The evil story

Fan Fiction


It was a marvelous day in Crappy Fan fiction land. The sun shone brightly on a group of happy people, happily pounding on typewriters and happily having bad ideas, meanwhile inflicting themselves upon the good people of the internet. The innocent people of The Internet writhed in pain upon their innocent stumbling across the Minions of Fan Fiction- brainwashed by FanFiction.Net.

At this same time, a harmless Fossa's Of the Internet member was checking E-Bay, out of innocent boredom. [you know what kind of animal a fossa is, right?]

He slouched leanly over his chair, relaxing as he quietly researched items on the internet. As he grew bored of E-bay, he did a little search. The results came up, and he happily clicked on one, in casual curiosity. He saw a web site come up. Fan Fiction? How quaint! He clicked on something –imagine that only the highest quality authors were allowed to submit readables on the web. He was terribly and awfully wrong.

After three months in therapy, he again sat down at his computer. He sighed, fearful of what may occur. And then , he got an awful, terrible, perfection-on-the-greatest skies idea. He clicked on the company contacts, smiling wolfishly. He printed it out, then quietly got in his car. He started his new BMW with a savage smile.


The head of fan fiction. Net sipped his latte happily. With a cinnamon stick, loads of whole fat cream[none of this artificial crap], and mixed in chocolate. On top of the world. All hail Star Bucks. He was gaining loads of revenue with his brain-washing of good People of The Internet-transforming the Good People of The Internet into hordes of Minions Of Fan Fiction- therefore causing them to buy the cheap products he produced, not to mention that a small fee was …required for release from traction for victims. Idly, he sipped on his latte again, resting his feet on the fine leather couch the Corporation had provided for him. He loved the three-weeks vacation, the two hour lunches, the caviar in the washroom. All thanks to his beloved "authors". He now lived in a mansion, he owned a farm of Andalusian horses, he could play with his pet ranch when he got home at three o' clock, and he had a plasma TV plus a beautiful wife, who was also a registered massu'e. He owned vacation homes in three different countries, not including the USA- land of the stupid that gave him what he needed, and all he ever had wanted. Oh, when he started this business- he never thought it would get off the ground. But had it taken off! He was rolling in dough- he filled bath tubs with the revenue and sat there in utter ectsacty for hours. On occasion, he wallpapered his horses stables with the checks and bills.

He was debating sedately in his mind whether to fire up his new Ferrari, or shoot some more harmless predators that were of no threat to his pet ranch- when he heard a light knocking at the door. Lazily, he rose from the fine lamb's leather recliner, and answered the door. The man yawned, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. As his vision came into focus, he found himself at close quarters with something resembling a Uzi.

Uh oh. He thought. Should have expected something like this he thought even more emphatically. I paid 900 dollars-each- for those worthless attack-trained German Shepherds, he thought ironically. What's for dinner?, he thought absently. Meanwhile, his assailant still had the Uzi jammed secularly in his face.

"I know what you did to have all this" hissed his attacker[who looked oddly like a furry predator [sic living in Madagascar] called a Fossa.]

"This? Oh- this ranch. My uncle- I swear! It's been in the family for five hundred beautiful years- filled with memories, overflowing with memories! Yes, I remember when I and old Spot, my lovable ol' hound dog would go and find cute baby animals and raise them, so sweet….."

"Sure. You put out the dough for this real-estate eleven months ago, you dirty liar."

" I did? Oh! My parents! How poor they were! The former owners allowed my family to ah… live here on a little dilapidated shack! Eleven months ago, the kindly owners allowed me to buy the ranch cheaply….."

"I don't …"

"NO! NO! Listen! I got the money from a … ah… estranged rich uncle! I didn't even know the good man exited until he died of uh… heart break! Yes, heartbreak, terrible, terrible. The money was given to me, the last survivor of my family.."

"Shut up. Where's the main office's for your disgusting little company?"

"In the town." the boss whimpered.

"Get in the helicopter" the Fossa[let's call him Mike] growled, motioning in the standard direction of one of the boss's many aircraft.

Quickly, a plan came to the boss's[let's call him Bill] mind. Perhaps if Mike couldn't fly the helicopter, he could get away in time to perhaps smash the helicopter into a tree or something. He would go down in a glittering ball of flames, but it would be extravagant, and would get a ton of publicity, which was always valuable. To his horror, Mike chose the black Stealth helicopter and easily started it into the air. Mike, unluckily, had had a short stint in the army, where he had been a rather successful captain in the Air Force, until some wretched

fool noticed he was a Fossa. It was bloody species discrimination, but there was little to nothing he could do. He had taken a job as a Pet for a while, but he lost his taste for kibble and cold water quickly, not to mention he didn't like being trained to "shake' , which was a horrible blow to any rudimentary slip of dignity he still retained from his early life in the jungle.

He hated doing what he was doing. He was normally peaceful and friendly. He had lots of friends. He was well adjusted. He went to church and used whiting toothpaste. Almost nobody even noticed that he wasn't a human, thanks to his charm and good manners, although at cook-outs he found it nearly impossible to control himself.

Of course, some people found it somewhat odd that he always ordered steaks raw- but they never questioned. The rare one who did were told it was an unfortunate medical condition, inoperable and extremely tragic. He realized, in idle thought, that he would be considered a martyr if he succeeded in freeing the Good People Of The Internet. Ah, but as a martyr, he would be recognized- possibly never to return to his beloved peaceful forest home. Well- he would find a way. He always did.

Mike steered the helicopter in the general direction of the Fan headquarters.

Bill sat on the leather seat in a form of shock. His empire was inching closer to desecration , to the utter death of his lovely yet stable lifestyle. Slowly he placed his head on his knees.

The employees of Fan ,brainwashed and cucumber like as they were, crowded around the windows, surprised from their slog work at their desks from the sight of a large black helicopter, coming through the heavens.

The mouse in the window squeaked.

There was a bird, calling.

A car turned off the highway.

A boat played It's foghorn.

A cat hissed.

A computer beeped.

A dog barked.

There was a small explosion.

The employees scuffed their shoes idly on the floor, watching the helicopter approach. Somebody's Nikes made a small black mark on the cheap carpet. A woman coughed lightly.

The helicopter settled gracefully to a landing on the roof. Bill stepped out in a subordinate manner. He was thinking, but no brilliant solution had come to him. And the bite of the crisp steel had a tendency to make his thoughts wander. Considerably.

Mike steered him toward The Main Command. As he and his prisoner crossed the threshold into the mighty warehouse of the Main Command, Mike stopped. A thousand eyes- those of the employee's [or may it be called slaves] of Fan, bore into his skull. Mike shivered once. Than, he walked down the corridor of impoverished cubicles, steering Bill towards the Big Computer. The Big Computer was a curious thing. It was a sleek Imac, as Bill was a sucker for multi-colored plastic. Mike gave Bill a look, one that said [among other things] "Make one move and your head will be lying bleeding on the floor" It worked quite well, really.

After deleting the files [ a tear was seen running down Bill's cheek], Mike rose from the cheap Office Max chair. At that moment, Bill snapped. With a howl of rage, he flung himself upon the Fossa. Perhaps he did not know that Fossa's are powerful, toothy, muscular wild animals. At the same moment that Bill attacked, Mike calmly bit his leg. Bill sank to the ground, but still, continued his mad attack. Mike had no choice. He shoved Bill's head into the Imac. Bill gave a short, terrible scream. And then he moved no more.

Mike stood away from the corpse of the Boss. The Imac smoked gently. At that same moment, Mike detected the sound of a thousand employees rising from their desks. At the time that The Main Control Computer was destroyed, so that the poor employees were freed from their bonds. As they rose from their seats, they looked around them, in utter yet wonderful surprise. And then they ran out of their sad little cubicles, shed the starched business suits, and departed in full for a dot com , where they lived happily ever after until they went bankrupt.

Mike sighed.

"It is like the salmon migration- that beautiful passing of the wheel of time- from cubicle and slavery to the freedom of dot com. The wonderful natural cycle of life! "

At this speech, Mike departed. He became President, owned a national restaurant chain, and nobody noticed he was a Fossa until he was retired. And then –who cared?

The End