks, they make very unique wall decorations, they sponge up spills very effectively, and they’re an EXCELLENT conversation piece at parties.”

“You have noticed that the last party you were invited to was Bella’s graduation party, and she uninvited you after you kissed her? Are you that bad at kissing?”

“Well, you seem to have enjoyed my kissing, because we’ve somehow managed to acquire at least nineteen children,” Jacob pointed out. “And it’s not my fault that no one but you came to my last eighty-two parties.”

“”Actually, I believe it is. And I was only there because you broke the car when you tried to open it, and I can’t buy a new one, because no one will accept dead babies as currency, and we have no real money.”

“Well, at least I’m better than your last husband,” roared Jacob, biting the legs off of a coffee table and spitting them into Willoughby’s eyes. “Enjolras was always spitting on people and over-enunciating his ‘r’s and he looked like a vampire! I HATE vampires!”

“In all fairness, that was only when his understudy was playing him,” Willoughby explained rationally.

“Well, what kind of husband comes with an understudy?” demanded Jacob, who seemed to like saying ‘well’ a little too much. “And where’s this Gaston fellow you seem to enjoy making sandwiches with?”

“Erm… you ate him…”

“Oh, jolly good! I remember now!” giggled Jacob. “Well, for such an ugly woman, you sure are in high demand!”

Willoughby blinked. “Erm, I’m a man,” he said gently.

“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!”

“Jacob, we’ve had so many children and lived together for the last fourteen years, not to mention the fact that you always seem to walk in on me in the shower. I thought you knew?”

“I have never seen a woman naked, thanks to Bella, so how was I to know?” snapped Jacob. “Anyway, that’s disgusting. I’m going home to my other wife, Prince Eric.”

“But Eric’s…” Willoughby began as Jacob slammed the door so hard that it splintered into dust. “Oh, never mind.”

THE END

[Schmergo]

Another story... all the main characters are French Revolutionaries.


HISTORICAL FICTION

“Citizen Chauvelin, what happened to your lip?” gasped Robespierre as the little revolutionary staggered into his office, bleeding profusely from the mouth.

“That Charlotte girl keeps beating up all of us revolutionaries!” Chauvelin whined.

“Well, you’re a man, defend yourself!” Robespierre laughed.

“You weren’t so confident during the infamous mermaid attack of 1792,” pointed out Chauvelin, picking his teeth with choice selections of the skeleton of Colonel Christopher Brandon.

“You know my phobia of mermaids! Ever since I got my picture taken at Disney World with Ariel and she pinched my bum!”

“I pinch your bum all the time, but no one’s ever complained about that!” said Chauvelin, his eyes sparkling dangerously.

Suddenly, a sinister figure dropped from the sky, wielding a scimitar and clad in a black leather ninja suit. “CHARLOTTE CORDAY!” screamed the revolutionaries. Robespierre jumped into Chau-Chau’s arms.

“So much for defending yourself and being a man,” Chauvelin muttered.

“YOU!” howled Charlotte. “It is time for revenge! You must pay your debt in BLOOOOD!”

“Me?” asked a random lady cowering in the bathroom.

“No, you fool, Robespierre! He owes me millions in poker debt!” She turned to Chauvelin. “And you! You took me on THE worst date I’ve ever been on!”

Chauvelin’s jaw dropped. “You wrecked the date, Charlotte. You’re the one who bit my lip open when you tried to make out with me!”

“You’re the one who forgot to make reservations at Hao-Yi Heuron. We ended up going to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Well, you’re the one who drove the carriage so fast that the horse spontaneously combusted and I had to get out and push!”

“CHILDREN. PLEASE!” shouted Robespierre, clapping his hands together. “We don’t have time for this hormonal mumbo-jumbo. We have a very strict schedule to stick to at the guillotine. We have to execute all kinds of Disney characters before sundown for crimes against the Republic!”

Chauvelin blinked. “What crimes?” he asked, nervously clutching his Disney princess backpack. “Haven’t you noticed? Robespierre chortled, roasting a Prince Edward figurine in the fireplace. “They’re SO silly! They sing and talk to furry little woodland creatures. IT’S NOT RIGHT!”

“You’re just jealous because Disney princes are all tall, aren’t you?” sighed Charlotte.

Robespierre gave her an impassive stare. “Why, yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I am.”

He pulled the now-headless Edward doll out of the fireplace, noting the height difference, then giggled. “Decapitation lessens most people’s height by at least a good half foot,” he noted innocently.

“Yes, well, that’s all very well, but what’s that?” asked Chauvelin, pointing at the vast clouds of smoke billowing outside by the window.

“Oh, that,” he said casually, tossing the doll out the window. “I had to burn a few million citizens at the state for crimes against the Republic. It’s nothing, really. They were all just a little bit too tan.”

“Now they’re definitely tan,” Charlotte replied uneasily. “You might even say ‘burnt.’ Why are you so insecure about your height and complexion, anyway? And don’t you dare blame it on mermaids this time.”

“Well… erm… you see… the magic mirror at Disney World said I was ugly and short and that I would never be successful. Then this mermaid showed up, and …” Robespierre was cut off by Charlotte pushing him into a bathtub and pulling out a knife threateningly.

“Why does this situation seem so familiar?” he muttered.

“I thought I told you not to blame it on the mermaids!” shouted Charlotte. “Mermaids are dedicated, hardworking citizens who—“

“Were.”

“Excuse me?”

“WERE dedicated, hardworking citizens. I’ve had them all executed!”

Charlotte slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Robespierre, you can’t just go around executing everyone who’s prettier than you. If you did, the only people left in the world would be Chau-Chau and that boy up in the bell tower.”

“WHAT?!” cried Chauvelin and Robespierre.

“Are you calling me ugly?” yelled Chauvelin.

“Are you saying there’s a boy in the bell tower?” yelled Robespierre. “We’ll have to call the executioner immediately. I hired a singing clown, not an ugly boy!”

“The clown scared Chauvelin,” Charlotte snorted. “So I hired this simpleton. He works for popsicle sticks.”

“LOOK, I MADE A PONY!” shouted a Drew Sarich-y voice from far above in the bell tower.

Robespierre groaned. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then. What did you do with the clown?”

Suddenly, the door burst open. “Look!” a morbid-looking clown cried. “I can make balloon animals!” After many irritating squeaks, the masterpiece was done.

“A decapitated puppy dripping blood? How original! I LOVE IT!” squealed Robespierre, hugging the clown. “This is wonderful! I suddenly feel inspired to do good! I am at peace with myself. Never again will I kill or—“

“BLAMM.”

“Oops,” said Chauvelin, quickly handing the gun to Charlotte as Robespierre’s body sprawled face-down in a pool of his own blood. “I guess my little finger slipped.”

“Ehh, who cares. Who would want a lame-o who only does good? Besides, he’s a revolutionary. Ew.”

Chauvelin stared at Charlotte in amazement. “Charlotte. I’m a revolutionary. Dude, YOU’RE a revolutionary, for crying out loud!”

“I guess it’s time for me to confess my secret identity!” shouted Charlotte. “The real Charlotte Corday is long-dead, executed by Citizen Robespierre himself! My true identity is…” She ripped off the riding cloak and dress that she was wearing to reveal a tail and shell bra. “I had to go undercover so Robespierre wouldn’t execute me. I started up a secret, Scarlet Pimpernel style organization to smuggle merpeople out of France and into New York City, where they get jobs working in a Broadway show.”

Chauvelin almost fainted. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“Because, Chau-Chau. You talk in your sleep, and since you and Robespierre share a bedroom, it would have given everything away.”

“No way… what kinds of things do I talk about?” Chauvelin demanded, eyes flashing with paranoia and his lip twitching.

“Well, you told me your vault password, the location of Robespierre’s secret hit list, your social security number, the sordid details of your scandalous love affair with Marguerite St. Just, your mother’s secret recipe for cheese blintzes, and you proposed to me.”

Chauvelin’s brow furrowed. “Did we get married?” he asked hopefully.

“No, I have a mer-boyfriend,” said Charlotte, making her way out the door. Then, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at him. “And he was a WAY better Javert than you.”

THE END

[Schmergo]

Our next amazing story stars:

Mr. Darcy, from "Pride and Prejudice"
Prince Edward, from "Enchanted"
Prince Eric, from "Little Mermaid"
Hercules
Chef Louis from "Little Mermaid" (French chef)
Count Fosco from "Woman In White" (Played by Michael Ball, looks just like Chef Louis)
Marius Pontmercy from "Les Miserables" (Played by Michael Ball.)

WORST MONDAY EVER

It had been a perfectly fine day for Mr. Darcy, until the highway robbers pulled him over.

“Prince Edward? Prince Eric? Hercules? Why did you guys pull me over?” he asked, lowering his sunglasses.

“Because,” panted Eric, looking ragged and wild-eyed, “We invested all of our money in the yogurt market, and it crashed and went bankrupt after weasels took over the dairy corporation and replaced all the world’s milk with their own.”

“You’re the richest man in Derbyshire, wherever that is!” chipped in Edward. “So, we’re going to steal everything you own!”

“All I have now is this disgusting fish taco and a Mickey Mouse groom hat. Plus three used bandages,” Hercules sighed.

“Ooh, trade you for my broken aquarium, stained bloomers with all of the elastic stretched out, and ‘I LIKE IKE’ campaign buttons from 1950!” squealed Eric, jumping up and down madly and licking Mr. Darcy’s car door.

“Ignore him,” said Edward. “Eric went insane after the yogurt market crashed and his wife left him for Raoul!”

“I’m not actually sure if Prince Eric was ever especially sane,” Hercules sighed, laughing. “Besides, I never invested in the yogurt market. I hate yogurt. I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Then why are you even here?” asked Darcy nervously.

“Because, like I said, all I have is a fish taco, a Mickey Mouse hat, and three used bandages. Being a hero may get you a lot of glory but, apparently, it doesn’t pay much,” sighed Hercules. “My wife left me for Terrence Mann.”

“Yeah, my wife left me for Corny Collins,” Edward said.

“I hate fish tacos,” said the insane Eric out of the blue, dreamily shredding his shoes into confetti. “They remind me of my wife.”

“Oh, you miss her?” Darcy said sympathetically.

“No, I just didn’t like her.”

“Well, then, what do you plan on doing with my money?” Darcy asked, starting to accept his fate.

“We plan on building a strip club,” Edward said cheerfully. “With all-male strippers. It’ll be a hit. Gaston’s doing the opening act. We’re going to build it in Camp Minnie-Mickey in Disney’s Animal Kingdom. Wanna help?”

“Um, you guys, Camp Minnie-Mickey is sort of for little kids. Besides, who would want to go to an all-male strip club?” Darcy said.

“Well, we figured this would open it up to more adult clientele,” Hercules explained.

“Start ‘em young, that’s what I say!” Eric giggled wheezily, casually peeling all of the skin off of his left leg and devouring it. “Besides, that’s how I like ‘em, heh-heh-heh!”

“Well, I suppose I could donate…”

“I don’t think you understand, Darcy,” Edward interrupted cheerfully. “It’s not as if you have a choice. We’ll take all of your money anyway.” He laughed cheerily, then checked his teeth in the blade of his sword.

“Money? Pish-posh! We want you to perform!” cried Hercules. “You’re the sexiest man in Derbyshire, wherever that is!”

“What about Wickham?” Darcy asked desperately, taking into special consideration Wickham’s extensive collection of naughty undergarments.

“We’re not sure he’s a guy. Besides, practically all of the women in the world have seen him naked already,” Hercules responded.

Darcy thought about that for a minute. “Well, that’s true,” he admitted. “But there’s a reason why I’m never seen na—”

Suddenly, a sinister figure dropped from the sky. It was Chef Louis! “I heard you’re opening a strip club. Can I come?” he boomed.

Eric looked really disturbed. “If I’d known you swung that way, I would not have shared that dressing room with you.”

“No, you silly!” Chef Louis cackled malevolently. “I want to perform!”

“What?” everyone cried, including Mr. Darcy, looking at the 725 pound who was trying to take off his clothes.

“You’ve just scarred me for life,” Hercules moaned, shielding his eyes. “I’ve slain dragons and bulls and fought Amazons and irate gods, and this is the first time I’ve been afraid.”

“Oh, I think you’ll agree to let me participate when you hear what I’ll do if you don’t.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be much worse than what we just saw,” Edward said.

“Ah, but it is!” hissed Chef Louis. “You see, I am secretly Count Fosco, and I control the yogurt market! You are all my puppets, and it is I who manipulates your strings! I made you go bankrupt! I drove your wives away! I inspired Mr. Darcy to drive down this road! It was all part of my grand scheme!”

“Are you the reason those twelve cake dancers showed up in my mansion last week?” Darcy asked.

“No. No, they got the wrong address. They were for Bingley.”

“GASP!” gasped Darcy.

“But I AM the reason why Elizabeth Bennet, the girl of your dreams, refuses to speak to you.”

“GASP!” gasped Darcy.

“And now, I’m the reason why you’re all going to die today!” shouted Chef Louis, brandishing a death ray thinly disguised as a lobster.

“I know you looked shady when I let Grimsby hire you. Not really a cook. Not really French. I bet you’re not even 725 pounds.”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” admitted Chef Louis. “I’m actually 724 pounds.”

“BAMBOOZLED!” screamed Prince Edward, throwing his sword to the ground.

Suddenly, Marius Pontmercy came yodeling to the rescue, swinging in on a vine. “Stop right there!” he demanded.

“Wait a minute, Marius. Isn’t this a bit out of character? I mean, you always just do nothing. Heck, a girl and an old man had to save your sorry behind at the barricade. How pathetic can you get?”

“THIS PATHETIC!” screamed Marius, socking him one in the jaw and then kicking him in the nose. Chef Louis’ corpulent figure sprawled unconscious on the ground, bleeding tomato sauce.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Marius said meekly, chastely dropping his eyes before the four agog leading men. “This man who calls himself ‘Chef Louis’ is actually Count Fosco, my evil future self, who travelled to the past in a stolen time machine created by my roommate, Courfeyrac, to seek revenge on you four.”

“But why?” said Hercules.
“Because you gentlemen are rather attractive and got the women in the end. Count Fosco doesn’t, and his 725 pound body doesn’t help with the ‘attractive’ portion.”

Count Fosco sat up straight and yelled “724!” and then fell back onto the ground.

Suddenly, a horde of middle-aged women came thundering over the horizon, blocking out the sun with their thousands of numbers. “AMAZONS!” cried Hercules, trying unsuccessfully to hide himself behind Eric.

“OMG, Michael Ball!” yelled one of the women.

“OMG, two Michael Balls!” yelled another one.

“OMG, how does that even make sense?” yelled the first one.

“OMG, who cares?” yelled the second one.

Chef Louis/Count Fosco sat up, blinking at the sight of his fangirls. Then, he suddenly ripped off a fat suit and ran toward them, beaming like a child in a candy store.

“I knew it,” muttered Eric.

Marius grinned, his hands on his hips. “My work here is done,” he said, ascending into the heavens in a shower of glitter.

The four heroes exchanged glances.

“You know,” said Prince Edward at last, “Maybe a strip club is a bad idea.”

“You’re right, mate,” said Hercules. “Let’s go to the Kennedy Space Center instead.” And he, Edward, and Eric skipped into the sunset, arm-in-arm.

Darcy stood there, blinking for a moment and reflecting on the incredibly strange day he’d just had. At last, unable to comprehend what had happened, he collapsed back into the drivers’ seat of his car. “I am SO late for work,” he said.

THE END

[Schmergo]

Aku, is there a way you can move this to the 'writing' section instead of fanfiction?

[timtheenchanter]

Well Schmergo, you can always delete these posts and just resubmit them in 'Writing.'

Just a thought.

Tim the Enchanter

[Schmergo]

Our new, most horrible story yet. Viewer discretion is advised, because this story really is inappropriate. My tiny, innocent-looking sister came up with some of the more repulsive and dubious bits of the story, I swear. She has a preoccupation with dead babies.

When I threatened to show my mother, she ripped up the story, but I found the pieces and taped them back together, and am posting them here because Thanquol and Nemo thought it was funny.

DISGUSTING STORY

Mr. Wickham had absolutely no intention of becoming a werewolf until one fine evening, when a big, furry wolf interrupted his moonlit stroll by taking a big chomp out of his leg.

"Oh, dangnabit, is there a doctor anywhere around?" cried Wickham as a fountain of blood spurted out of his leg.

"Why, yes indeed!" replied a shady-looking man, springing out from behind a bush and looking rather out of breath. He wore nothing but a sparkly orange man-thong, a stethescope, and a bushy mustache, and held in his hand a business card that proudly proclaimed, "DR. GIGOLO, MD."

"You're not a doctor!" exclaimed Wickham.

"Am, too. I'm the best dang gynaecologist this side of Pemberley."

"Oh, yeah? I remember you from the last time I accidentally got a woman pregnant. Those abortions you performed only half worked."

"What do you mean?" demanded Dr. Gigolo, planting his hands on his sparkly hips.

"Listen, Dr. Gigolo."

"Please, call me Tyrone."

"All right, 'Tyrone.' Anyway, instead of outright killing the fetuses, your so-called 'abortions' turned them into undead, flesh-eating zombies."

Dr. Gigolo giggle-o'ed.

"I need a real doctor," Wickham explained through gritted teeth. "A wolf nearly chewed my leg off."

Suddenly, a caped figure dropped from the sky, landing firmly on Dr. Gigolo's head and smashing him into a four-inch rectangle. It was Superman!

"Sorry about that, Mr. Wickham," said Superman, pulling out his cell phone and dialing 911. "Let's get you to the hospital before the wolf venom kicks in and you turn into a bloodthirsty monster."

"Wait, what?" demanded Wickham.

"Let me introduce myself," Superman said. "I'm Kevin James, and I'm Derbyshire's local Superman. My particular area of expertise is fighting werewolves, and an especially nasty one seems to have gotten you today. If we don't pump the wolf venom out in time, you'll turn into a werewolf as well."

"Is that so?" said Wickham, slowly morphing into a seven-foot wolf with glowing red eyes and stiletto toenails.

"Dangit, not again," muttered Superman as Wickham chewed his head off and devoured his intestines.

[Here, the story was abandoned because it was just too wrong.]

[bb]

That was... um... entertaining?

Seriously though, it was like my forays into -audible laughter- Anonymous, where i like blasting people's heads off with bazookas. Seriously.

You TOTALLY should write more with your sister.

~BB

[Schmergo]

I'm trying to force her to get an account on MNFF, so she can leave bizarre reviews on my stories and collab with me on some fanfics. However, she's a heinously bad speller, and she's got a touch of dyslexia, so I'm usually the one who writes DOWN the stories (and I generally read to her, too). Koko's quite a good writer, though, I think. (She's much better than these horrific stories indicate)

Oh, here's our most epic collaboration of all (and you should know that Colonel Brandon and his girlfriend, Marianne, are characters from "Sense and Sensibility," and Colonel Brandon is played by Alan Rickman, aka Snape:


THE EPIC ADVENTURES OF COLONEL RHINOCEROS BRANDON

“Uh-oh,” muttered Lord Zizzleby, the stereotypical effeminate vampire, backing away from the brimming vat of toxic waste. “That clearly wasn’t pink lemonade.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” demanded Colonel Brandon, mutating uncomfortably into a twenty-foot rhinoceros.

Lord Zizzleby slapped his beautiful forehead with a gorgeous hand. “Great, now no one’s going to hire me to cater for them again,” he muttered. “I was supposed to make your wedding day perfect. Now what are we going to do? The wedding’s in two hours.”

“What kind of caterer brings a vat of toxic waste anyway?” said Brandon, pouting in a cantankerous, rhinocerousy sort of way.

“Well, it’s sort of a vampire tradition to toast with it. I sort of forgot I was catering for a human this time. After all, you are pasty white, and you have pointy teeth and that scar on your neck.”

“It was caused by falling on a two-pronged fondue fork,” Brandon snarled.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do,” said Lord Zizzleby. “We must go to the sea witch and trade your voice for your human form—”

Brandon’s rhino jaw dropped. “My voice? But without my voice, what am I? Do you think anyone’s actually a fan of Alan Rickman because of the face?”

“True, true,” Lord Zizzleby sighed. “You certainly aren’t as attractive as me. Well, I guess we’ll have to start a circus, and you could be in the freak show. That way you’d still have fans and get paid, and you wouldn’t have to give up your voice.”

“BUT MY WEDDING’S IN TWO HOURS!” yelled Brandon. “MARIANNE’S GOING TO TOTALLY FREAK!”

Lord Zizzleby shivered. “Ooh, yell at me again. Your voice is so pretty.”

Brandon shot him a dirty look, which is easy for a rhino to do.

“We could always turn you back, but we’ll have to pay a visit to Mrs. Cake. Boy, is she frightening,” Lord Zizzleby muttered. “We’ll need moral support for this. Where are the other two groomsmen?”

Brandon rang a bell with his mouth. “Snape! Judge Turpin! Get in here!” he cried.

“Yes?” both men said in perfect unison, appearing in twin puffs of smoke.

Lord Zizzleby shivered again. “Ooh, three times the pretty voice…”

And so the three brave men and a rhino set out on an arduous journey to visit Mrs. Cake. Fortunately, she lived next door, so it took mere seconds. “Well, hello, dearies,” a sweet-looking woman said, answering the door. “I’m Mrs. Circe Cake. Come in. Let me get you a refreshment.”

“How is this lady scary?” Brandon chortled. And then they saw it—thousands of men sat in the parlor.

“Leave while you can,” a shriveled bald guy croaked.

Lord Zizzleby laughed and flopped down on a pillow. “Oh, don’t be silly!” he chirped, as Mrs. Cake bustled back with a tray of delicious-looking appetizers. “What could possibly go wrong?”

TWO HOURS LATER…

“Wow, that was great!” burped Brandon. “Check, please.”

“Right away, dearie!” said Mrs. Cake.

TWO HOURS LATER…

“BAMBOOZLED!” shouted Snape.

“I told you! I told you!” cried the shriveled bald guy. “I’ve been waiting for my check since 1932. And while you’re in her parlor, she owns your soul, and can control it as she pleases.”

“Well, ummm, at least we have plenty of time to get you turned into a human, since you just missed your wedding,” Lord Zizzleby said optimistically.

“Yeah, and this is the perfect place to hide from your fiancé,” Judge Turpin added.

Brandon looked at him suspiciously. “You totally kidnapped Marianne, didn’t you?” he said.

Turpin smiled nervously. “Just a little.”

“LET ME OUT OF HERE, YOU FIEND!” came an angry, feminine voice from inside Turpin’s pocket.

“Oh, no! You’re staying in there,” Turpin said. “Your soul doesn’t belong to Mrs. Cake yet, but as soon as you see those delicious, moist, rich cakes, you’ll never be able to leave.”

“I don’t care!” cried Marianne, “My soul may not be in the evil clutches of Mrs. Cake, but it will always belong to Chris-Ba!”

“Chris-Ba?” Snape repeated flatly.

“That’s… her special pet name for me,” Brandon said uncomfortably.

“Oh, Chris-Ba, Chris-Ba!” sobbed Marianne, bursting from Turpin’s pocket and racing toward her fiancé. “What have they done to you, my poor, sweet soldier?”

“Nothing a man can’t bear, Mamie-Pie,” Brandon replied stoically as Turpin, Snape, Lord Zizzleby, and the old guy all burst into hysterical cackles.

“Hey, ‘Chris-Ba,’” Lord Zizzleby said between peals of laughter. “Shall we find Mrs. Cake and ask her about this rhino thing?”

“Oh, no, Chris-Ba, it’s far too dangerous!” gasped Marianne, clutching Brandon’s horn amorously.

“Yes, but I must go, if we’re ever to be married, Mamie-Pie,” replied Brandon.

“Pie? Did someone say pie?” said Mrs. Cake, popping up from a random vortex that spontaneously appeared in the middle of the table.

“Well, that certainly saved us a trip,” murmured Snape.

“Look, Mrs. Cake,” Lord Zizzleby said. “I was wondering if you could do us a favour. Brandon here has turned himself into a rhinoceros, and we need your help to turn him back. We also need the check, but that can wait.”

Mrs. Cake beamed. “Why, yes, my darling. There’s certainly a way to help your mutant friend. You must travel to the Gulch of the Four Winds and take the skull of famed sorcerer William Bradford from the wise man who lives in the cave there. Then, you must bring this skull to the evil wizard who lives in the tallest tower at the top of the tallest mountain in the coldest part of Alaska, and he can help you.”

The three men, the rhino, and the rhino’s fiancé all stared in disbelief.

“Rockin’! Let’s do it!” yelled Lord Zizzleby.

“Come on, everyone! Get on my back!” Brandon said over the noise. “Except for you, Mamie-Pie. You have to stay here. It’s far too dangerous for you.”

“Dangit! I never get to ride Brandon!” shouted Marianne, stomping out of the room.

Once Turpin, Snape, and Lord Zizzleby were all securely seated, Brandon disappeared in a puff of smoke and reappeared in a dry, drafty ditch in the middle of New Mexico.

“How did you do that?” demanded Turpin.

“Rhinoceroses have powers that you can only dream of,” Brandon replied mysteriously.

“Well, then, if you’re so magical, maybe you can find the skull,” Snape said, gesturing towards the millions of rotting bones lying in the ditch.

A giant red beam shot suddenly out of Brandon’s horn and illuminated a tiny cave carved in the side of the ditch. Lord Zizzleby, Snape, and Turpin all crawled inside, as Brandon couldn’t quite fit. Inside sat a ragged man, with long hair and desperate eyes, cradling a crumbling skull.

“Are you the wise man?” asked Lord Zizzleby.

The wise man looked up. “I’m Ben Bernanke,” he said. “And I need your teeth, Spencer, for my Federal Reserve.” He gently licked the skull’s decaying teeth.

“Well, none of us named Spencer,” snapped Snape.

Judge Turpin looked slightly terrified. “Erm, I am,” he said.

“No, you’re not, BATHILDA,” Brandon said, enunciating ‘Bathilda.’ “Sorry about him, he’s schizophrenic and has trouble remembering his REAL name sometimes.”

“No, I’m not!” said Turpin. Everyone glared at him, but Ben Bernanke didn’t seem to be paying attention anyway.

“Do you think you can mock me, Spencer?” he said hollowly, staring intensely at the skull and shaking it. “Do you?!”

“Poor man,” sighed Lord Zizzleby. “That’s the Chairman of the Federal Reserve. Explains a lot about the current economic state, actually. But how to get the skull from him?”

Suddenly, raucous karaoke music began to play, out of nowhere: “UNDER THE SEEEEA, UNDER THE SEEEEA!” The song continued, Snape dancing with Ben Bernanke until he could get the senile old man to put down the skull. As soon as he did, the music spluttered out and the four made a run for it.

“What was that?” asked Lord Zizzleby, when they were out of hearing distance.

“I’m not sure,” Snape said uneasily. “But I hope I never have to do that again. I’m not entirely sure what came over me.”

“Mmmm. Maybe it was Mrs. Cake controlling your soul,” said Brandon thoughtfully. “Well, where to next?”

“The evil wizard who lives in the tallest tower at the top of the tallest mountain in the coldest part of Alaska, if my memory serves me correctly,” said Judge Turpin. “Can you take us there?”

Brandon shook his head. “No,” he said miserably. “Rhinos are powerless in cold weather.”

“But polar bears aren’t,” Marianne cried, stepping out from behind a cliff. While the men had been busy with Ben Bernanke, she’d occupied her time by morphing into a twenty-foot polar bear. “Don’t worry, Chris-Ba! I drank toxic waste too, so I could come save you! Like the time when you scooped me up in your arms and took off all my clothes and…”

“Whoa there,” Brandon cried with considerable embarrassment. “It was for health reasons only, I can assure you. Didn’t want you to catch cold after you fainted out in the rain, my dear.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” shouted Marianne. “Off to Alaska!”

And the bunch vanished off to Alaska. The second they arrived, the first thing they noticed was the strong, strong smell of frying fish and a vaguely off-key voice singing an unintelligible song at the top of its lungs.

As they made their way closer to the tallest tower, the song became clearer. “WHEN YOU WISH UPON A STARRRR…” The song continued as the five travelers walked up the icy mountain path.

“Wow, he must really be evil,” said Snape. He wasn’t being sarcastic- he could think of no magic more vile than happy Disney music.

“Wait a minute,” said Lord Zizzleby. “I know this music.” He sniffed the air. As he did, a sinister-looking man with a long beard Apparated from the top of the tower and stood before him, reeking strongly of fish.

“Zizzleby, my boy!” he boomed, in a strong Brooklyn accent.

“Zordechai the Magnificent,” Lord Zizzleby replied with considerably less enthusiasm. “I never expected to see you again.”

“Well, you should have. After all, I am your wife’s second cousin’s best friend’s blood sister’s boyfriend’s dog’s previous owner. And I taught you everything you know about black magic!”

“All you ever taught me was how to fry fish,” muttered Lord Zizzleby. “Badly.”

“AND THIS!” said Zordechai the Magnificent. He wiggled his fingers and Snape magically began dancing and singing ‘Under The Sea.’

“You did that?” asked Brandon. “You can control people to make them sing Disney songs?”

Lord Zizzleby rolled his eyes. “Yes, but only Snape. And only ‘Under The Sea.’ Trust me, the only magnificent thing about Zordechai the Magnificent is his smell.”

“So, can you turn me and Chris-Ba back into humans?” Marianne cried.

“Indeed I can!” shrieked Zordechai the Magnificent, throwing five more fish into the frying pan with a zesty sizzling sound.

“Erm, I’m not sure this such a good idea…” said Turpin nervously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Zordechai the Magnificent. “Higgledy… piggledy… POO!”

There was a flash of light, and Brandon and Marianne were standing there, looking dazed and perfectly human. “Oh my Godric,” breathed Snape. “It actually worked. What are the chances of that?”

But Snape spoke too soon. Because as soon as Brandon and Marianne saw each other, they let out bloodcurdling screams.

“I’m you!”

“I’m you!”

Lord Zizzleby slowly beat his head against the fish-scented wall.

“Wow, is that really how my hair looks from behind?” Marianne cried in disgust.

“And am I really that wrinkly and unattractive?” cried Brandon.

“Well, at least you’re not a rhino,” muttered Zordechai the Magnificent, shuffling off. “Well, my work here is done.” And he disappeared in a puff of fishy smoke.

Brandon and Marianne gasped in desperation. “Snape,” said Brandon. “You’re a wizard. Figure out something to do.”

“Take this,” added Turpin, handing over the skull of William Bradford.

“Well, okay, I suppose I could brew a potion. Thankfully, we have the skull of an ancient sorcerer, because that’s the main… Brandon, what are you doing?” Snape screamed in disgust. Marianne, in Brandon’s body, was experimenting with her/his new short hair by putting it in a Mohawk and such. But that was nothing compared to all of the horrifically indescribable things that Brandon was doing in Marianne’s body.

“Well,” said Snape, clearing his throat and trying to maintain some sort of dignity. “I can make you a switching solution, but we need… oh man, the irony is unbearable. We need the horn of a rhinoceros.”

“No problem!” exclaimed Lord Zizzleby. “I always carry around Pluffo the stuffed rhino, with a real rhino horn! I stole it off of a poacher that I killed and ate years ago!”

“And the other necessary ingredient is… a vampire’s fangs,” Snape finished up.

“Well, don’t look at me! I would starve without my fangs,” Lord Zizzleby said. “However, I can use my vampire charm to seduce a teenage girl who is trick-or-treating and is dressed up as a vampire. Then I’ll steal her fake fangs.”

“That would NOT work,” Snape informed him stiffly. “But don’t worry, I’ve already removed yours while you weren’t looking.”

“WHAT?!” screeched Lord Zizzleby, bursting into tears.

“Soup’s on,” said Snape, holding up a skull full of glutinous green potion. Just as they were about to drink the foul-smelling liquid, Snape said, “Wait! You need a lock of each other’s hair, or else it won’t work.”

“WHAT?!” cried Marianne, “Cut off one of my beautiful golden locks?”

“Come on, Marianne. You practically shaved off your entire head for Willoughby,” Brandon said.

“Yes, but he was hot! You’re just some old guy!” snapped Marianne.

“Look, do you want to do this or not?” Snape shouted.

THREE HOURS AND MANY TANTRUMS LATER…

“Ahhh, that’s better,” said Marianne.

“No, it’s not,” said Colonel Brandon sadly, thinking back to the many joys of Marianne’s body.

“Smashing! Let’s get back to Mrs. Cake’s!” said Lord Zizzleby.

“But I don’t want to suffer through eternity stuffing my face with baked goods in a serial killing, smelly old woman’s house!” Marianne sobbed.

“TOO BAD!” yelled Snape, Disapparating the whole bunch over to Mrs. Cake’s.

NINETEEN WEEKS LATER…

“I can’t believe we still haven’t gotten our check,” muttered Brandon.

“I just wish we hadn’t missed our wedding. All I wanted was to get married,” said Marianne.

Judge Turpin cleared his throat.

“No, I’m not marrying you,” said Marianne, glaring at the creepy old judge.

“What I was GOING to say,” said Judge Turpin with great dignity, “Is, being a judge, I can technically perform a marry-age.”

“But I don’t have a dress or veil or anything, I’m wearing a torn-up dress that makes me look like one of those Lovely Ladies from Les Miserables, and Chris-Ba isn’t wearing a shirt.”

“PERFECT!” cried Lord Zizzleby. “And we certainly have cake enough for the occasion.”

“Well, I guess,” sighed Marianne. “I was just hoping for a wedding a little more like the one from the end of ‘Sense and Sensibility.’”

“Silly little girl, you can’t believe everything that you read in books. Unless, of course, it’s a cookbook,” Mrs. Cake laughed.

“I don’t know,” said Snape miserably. “I didn’t really like the effect of the newt poop and monkey brain tumors that the chicken ‘n’ dumplings recipe that James Potter gave me called for.”

Judge Turpin clapped his hands together. “SHHH!” he said. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman together in holy matrimony.” He turned to Brandon. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“Hot diggity, I sure do!” yelled the shriveled bald man in the corner.

“NOT YOU!” everyone shouted in perfect unison.

“Dangit!”

Judge Turpin rolled his eyes. “Colonel Christopher Mustafa Brandon, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“As sure as I’m an incredibly hot young man!” Brandon said.

“Then no?” Marianne sobbed.

“What I meant was, I would certainly love to marry you,” Brandon said.

“Oh, good. I didn’t realize you were being sarcastic,” sighed Marianne. “I love you, Chris-Ba.”

“And I love you, too, Mrs. Chris-Ba,” said Brandon. He snogged her face off, then paused. “Wait a minute, I wasn’t being sarcastic!”

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER…

“I should’ve just stayed a rhino,” muttered Brandon. He couldn’t believe he was still at Mrs. Cake’s. The worst part was, Judge Turpin kept trying to kidnap his daughter, Johanna; Lord Zizzleby kept hovering hungrily around his daughter, Bella; and Snape was never very nice to his son, Harry.

As for the old, wrinkled guy, he had escaped through the window and immediately gone to Mr. Fish’s next door, where he waited ninety-nine more years for the check. Little did he know that Mr. Fish was actually Zordechai the Magnificent, exercising his mediocre powers of dark magic.

“I just wish that check would come,” sighed Marianne, hanging up the family’s underwear from the dinner table to dry. “I just want to pay already.”

“Pay?” said Mrs. Cake. “What? But the food’s free!”

THE END

[Ankh]

Wow, that was funny and completely ridiculous!

[Schmergo]

Why, thanks! That was the intention!

[mousemaylikecheese]

Oh, it is sooooo goofy. It's a little like my nonsense fic, only with way more nonsense.

[Schmergo]

Here's our newest, most brilliant story ever. Chauvelin is inspired by the antics of Mekroth (look him up on youtube). Michael Ball is inspired by... my rabid devotion for him.

THE (VERY) WRONG BUS

Once upon a time, Sir Percy Blakeney was so drunk that he got on the wrong bus. Little did he know just how wrong it was!

“Lud love me! I got on the wrong bus!” Percy laughed as an albino chicken sat down next to him.

“Yeah, ya think?” grumbled the headless man in front of him.

“Oh dear,” Percy muttered disorientedly. “Zooks, what sort of bus IS this, good sir?”

“We’re all going to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party!” Siamese triplets conjoined at the navel squealed.

“Oh,” said Percy, blinking slightly. “Ah. Well, I do hope I’m dressed for the occasion.”

“OH I’M A LUMBERJACK AND I’M OKAY, YO HO YO HO, A PIRATE’S LIFE FOR ME!” bellowed a very strange-looking man wearing ragged plaid flannel, dreadlocks, and lots of eyeliner.

“Oh, that’s Lumber Jack Sparrow,” explained the headless man. “Don’t mind him. He chopped down a tree and it fell on him, and he’s never been quite right in the head since, poor man. Not that I can talk, of course. I’m Billingsley Crawford Foxx IV, Space Pioneer. I was the first man to land successfully on Neptune. After which my head was promptly ripped off and eaten by its inhabitants.”

Percy let out an inane giggle. “Aha! For a moment, I was afraid you’d run into Chau-Chau!” He mimed a throat-slitting gesture.

Suddenly, as if summoned, Chauvelin jumped through the emergency exit of the bus, bearing a hand-held guillotine.

“GASP!” everyone gasped.

“Citizen Shove-lynn!” cried Percy. “Why, what brings you here?”

Chauvelin leered. “One thing,” he said. “And one thing only.” He cleared his throat ominously, then all of a sudden, very loud percussion began playing and he started bouncing off the seats, singing, “Guess what? Guess what? I have a faaaaan! I have a faaaaan! Her name is Schmergo, she’s on BroadwayWorld, and she’s my faaaaan! Not yooooours! I HAVE A FAN!” His voice cracked horribly and he teleported constantly from one side of the bus to the other.

“Zounds,” said Percy. “This is worse than the Rob Hunt incident.”

“I,” Chauvelin cried a tad bit too overdramatically, “…”

“Have a fan?” everyone on the bus supplied.

“INDEEEEED!” screeched Chauvelin, shoving his face an inch away from Percy’s and doing a series of strange hand gestures that are impossible to describe with words.

There was a long silence. Then, the headless man said, “Oh, I get it! You’re the Mad Hatter! Well, where’s the tea then, old man?”

“Indeed, no! I had the Mad Hatter guillotined for crimes against the Republic!”

“Crimes?” said Lumber Jack Sparrow, scratching his head as beagle-sized beetles crawled around his dreadlocks.

“YES,” said Chauvelin, spitting a series of poisonous snakes into the air and stomping on them. “Schmergo seemed a little bit TOO attached to him after she met him at Disney World.”

The conjoined triplets each blinked in series.

“I’m guessing Michael Ball has suffered a similar fate?” sighed Percy.

Chauvelin cracked his knuckles and bees flew out. “He’s next,” he muttered. “I’ve been perfecting my plans for months.”

“Lud love me, Chau-Chau!” Percy said, expression serious. “This killing thing must stop!”

Chauvelin slumped down into his seat and looked up at Percy. “But why?” he demanded with big, sad puppy eyes. Before Percy could say anything, he jumped up to his feet, produced an accordion from midair and sang in the most horrible voice possible, “SHOOT YOUR DAD, KILL YOUR MOM, [CENSORED] THE WORRRRLD…”

Before he could finish the obscenity, his face contorted and he crumpled up the accordion with a really disgusting sound and ate it.

“I’m confused,” said Percy. “Precisely WHAT was in that snuffbox of yours, Chaubertin?”

The Siamese triplets looked at Chauvelin in what seemed to be a mix of horror and disgust, and then their ears fell off. “I think he’s sexy,” said the middle one. The other two tried to scoot away in disgust, but they were too conjoined.

“Well,” sighed the headless man. “What is this plan to kill Michael Ball? If we can’t go to the Mad Hatter’s tea party, we might as well go with that.”

“Wait a minute,” Chauvelin countered. “I only recruit hot young women as my minions.”

“Oh, THAT’S why you don’t have any!” giggled Percy.

Chauvelin looked crestfallen. “You have a point,” he said in a rare moment of clarity. He let out a melodramatic sigh. “Well, I guess we’re all going to kill Michael Ball together. But allow me to present my plan.”

He jumped in the air and landed in a slightly demonic crouching position, his hair falling over his face.

“First we drop these small bits of hair I’ve been collecting from the hairbrushes of small children and women into his salad—but—the hair is dosed with hair detangler, and when he eats it, his beautiful curly locks will become straight and he will lose his job, fangirls, and money, and become homeless and die!”

“Lud love me, that was quite a run-on!” Percy cried.

“Why do you care?” bellowed Chauvelin. “You’re a fop! You probably can’t even read!”

Percy blinked. “I like cravats,” he said.

“That’s better,” said Chauvelin, tossing him a biscuit.

The headless man stood up. If he’d had a head, he would have hit the ceiling of the bus. “WELL?” he roared. “WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR? LET’S KILL HIM!”

“Aye, matey!” said Lumber Jack Sparrow in a vague, marijuana-y sort of way. He tapped the bus driver on the shoulder. “Driver?” he instructed, staring in the exact wrong direction. “To Mr. Ball’s house.”

The driver said nothing, because she was a decaying skeleton that was only kept from completely falling apart by a thick of cobwebs.

“I’ll take over,” the headless man assured, striding toward the front of the bus.

“NO!” everyone no’ed.

“Erm, people who don’t have eyes don’t usually make the best drivers,” one of the Siamese triplets said tactfully.

“I guess the question is, who’s been driving this whole time?” asked Sir Percy.

Suddenly, the albino chicken, which up until then had been silent, stood up. “I have,” it said in a preternaturally deep voice, growing to nineteen times its size.

“Um…”

“Well…”

“Do you really think?”

Everyone chattered amongst themselves.

“Why not!” Percy exuberated.

Finally, the headless man cleared his throat. He did this by reaching into his neck stump and pulling out everything inside it. “Oh, great chicken,” he said, “Who are you, and can you take us to Michael Ball?”

The chicken opened its majestic. “I am the omnipotent and the omnipresent. I am the sunrise in the morning and the lap of the waves on the shore. I am the moon and the stars and the brown sugar on your breakfast cereal. I am Michael Ball, and I am EVERYWHERE.”

There was a long, stunned, ringing silence, broken only Lumber Jack Sparow muttering loudly, “Everywhere? Oh, buck up, mate, you’re not THAT fat.”

“Kill the beast!” several random villagers screamed.

Chauvelin daintily took off his gloves. “You speak well, chicken,” he snarled, pulling out a dagger, “but you are no match for my superior powers.”

“Ooh, like what?” asked the chicken.

Chauvelin scratched his chin in thought for a moment. “Well, most of them involve the accordion,” he said.

“And you ate that like two pages ago,” one of the Siamese triplets reminded him.

Chauvelin’s face fell. “So I did,” he murmured quietly. “So I did.” And suddenly, he burst into tears.

“Um, maybe someone should stop him! I think he’s having hysterics. I certainly wouldn’t mind doing it,” the middle triplet suggested suggestively.

“Ew,” the other two sisters muttered, and not just because of the redundancy and bad writing.

“Well?” boomed the chicken. “Is this to be a gentlemanly battle of wits, or shall we resort to fisticuffs?”

Chauvelin looked at the chicken, through narrowed eyes. “First be man enough to show yourself in your true form.”

“If you really want me to,” said the chicken, morphing into Edna Turnblad.

Chauvelin’s jaw dropped like a broken elevator. “Changed my mind…” he said.

“Okay,” the former chicken said, transforming into Michael Ball wearing an adorable Marius costume.

“Now HE’S cute,” said one of the triplets.

“No, no, Chauvelin’s cuter!” squealed the middle one.

“No, I think the headless man is the cutest!” shrieked the third. A horrible silence ensued.

Percy raised a tentative hand. “Excuse me?” he asked delicately. “Does no one find me hot?”

Lumber Jack Sparrow giggled seductively. “Avast matey,” he said, starting to strip off his lumberjack shirt to reveal suspenders and a bra.

Shielding his eyes, Percy whimpered, “I beg pardon, good sir. I had no intention of leading you on. I must confess certain affections for the chicken in its original form.”

Another horrible silence followed.

“And they say I’m mad,” remarked Chauvelin.

Michael Ball cleared his throat. “Are we going to engage in an epic cataclysmic clash or not?” he reminded his busmates.

“For Narn… I mean, for the Republic,” Chauvelin cried, voice hardly cracking at all.

“My, my! Our little Chau-Chau is becoming a man! I’m so proud!” exclaimed Percy, taking a snap shot with a Polaroid camera and pasting it into Chauvelin’s baby book.

Michael Ball narrowed his eyes. “This battle,” he said, “Will be a dance-off.”

Thriller began playing and Chauvelin, began a series of dance moves that should be outlawed in several countries. They consisted of rhythmic seething, lunging, shouting obscenities, spreading his arms wide while spinning around, teleporting all over the bus, and wiggling his scrawny little teenage tush.

After thoroughly washing his eyeballs with soap, Michael Ball began doing several eye-appealing, well-choreographed dance moves. Then, Percy woke up from his dream and found that nothing could be further from the truth. Michael Ball, while still boogying his feet off, was actually just twitching his head slightly out of rhythm, erratically pointing at things and punching the air, doing some unsettling pelvic thrusts, and finishing off with some of the booty-shaking choreography of “You Can’t Stop The Beat.”

“Dude,” said the headless man to no one in particular. “Why would you challenge anyone to a dance-off? Neither of you can dance!”

“Why does everyone always say that?” Michael Ball pouted.

“Because forty-seven-year-olds shouldn’t do pelvic thrusts!” Lumber Jack Sparrow yelled.

“Well, I thought…” the first sister was interrupted by a chorus of ‘no one wants to know!’

“I do,” Michael Ball said softly, but was promptly silenced by Percy jumping to his feet and declaring, “This dance-off was an absolute farce! Listen, Mr. Ball. Chau-Chau merely wants to dispose of you because he’s concerned that Schmergo’s affections for you are rivaling those directed at him. That’s it, plain and simple.”

[strikethrough]“Schmergo?” Michael Ball screeched. “That girl’s AWESOME![/strikethrough] I mean…that Schmergo! I should have known. Always making up falsehoods about me and posting them on fanfiction dot net. Not to mention that one very disturbing story about you and Robespierre, Mr. Chauvelin… though now it looks as though it didn’t come close to doing your insanity justice.”

“That girl has tangled with the WRONG MAN,” grumbled Chauvelin.

“Darn right!” said the headless man.

“DISMISSED? REJECTED? PUBLICLY HUMILIATED? NO ONE SAYS NO TO CHAUVELIN!” bellowed Chauvelin. “WELL, ACTUALLY, A LOT OF PEOPLE DO, BUT THEY USUALLY END UP DEAD! OR MARRIED TO SIR PERCY! WHICH, IN MY OPINION, IS WORSE!” He began panting heavily and sweating komodo dragon venom. “Schmergo tells me everything,” he hissed. “I know her like I know my own heart!”

“Well, I know Schmergo like I know the top of my head,” said Michael Ball. “Which isn’t very well, because my beautiful, curly hair has always obscured it, so I don’t know anything about all the weird bumps and lumps and lobotomy scars and lice and the initials that Terrence Mann carved into my head at that one very wild party at Sir Cameron Mackintosh’s that one time.” He scratched his chin. “Come to that, I don’t really know anything about Schmergo, or care about her in the least. But I care enough about her, as I would any human life, to prevent her from ending up in your nefarious clutches. I know what you’ve done to all of your other internet ‘girlfriends’, Chauvelin.”

“But she’s my fan,” Chauvelin sputtered sadly, slumping down in his seat.

Michael Ball sat down next to Chauvelin and put a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Listen son,” he said. “I have a few fans of my own—mostly a huge horde of middle-aged women who come charging over the horizon at the mere mention of my name. But I treat my fans with gratitude and respect. I don’t just go luring them to my underwater lair, strip them, use them for my own nefarious purposes, then send them on deadly missions, change my mind about them, catch them, rip them into shreds no bigger than my pinkie, and eat them with fava beans… well, once, but that was a very special case!”

“Well, why do I care how you handle your fans?” Chauvelin protested, sticking out his tongue.

“Oh, now you’ve done it! It’s a time out for you, Chauvelin. Sit right there and don’t make a sound!” a random unknown voice cried from the back of the bus.

Chauvelin paled. “My mother,” he whispered, jumping behind Michael Ball.

Percy squinted. “This may just be the lingering effects of the alcohol I drank before the beginning of this story, but I’m still very, very confused,” he commented.

“Chauvelin, I’m going to count to two and a half, and if you haven’t stopped hiding behind… MICHAEL BALL!” Chauvelin’s mom squealed, dropped her ugly purse and started running toward Michael Ball. Her progress was slightly hampered by the Siamese triplets, who she soullessly trampled with her stiletto heels in her diabolical progress toward Michael Ball. Once she reached him, she collapsed at his feet.

“I’m your biggest fan!” she squawked, spitting into his face. “I have Michael Ball’s Head patterned underwear! Will you sign my—”

“Mother,” Chauvelin hissed, through gritted teeth.

“Shut up, honey,” screeched Mrs. Chauvelin, chomping her gum loudly. She pulled out a handkerchief, spat on it, and rubbed laboriously at a spot on her son’s face. “Where you get this schmutz on your face, I’ll never know,” she said. “All this dried blood of the ruling classes, oy vey!”

Chauvelin looked mortified as Percy snickered to himself. “Mother, I can’t imagine how you got on the bus, but—”

“Hush, sweetie, I’m calling my friends!” crowed Mama Chauvelin, pushing a bat-shaped button on her belt. Instantly, a horde of badly-dressed middle-aged women materialized on the bus.

“Oh my gosh! Michael Ball! I remember when you were in that musical where you took all of your clothes off and…” A lady dressed suspiciously like Neville’s grandmother cried before being cut off by a new horde of ladies trampling her.

“Oh my gosh! Michael Ball! I remember when you were in that musical where you had to make out with Claire Moore, and I KILLED HER!” a lady dressed suspiciously like she was wearing a prison uniform shouted.

“Helloooo, sailor,” said a man with a thick Scottish accent who was wearing surprisingly convincing drag and smelling strongly of smoke.

Michael Ball began to look extremely disconcerted. Trying to hide behind Chauvelin certainly didn’t help.

“So, Mr. Ball,” smirked Chauvelin, “What’s all this about treating fans with gratitude and respect? Let’s see that in action, shall we?”

But before Michael Ball could answer, a barbershop quartet came out from the back of the throng, singing a song almost as bad as one of Chauvelin’s infamous compositions.

“Michael Ball! Michael Ball!
We sure love him… and he’s tall
Michael Ball! Michael Ball!”

The song continued, describing Michael Ball with any possible word that might rhyme with ‘ball.’

“Michael Ball! Michael Ball!
In Aspects he didn’t wear any clothes at all!
Michael Ball! Michael Ball!
I own a Michael Ball shaped doll!
Michael Ball! Michael Ball!
Sometimes we mob him in the mall
Michael Ball! Michael Ball!
I’ve been obsessed with him!
MICHAEL BALL!”

Finally, Michael Ball stood up. “Listen everyone!” he shouted. “What is all of this about? I’m just a singer! A fat, middle-aged musical theatre singer! I’m as cheesy as pizza and as over-the-top as an overflowing dam! I’m playing a frumpy housewife right now on West End. I turn into an albino chicken. I’m not even attractive. And I’m in a very happy relationship at the moment with my lovely, ancient Cathy! So, what IS all of this nonsense?”

After a pregnant pause, a woman who looked suspiciously as though she wasn’t wearing anything spoke up. “I like them hard to get,” she said seductively.

“Good,” said Michael Ball. “Because you’re going to have to… RUUUUUUNNNNN!” He jumped out of the window into traffic, where he was promptly run over by a Mack truck.

Chauvelin jumped to his feet. “YES!” he howled, a swarm of locusts pouring from his mouth. “My evil plan is complete! At last!” He sat down and brushed his emotastic hair out of his eyes. “All right, everyone back to normal.”

The headless man refastened his head and revealed himself to be none other than Robespierre. Lumber Jack Sparrow took off his bug-filled wig, wiped off his eyeliner, and it was suddenly quite apparent that he was Danton. The Siamese triplets disconnected themselves from each other and took off their girly trappings, and turned out to be Desmoulins, St. Just, and Aku. And Chauvelin’s mother… well, she really was his mother. But that was immaterial.

“Thank you so much, everyone, for helping me ambush Michael Ball,” he said. “Let’s see… who’s next? Who should I kill to further my monopoly of Schmergo’s affections… OFF TO ASSASSINATE NORM LEWIS!” And he and the rest of the revolutionary crew vanished in a puff of Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.

Percy, alone on the bus except for the rotting skeleton of the bus driver, blinked. “Odd’s fish,” he said. “This was most definitely the wrong bus.”

Meanwhile, on the interstate, Michael Ball peeled himself off of the pavement and brushed off his cute Marius costume. These things were an occupational hazard of being the most powerful man in the free world. He smiled to himself as he went his merry way, humming to himself. Of course he was one step ahead of Chauvelin (even if he was one step out of time)… Chauvelin had fallen for every twist and turn of his ingenious plan, and now he was headed for Norm Lewis’ house, just as Michael Ball had hoped. He suspected the revolutionary crew would be VERY unpleasantly surprised by what he had in store for them there.

No doubt Norm Lewis would perish in the struggle, as well. And then, Michael Ball reminded himself, snickering eagerly, Schmergo would be HIS ALONE.

And I can get away with anything, he thought, because I have no shame!

THE END