Thread: Saga of Dreamviews

Originally Posted by Lord Bennington

Jesus. He's everywhere. He's on sciforums? I was on their briefly, but the debate wasn't particularly lively, so I left.

Further, there are forums that he has already been perma-banned from outside of DV. Including this one= thedeepdark.com (An atheistic discussion board.) And there are entire threads dedicated to petioning his bannage on both the sciforums and theology online. Wherever he goes, people take notice. He is more than just a DV legend...

At any rate, you are probably right in that it would go over most readers heads but a number of forum savvy people would get it, I think.

I'm sorry.

At The End There is a Motorcycle – Part 2

It was dark, and cold. That was one thing Daniel Danciu was sure of. He was not sure of much else. 'Hello?' he said. There was no answer.

He got to his feet, and shoved the teleporter in his pocket. The whole room was pitch black, but he stumbled across it in any case. There had to be a door somewhere. The floor underneath was gritty, almost but not quite like dirt.

Perhaps he should have had more foresight.

He bumped against a wall, which felt almost but not quite like slime. Fantastic. He pulled out his special knife which he kept in case he ever needed to fight an angry bear, and stabbed at the air vaguely.

Then, he heard it. 'OP is fail bitch post tits.' He froze in panic. Surely not. Of all the places on the Internet . . .

'fuck you butthurt fag'

No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. But it had to be. No capitals, no full stop, a complete disregard for the English language . . .

'gaiafag fgt bitch' he heard from somewhere in front of him. Danciu groaned. Only one word in that sentence had made any kind of sense. Suddenly, he knew, with a dreadful kind of certainty. He was here. It was too late. The lights switched on, and the sudden illumination blinded him for a moment. His vision was a blurry mass of light. He closed his eyes, and breathed slowly.

Daniel Danciu opened his eyes.

He was surrounded by six-foot-tall Guy Fawkes masks. Anonymous. It was all around him.

I am become Death. Destroyer of worlds . . .

He sunk to his knees. 'No,' he cried. 'No, no. It can't be.'

'Newfag,' said the tallest of Anonymous, and violently slapped him. 'Jew newfag is new.'


* * *


'Because I am a silly racial stereotype,' said Exobyte, scrounging around in the back of the sled, 'I have these.' He held up four hockey-sticks, and chucked one each to Howie, ClouD and Delphinus. Delphinus and Howie caught them, but ClouD just stared absently at the box in his hands.

'Daniel,' he whispered. 'I am totally not gay, because labels are not cool, but if there was anyone I could go gay for . . .' He trailed off. Exobyte pushed the hockey stick into ClouD's hands. 'We need these to fight off the vampires.'

'But they're vampires,' pointed out Delphinus. 'Don't they only die from stakes through the heart and radishes and moody men in black coats?'

'Well, no. Not for these vampires. They're artistic vampires, remember. They feed off ideas. The only way to kill an artistic vampire is come up with an idea so retarded, it actually physically causes the vampires heart to reverse itself. But hockey sticks are powerful. They can stun a vampire. Not kill it, but stun it for the time needed to come up with an idea about, I dunno, shark robot fighting monkeys.'

'Finally,' said ClouD. 'Finally.'

'Sorry?'

'Finally, a use for me. I can come up with a bunch of retarded story ideas. Just give me a notebook.' He spoke calmly, flatly, like a dead man. Exobyte handed him a notebook and a pen. ClouD got to writing.

'Now,' said Exobyte, 'it's only a few minutes away from the mill. Get writing, ClouD. Everyone prepare their hockey sticks. Get ready. If there's any luck, the catgirls won't have got there yet.'

The sled sped across the plains, towards the Old Mill in the distance. The dogs kicked up a great cloud of dust, which twisted their path out behind them. Howie could see the Old Mill approaching fast. It was quickly becoming clear why it was called the Old Mill. It was old, and it was a mill.

'Can these things shoot?' asked Howie. 'It's just that shooting would be nice, thank you.'

'No,' said Exobyte. 'These are hockey-sticks. That's a wacky idea. This is not the kind of place for wacky ideas.'

'Fine, fine,' said Howie haughtily. 'I will make do with hitting.' He brandished the hockey stick; Delphinus did the same. ClouD slipped Daniel's box into his pocket and brandished his less enthusiastically. He looked like a sad little duck.

'Cheer up,' said Delphinus. 'I'm sure he's in a nice place. A nice place with a bunch of virgins and alcohol and horse-queens. I'm sure he's having a great time.'

'Yes,' said ClouD coldly. 'I'm sure.'

'We're here!' screamed Exobyte. 'The huskies reared, their hoofs flying about enthusiastically, like a small child jumping on the face of a kitten. The sled slid to a halt. Exobyte jumped off, and Delphinus, Howie and ClouD followed.

'Okay,' said Exobyte. 'It's four former members of an Internet forum against one of the greatest presidents of the United States, who is also a vampire. Let's get rolling.' Exobyte led his way across the field of corn that surrounded the barn, and knocked on the door.

'Um, hallo,' he said. 'We're here to sell you doorknobs. Doorknobs for your barn.' He turned around and winked at Howie.

'We're a bit busy,' called a voice from inside. 'Got a bit of a thing going on.'

'I assure you, sir, they are very good doorknobs.'

'We've already got doorknobs!'

'These are better doorknobs. They have coathangers. And puppies.'

There was a sigh from inside. 'I've never been one to pass up a good coathangered puppy.' Hannibal Hamlin opened the door.

Exobyte swung his hockey stick at Hannibal's fat, fat face. He fell to the ground, holding his streaming nose.

Hannibal Hamlin said, like a man revealing a great secret, 'Dammit, dammit, dammit! You aren't selling doorknobs at all, are you?'

Howie rushed in, and kneed Hamlin in the face. Then he spied the scene inside. There were hundreds of vampires ranged around the barn. Some of them had nice coats on, and were reading books. Some others were simply staring at the Canadians tied up in the middle of the floor, who had a notebook each in front of them, and a pen. They looked weak, and the pens wobbled in their hands, like the control of the world wobbled between the Russians and the USA, before Russia went all pussy. And Abraham Lincoln stood in the middle of it all, overseeing the whole thing. He smiled, and pulled at his beard. And turned to the arrivals.

'So nice to see you,' he said pleasantly. 'You are three minutes late. Do try to keep a better schedule. He gestured to the Canadians in the middle of the floor. 'It's all going rather well, don't you think? And you come here to ruin it for us all. Tut-tut-tut. Take them, minions.'

The vampires leapt, and took the four Dreamviewers with grips of iron. Abraham Lincoln laughed pleasantly. 'You didn't think you'd get us, would you? With hockey sticks? What do you think we are? Fools? I can only assume you do.'

Lincoln leaned back suddenly, and wings unfolded from his back. He flew over to the Dreamviewers. 'Think of some ideas,' he hissed. 'We can always do with more. Yum-yum-yum.' First, he turned to Howie. 'Go,' he said curtly.

'Umm,' said Howie, unable to resist Lincoln's gray stare. 'A punventure of some kind. Like, like, like, there's this bit where this guy beats up another guy in a University and he's all like, “You got schooled” and it would be super cool and maybe some robots too-'

Lincoln burst out laughing. 'Beautiful! Positively beautiful. I could feed off that for weeks. You, Dolphin boy, next.'

Delphinus panicked. 'Uhh,' he said. 'What about there is a dog. Yes, there is a dog. And the dog wants to get a puppy, but mother dog won't let him, and then there is a unicorn, that would be nice, and maybe some happy things happen. Also there should be a racecar.' He stopped, and nodded. 'And that's my story.'

Abraham Lincoln nodded slowly. 'Borderline retarded. That was dangerous. Remind me never to talk to you again.' He turned to Exobyte.

'FUCKIN' RABBITS,' burst out Exobyte, before Lincoln could say anything. 'Just fuckin' rabbits attacking each other and having wars and shit. There can be this scene where this one rabbit, he's like, “Fuck you,” and he attacks this other rabbit and bites his eye out. And he'll be like “AHHHH” because his fucking eye is gone, and he'll be running around in a circle, and then BAM. This boot comes down. Crushes them all. That's the twist. There were giants all along.'

Abraham Lincoln doubled over coughing. 'Very good,' he croaked. 'I think you just gave me indigestion. Christ, that was bad. But nourishing. Nearly an overdose there.'

Finally, he turned to ClouD, and smiled. 'Why, you seem like a nice fellow,' he said, patting ClouD on the back.

'I've got a whole story,' said ClouD innocently. 'Would you like to hear my story, sir?' Abraham Lincoln laughed, and nodded. ClouD smiled again, and opened his notebook.

'The Cat Who Was a Bear, by one esteemed backflipper, ClouD.' He cleared his throat. 'Once, there was a cat. He had spots and claws and he meowed like a cat, too. But he had a terrible secret. He was a drug-lord. Also, he was a bear too.'

Abraham Lincoln choked. ClouD carried on.

'One day, while in a walk in the Ghettos, the cat spied a robber. He promptly set about bathing him in acid, and sold the remains to a young Cuban man for a chicken. He used the chicken to make dinner for a homeless man and also he became a dentist. The homeless man, not the cat. Or maybe both. Anyway, the point was, he really hated Communism. He hated that shit. So one day the cat who was a bear and a dentist set about considering an efficient way of governing a country. He found an oil-rig somewhere, and kidnapped a young Japanese couple. Then he formed FuckCommunism, which officially became a country just tomorrow. Anyway, he decided to try communism anyway, just to see how it worked. But soon, for some reason he was a pig too, and the Japanese couple was a horse who was an allegory for something or other, and anyway, he bought a boat in case he needed to fish for sharks. So he fished all day and all night, and finally he caught that shark, which probably represented something or other which I can't remember now, but I'm sure it was meaningful. But this Communism thing wasn't going too well. He was breaking rules all over the place and some guy who was a well or something had made a book criticising him but in a sneaky way.'

Artistic vampires all around were falling to the ground, coughing blood. Hannibal Hamlin had already fell to the ground, and was screaming, screaming, screaming. Abraham Lincoln simply stood in the middle of it all, eyes glazed over, staring into somewhere entirely different.

ClouD raised his voice over the commotion. 'So, the cat who was a bear who was a dentist who was a communist went out to bomb Russia. Bomb all of it. He constructed a bomb, and strapped it to a donkey. But the donkey could not detonate it himself, because he was a donkey. The donkey ran away, with nothing but a napsack full of nourishing cheese. For his whole life, he laboured with the bomb strapped to him, laboured, laboured, laboured. His love-making was interrupted by the bomb, and he could never have children.'

Hannibal Hamlin's eyes exploded, spraying blood across the barn. His body crumpled, and fell. The other artistic vampires were doubled over, spewing blood. Abraham Lincoln had sunk to his knees, closed his eyes, and was crying silent tears. Some of the blood on to ClouD, but he remained silent, and steely; he read on.

'And on his deathbed, the donkey turned to his wife, and hugged her, and cried a single tear. Unknowingly, though, that set off the bomb, and killed all of Russia. And the catbeardentistcommunist celebrated, but they were out of champagne. But that didn't even matter, because they had an oven, and cooking materials. And they all had muffins.'

Abraham Lincoln screamed, raised his head to the sky, and screamed and screamed, as if he was screaming tempest to the Gods themselves. His coat whirled off, his undershirt, and there was his chest, opening. His heart revealed itself, beating, pulsating in anger. And there it was, flowing backwards. It swelled and swelled, and his other organs shrinked and squeezed away from the expanding beast. It shook once, twice, three times.

Abraham Lincoln's heart exploded. Blood and flesh exploded from his chest, and as he fell, as did the other vampires, falling to the ground, clutching at their heads. Everyone was screaming, and Exobyte, Delphinus and Howie ran, ran, ran out of the doorway. ClouD remained there, his expression steel, staring silently at the dying vampires. He waited for every last one to die, and then he stood back.

'Good,' he said, and departed, his footprints burning a macabre trail across the blood spattered floor, like the path of a god.

Immaculate.

Macabre.

We don't use those big words round here, boy.

New chapter. Or new mini-chapter, whatever.

At The End There is a Motorcycle – Part 3

The man laughed breezily, swept a drink from a passing tray and said, 'I do not mean to pry, but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?'

The woman laughed with him, and smiled pleasantly, leaning in. 'Do you always begin conversations this way?'

The man's heart beat faster. Perfect. Wonderful.

'You are wonderful,' said the man.

'Thank you; I've worked hard to become so,' replied the lady pleasantly.

'I admit it, you are better than I am.'

'Then why are you smiling?'

'Because I know something you don't know.'

'And what is that?'

'I... am not left-handed,' said the man, smiling, switching his drink to his right hand. The woman tipped her head back and laughed like a small ornamental bell.

'You are amazing.'

'I ought to be, after 20 years,' said the steely man.

'Oh, there's something I ought to tell you,' remarked the woman.

'Tell me.'

The woman, looking into his eyes, a smile playing on her lips, switched her glass to her right hand, just as he had. 'I'm not left-handed either.'

The man felt like high-fiving someone. That had been wonderful, fantastic, exquisite.

'What is your name?' asked the woman.

'Call me Ishmael,' replied the man, completely switching nerdy references.

* * *

It had begun to rain; a light, drizzly sky-piss that got in your eyes. No-name blinked, pretty much the only movement he was capable of.

'Please,' he whispered to the hunched figure. 'Please take me back.' Slayer turned to no-name's jar, blinking in confusion.

'Naaaow,' he said slowly. 'Carrrtgiiirrrls.' He licked his now furry hand with a coarse tongue, and sniffed the air. 'Nearrr.' He picked no-name up once again and darted across the field. In the distance, a flash of lightning illuminated the perilous mountains of DeviantArt for a fleeting moment. Night was approaching.

Slayer slid to a halt under a tree, and scratched at the bark with his newfound claws. 'Thissh tree. They warrr here.' He spun around. The storm was advancing fast. His fur was soaked and matted with dirt; he did not care. There was only the scent.

He paused for a moment, looking into the distance. And once again he ran, no-name's head always safely clutched in his freakish paws. He was getting closer. He could feel it.

He ran.

* * *

'They're all dead,' said ClouD. 'I killed them. We're safe.' But not one of them were listening. Howie, Exobyte and Delphinus were staring down the dirt road, where a semi-trailer truck was advancing fast. A great cloud of dust followed it.

'Who is it?' said Howie. 'More vampires?'

'I don't think,' said ClouD, 'vampires travel in semi-trailers.'

The truck did a wicked skid, two backflips, and landed perfectly in front of the four Dreamviewers. Written on the side was:

PUNCHING INCORPORATED

FOR ALL YOUR PUNCHING NEEDS

And below that, a fist punching a hole in a fist with a third fist. It was the singularly most greatest thing Howie had ever seen.

The door opened, slowly. A man with a goatee, a worn leather jacket and a pair of tinted sunglasses stepped out. He acquired a cigarette from seemingly nowhere, and lit it. He cradled an invisible guitar for a moment, and stared into their eyes.

'Keep watching,' he said through gritted teeth, cigarette wobbling in his mouth. 'Keep. Watching.' He raised one hand, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. 'This is my pick. This' – he held up the invisible guitar – 'is my guitar. Keep watching.' He lowered the guitar, spread his legs, raised his cigarette, and played a chord on the invisible guitar.

It sounded perfect.

Grod pointed to every one of them with one finger. 'All of you get the fuck in right now, or swear to Me, I will make you.'

D:

So much awesome.

Amazing.

Thank you good sir.

I love it. Especially Grod reappearing. ClouD's story was awesome, and you called my Dolphin Boy.

Another chapter, because it is the holidays and all my days are filled with is telling the neighbourhood kids to get off my lawn and writing.

At The End There is a Motorcycle - Part 4

The inside of the Punching Incorporated truck was dented and beat up, and most of the dents were in the shape of a face. No-one dared ask. There was a leather seat that looked as if it could fit four people; one of the spaces was filled up by the driver, and two more were occupied by a large brown dog. Howie, Exobyte, Delphinus and ClouD clambered inside. The dog's tail whumped enthusiastically against the seat, and it attempted to lick all their crotches at once.

'You know,' said Grod, 'I once knew someone who named his dog “Nigger”. It was a white dog. That guy was a fuck. I still have his hand somewhere around here. So anyway, what I'm really trying to say is this is Reginald. Reginald, say hello. Four more crotches!'

'Uhmm,' said Delphinus, 'I don't mean to be rude, but there's one seat left, and four of us.'

'One seat left if you're a fat son of a bitch, maybe,' said Grod. 'I dunno, just sit on each other. You guys are gay, right?'

'NONE OF US ARE GAY,' said ClouD angrily. 'LABELS ARE BAD AND YOU ARE TRYING TO LABEL US SO YOU ARE BAD.'

Grod put his head in his hands, and patted Reginald wearily. 'I'm not listening to this shit,' he said. 'Not. Listening. Figure out a way. Eat a bowl of chilli. By the way, where are those other nerfherders? That Danciu and that catgirl freak and the head in a jar? Nerfherding?'

'They . . . had to leave,' said ClouD. Grod laughed.

'I understand. Nerfherding. Right.' He started the truck, and kicked it into gear.

'I'm sorry,' said Exobyte, 'but you're not just abducting us, are you? I mean, I wouldn't put it past you.'

'No, you goddamn Canadian. We've got a fucking job to do.'

'Why us?' said Delphinus. 'We're not good at anything. We've just barely survived this whole thing, anyway.'

Grod stared off into the distance, as his semi-trailer trampled several innocent people. 'Haven't really . . . got anyone else to call on,' he said quietly. He stared out the window for a moment, then coughed. 'Of course, it's lonely at the top. At the top of the fucking food chain. Did I mention that? I'm the top of the food chain. I mean, really. I will literally eat you if you disobey me. Understood?'

'Yes,' squeaked Delphinus.

'Good. Now, we have guns. We have cigarettes. We have alcohol. We have all that we need for this fucking mission, you understand? Because this is it. The final charge. We're going to fucking save the Internet. And Dreamviews. All of it. But first, I've gotta fucking do some retarded exposition, because we don't want that shit messing up the bits with guns. Explain a bunch of shit, yeah? So get ready.

'I assume you nerfherders are aware of the Crash and all that bullshit, when you're not herding nerf. The day Google physically integrated the Internet with reality itself. Yeah, that shit was fucked. A lot of servers went down that day. And a lot of real life places, too. Like how the White House just disappeared. They've got an Asian food place there now. I'd call it the Yellow House, except I'm not a racist fuck. Anyway, yeah, Dreamviews went down. Biggest forum on the Internet, remember? That was awesome. A lot of people wanted to lucid dream, after J.K Rowling made that whole book about it. But she's dead now. Or Italian or something. I don't really watch the news that much.

'Well, Google didn't cop any flack. Because, well, it's Google. And I hear the food there is pretty good anyway. But have you ever noticed how things are a little more boring these days? A little more tame? That's fucking Google. You know Google Suggest? Try and look up “titti”, see what it suggests. The first one's “tittilating”. Don't try and tell me they didn't censor that shit. Everyone on the Internet is looking for titties.

'But I've got information. Dirt. On Dreamviews. On asher. Poor damn asher. They've got operatives, man. Google, I mean. They killed asher. Because you know what? He sold us out. He sold us to Google. Because we bought out 4chan. I never really knew why we did do that, fucking awful place. Something about running a cat factory or something. Because we owned 4chan, Google needed us. Because Google owned every fucking site on the Internet.'

'Now,' said Howie, 'I hardly think that's right-'

'They did. They do. Just think of it. They own Youtube, Blogspot. And who do Youtube and Blogspot own? And those companies, who do they own? Like a fucking net, like a disease, spreading and spreading. Except Top Cola. Nobody wants Cola. Have you ever thought, “Wow, I could really do with some Cola right now?” I haven't, that's retarded. Cola is retarded. But all of a sudden, Top Cola owned 4chan. Anonymous. All of it. Moot killed himself, and suddenly Dreamviews and Top Cola is competition. So Google bought us out, asher got rich, read a fuckload of newspapers, and they killed him too. A perfect takeover. Google owned the Internet. Game over, insert two fucking quarters.'

'But why?' said Delphinus. 'Couldn't they be happy with what they had?'

'Because fuck everyone, that's why. Because of power, because of selfishness, because of overcompensation for a tiny dick. Larry Page and Sergey Brin were goddamn nerds before they founded Google. But now they own the Internet, and the Internet is literally reality after the Crash. Larry Page and Sergey Brin own the world. The Universe. Everything. All the matter in everything. So they're not sad, lonely nerds any more. They're the owners of all reality. BAM, suddenly they've got big dicks. It doesn't matter if their real dicks are small. Their dick is the Universe. Which sucks, because when was the last time you saw titties? I sure haven't. Here!' Grod reached over, and ripped the pants off Exobyte.

'Just look!' he screamed. 'Look, dammit!' Against their will, they looked at Exobyte's naked crotch.

There was nothing but a blurry spot. 'Censored!' screamed Grod. 'Censored. Google has fucking managed to censor the world. Because you know what, they don't want a nosy god from another Universe popping in and seeing titties and war and fucking all over the place. Because that's humanity. Titties, war and fucking. And Google fucking stopped that. Sure, there's no more war. And that's all right. But no more titties, no more fucking? You can't do that, man. You can't censor humanity. We're robots now! Robots who work at our job and get home late and don't even have enough time to bone our wife or our husband or our hooker; robots who get up in the morning and have fucking sterilized coffee just to keep ourself from falling asleep during the day, robots who read vacuous fucking empty shit in the newspapers about some politician and his buddies getting spanked in an empty little dark room by an Amazonian princess with a dick. Fuck Google. They've fucking censored us in case some celestial fucking being stops by and gets his panties in a knot. Fuck celestial beings, fuck Google, fuck censorship, fuck fucking bullshit. FUCK! FUCKING!! BULLSHIT!!!'

Grod screamed roared, ranted, and headbutted his own windshield in. He reached behind his seat and chucked a shotgun to every one of them.

'Enough fucking exposition,' said Grod, and pumped his shotgun. 'It's fucking shooting time.'

There was a bump from under them, and suddenly the world was a blurry, fast one. The truck careened up on to it's right wheels, then slammed to the ground. It skidded, throwing up sparks, and the five of them and Reginald were catapulted through the empty space where the windshield used to be. The truck continued on it's perilous path; skidding, bumping and flipping, it came to the cliff-edge and fell, fell, fell down to the riverbed below.

'Fuck,' said Grod. 'I kept my cigarettes in there.'

'A helicopter,' said Howie. 'There's a helicopter coming!' He pointed up into the sky. A helicopter was indeed approaching, slicing the air into tiny bits as it lowered down to the ground. It was a helicopter in the shape of a knife, and the rotors were knives too. It landed exactly like you'd expect a helicopter shaped like a knife to land: perfectly.

Printed on the side was:

STEEL INCORPORATED

BECAUSE I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT

And below that, a picture of a knife holding a knife fighting a third knife who was also holding a knife. That was the greatest thing Howie had ever seen. The door slammed open. A tall man stepped out, his coat being ruffled suitably dramatically by the slowing rotors. He stepped out on to the dusty plane, and smiled at the five Dreamviewers.

'You've got the guns,' Man of Steel said, and put on a pair of sunglasses, 'I'll bring the knives.'

* * *

The man fell on to the bed like a man about to have some sex, which was what he was about to do. The Princess Bride references ran through his head. Surely there was one appropriate for this moment.

No, he decided. There wasn't. Not even nerdy quotes could infiltrate the lure of women; not even designing websites or making knives or posing with no shirt on. This was now, and now was sex time.

'Sex time!' burst out the woman from the bathroom. The man smiled. She was his kind of woman.

The naked kind.

* * *

The great herd of catgirls sped across the plain, SomeGuy in the lead. This was the life. Not his old, boring, Internet life, but this; the call of the chase, the blood, the sheer, virulent power. They were getting closer now. The Mill was only a mile or so away already.

There was more than one way you could turn into a werecatgirl.

There was a howl from the pack behind him, and he joined in joyously. Soon they were all howling, like madmen, madwomen, mad catgirls. It didn't matter. It had never mattered. All there was, was this.

And, just on the edge of hearing, another howl. Not from the pack. It almost sounded . . . familiar. He stopped them with a paw. Night had already fallen, but darkness was no boundary to him. The howl had come from a tree across the plain, only 100 or so metres away. There was someone there, he saw, crouching against the rain.

He ran over, and he saw. It was slayer. And, in his hand . . . no-name?

'Slayyyarrr,' he said. 'Wallcoome.' SomeGuy swatted the jar that contained no-name's head out of slayer's paw. 'No neeed. Come with arrrsse. Huntinggg. Leave him.'

Slayer looked from no-name's sleeping head – he had closed his eyes long ago – to SomeGuy's beckoning hand. On the one hand, head in a jar. On the other hand, catgirls.

He chose.

* * *

They arrived at the mill in the dark. Empty, gone. Bad news. The Master would be told. The herd departed silently, and slipped into the dark of night.

* * *

'Dreamviewsfag,' said the tallest of Anonymous. 'Ownerfag. Cancer that killed /b/.'

Daniel Danciu screamed, and shook the bars of his cage. He wished he had his box back. His thoughts were scrambled, like eggs. Broken, shattered, lying in pieces. He found that he could only think in short, concise words, most of them containing “fag”.

'Gaiafag,' he moaned. 'Lulz turtle. Dancing in my head. fuck oldfags, fuck newfags. I'd . . . tap . . . that. TITS!' he roared in earnest, tears running down his face, 'OR GTFO!!'

'Take him!' roared the tallest head. 'To the heart! To moot! Never forgive, never forget!'

Moot was dead, Danciu managed to think. I know that. Killed himself with a fucking razor. I know tha – TITS.

Oh god. It was happening. He was turning.

The trolls roared, and grabbed him by the arms. They carried him out of his cage, and for the first time he got a good look at them. They were smeared in their own feces, their own piss, their own sperm. They didn't wash. They didn't need to. They were Anonymous.

They were taking him somewhere. Down stairs that seemed to go on forever. At last, they stopped. They were at a thick wooden door. A low moaning came from within. He struggled feebly, but they had him.

A bolt was slid back; a second, a third and a fourth. A key was inserted, the door swung open, and he was thrown inside. The door slammed shut behind him. Darkness. Utter darkness. He looked to the sides. Nothing. There was nothing in here. He lay back, and looked up towards the ceiling.

And into the eyes of moot.

Also, according to OpenOffice, this thing is 64-fucking-thousand words long, which does not make an inch of sense, seeing as I have not once written anything above 10,000 or so words, but what the fuck ever.

Also, I published the whole thing on Scribd for easier viewing so you can read it all there if you want, but if you don't want to that is fine too, sure. The images on that may be fucked, but whatever, it's only a temporary thing because I am fat.

Holy shit. I didn't think it could get any better. But it did. So very much. So, this is the part where the storylines converge, no? Epic. Love it.

Amazing.

WoahPlot

Originally Posted by Delphinus

Amazing.

Amazing.

HolyfuckepicAwesomeShit.

By the way, that was amazing. Also, 64 thousand words? how the fuck

Did I mention I read the whole thread just now?

Well, you did just then, so yes. Thank you, good sir, by the way. I'd give you a hug but I'm covered in blood right now.

Originally Posted by RedfishBluefish

HolyfuckepicAwesomeShit.

Yes.

Did I mention I read the whole thread just now?

That might be a little dangerous, I hope you know.

Could be comparable to having sex with 14 Jesus's at once

But whatever, die by awesome overload. See if I care.

Keep writing, this really is amazing.

I think you need another Canadian in there.

The bit with the Princess Bride dialog? That bit pwnt the whole damn story. Pwnt its boots right off. And also the exposition on Google--now I have to rewrite that bit of mine, though.

But I'm slightly worried that what we talked about might have gotten . . . misconstrued, in the telling. For instance, which one is it that's currently in bed? I'm confused.

It's a mystery, you butthole. I can't give away the mystery. That's the POINT of a mystery.

Bump.

This will get along. I have so many things on my plate now, is all. Like pastrami.

I am also working on things, but my plate is also quite full. Not of pastrami, though.

Wow. If I wasn't dead from awsomeness overload I would be prasing this..... a lot . One complaint though... You using famous dv people and you forgot to include me? Am I not quirky enough or are you going to introduce then quick-kill me in the last chapter?