I am automatically in charge
...when the leader, second, and third in command all die off that is. In our squad of four.
Anyways, back to the story.
| That upper section was entirely pointless except for the fact that it had some relevancy with the title.
If you have any liver problems, this article won't affect you at all. |
|---|
.gif){kind=link}
Disclaimer: I acknowledge that this article sucks ahead of time, so you can't sue me once you commit suicide due to its lameness.
Chapter the seventh
Bobby wakes, up, looks at the room. A rug is taped to the ceiling along with a several hour old pizza. Clothes are strew everywhere, there are drunk homeless men passed out in the corners, and several dead whores with money lying everywhere. What had gone on last night?
Nothing in particular, thinks Bobby. These remnants of what appeared to be a crappy party had been solidified and untouched for approximately three years.
Out in the kitchen, a bowl of soggy cereal sits on the table, seemingly staring at Bobby.
Bobby stares back.
And they stare.
For twenty-two minutes.
Eventually, Bobby walks over and attempts to knock the bowl off the table, but it does not move. He tries again. And again. It doesn't move.
Oh, wait he thinks.
He walks along the ceiling to the walls and onto the floor, as the house was turned upside down and all of the objects had been nailed to place so they wouldn't fall when his apartment complex flipped over.
Much better, he thinks to himself once again.
I think to myself too much, he thinks on top of that.
Maybe I should begin talking instead of thinking, as thinking doesn't have quotation marks to annotate sound, he thought with the other thoughts.
chapter twelve
"Wait, whut?" says Bobby, confused by the chapter change.
"Yeah, this story is pretty lame. I admit, this lacks the flow and actual creativity in the author's last work, which he felt somewhat proud of because of it's actual flow. " says a wax dummy that was one of many, many, wax dummies.
Bobby is standing in a Wax museum.
"Yeah, this sucks. maybe we could just kill each other and cut it short?" he asks the dummy
"That sounds great! Except you have to melt us first. All of us."
"Ok, just let me get my lig—"
chapter next
"hter, and I'll melt all of you one by one."
"Wait, did that chapter heading just cut off your quote? This story is shit!" exclaims a wax representation of Elvis's hair. "The author needs to shoot himself!"
"That's what half of his articles say, but he never does it," Bobby remarks.
"How lame," replies the dummy, fully aware of its impending doom.
"Impending doom? What impending doom!?"
"I'm going to melt you all, remember?"
"But I don't want to be melted!"
"Oh, shove off."
Bobby knocks the dummy into the trash chute, and it was never heard from again. Because wax dummies can't talk.
"Wait, guys!" yells Bobby. "I think I found out an actual idea that will create and intriguing and humourous story for us to enjoy! Not to mention it doesn't involve any of us dying or never being heard from again like the wax dummy i shoved down the trash chute!"
"Whey!" shout the wax dummies in unison.
"The basic jist of it is that I need to find my gre—