DISCLAIMER: This is a joke and meant only in fun. I picked Bypass for the first one because I know he has a sense of humor and can take a good ribbing. If you get your panties in a wad easily, DO NOT READ. That said, enjoy....
A quiet wind blew slowly across the front porch of the Bypass Compound. His Bud Lime windchimes swung slowly back and forth, but not quite hard enough for them to issue the soft tink-tank he had come to know and love. It was a strange and unsettling wind.
The wind carried on it a strange odor, one that made the hair on the back of Bypass’ neck rise as it wafted in through an open window. He knew that odor, and it only meant trouble. Moving like lightning, he set down the sangria he had been sipping, rose from his floral patterned wing chair and shut off all the lights. He wanted, no, he needed the element of surprise that only total darkness would deliver him.
He dropped into a prone position and began low-crawling through the nearly two inch high shag carpeting. He was instantly transported back, to a different time and a different place. In his head, it wasn’t carpet he was crawling through, it was tall grass, only this time he was crawling away form the enemy, not towards it. His arms, back and knees ached with the delicious pain of the hunt.
He laboriously made his way to the far back bedroom, his room, his sanctuary. Hours he had been spent in this room, finding his center, aligning his chi. This was his safe haven, his home within his home. He checked all around before slowly rising from the floor, shedding cheeto dust and bits of popcorn as he rose.
He fumbled in his pocket for the keys to unlock the padlock and deadbolt. Slowly, he slid the keys in to minimize the teeth clenching screech he knew they made. In one deft and silent motion, he simultaneously turned both keys. Removing the padlock, he stumbled across the threshold, eased the door shut, fell against it and breathed a sigh of relief.
He hesitated a moment, scanning the room. He looked up at the shelf that ran around the perimeter of his sanctuary. Placed along these lengths was every holiday Barbie ever released, including the first one from 1988. His eyes wandered down to the posters hung carefully on the soft pink walls. Menudo, New Kids, Backstreet Boys, N’Sync, 98* and countless others graced these walls. In the far corner a net had been hung to gracefully cradle his collection of stuffed elephants.
Small pink ones to larger purple ones and every color in between. Each had a name, and he slowly recalled them to himself, calming him. The urge to flee, to hide, slowly subsided as he recited, “Babar, Horton, Dumbo...” The names became quieter and quieter as he finished the list, the last coming out in little more than a whisper.
He crossed the light yellow carpet to the large bean bag chair in the middle of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, the divet in the middle perfectly sculpted to his rear. As he flopped down, a sense of peace came over him. As he settled in, he debated whether or not he should ever get up. They could find him in here, if they desired, but he didn’t care. He could die happily in this room, surrounded by everything in the world that was important.
After a brief moment he felt the weight of those eyes bearing down on him. He tried to shake it off but it wouldn’t go away. Like tiny daggers, they bore into his soul, urging him to get up, to fight. Finally, he met their gaze with a steelied determination.
“You’re right Donnie, you too Ricky. I will get up. I will fight. I will win. Today will not be the day I go gentle into that good night. Yes Justin, I will rage, rage against the dying of the night.”
With a fierce determination he rose from the bean bag chair and crossed the small patch of floor to the closet. He swung the accordian style doors open revealing a large gun safe. With an efficiency that spoke of practice, he turned the dial until he heard the soft click and then swung the lever.
What he revealed was an arsenal that would impress most small countries. He stared for a moment, trying to decide how best to arm himself for the coming fight. After a short while, he smiled as he reached in and pulled out his baby, his problem solver, his HiPoint in .40S&W.
Tucking it into the waistband at the small of his back, he raced into the hallway, moving from cover to cover in such a manner that a vaping asian hog-hunter would be proud. The wind still blew, the odor stronger. “They’re close,” he thought.
Just then he heard the creak of the boards on the porch and a soft knock at the front door. One word was spoken, a word that would bring any man to his knees in terror. “Girlscouts.”
“Gametime,” Bypass chuckled to himself with an evil glint in his eye. “Gametime.”
ODT FanFiction: Bypass
A quiet wind blew slowly across the front porch of the Bypass Compound. His Bud Lime windchimes swung slowly back and forth, but not quite hard enough for them to issue the soft tink-tank he had come to know and love. It was a strange and unsettling wind.
The wind carried on it a strange odor, one that made the hair on the back of Bypass’ neck rise as it wafted in through an open window. He knew that odor, and it only meant trouble. Moving like lightning, he set down the sangria he had been sipping, rose from his floral patterned wing chair and shut off all the lights. He wanted, no, he needed the element of surprise that only total darkness would deliver him.
He dropped into a prone position and began low-crawling through the nearly two inch high shag carpeting. He was instantly transported back, to a different time and a different place. In his head, it wasn’t carpet he was crawling through, it was tall grass, only this time he was crawling away form the enemy, not towards it. His arms, back and knees ached with the delicious pain of the hunt.
He laboriously made his way to the far back bedroom, his room, his sanctuary. Hours he had been spent in this room, finding his center, aligning his chi. This was his safe haven, his home within his home. He checked all around before slowly rising from the floor, shedding cheeto dust and bits of popcorn as he rose.
He fumbled in his pocket for the keys to unlock the padlock and deadbolt. Slowly, he slid the keys in to minimize the teeth clenching screech he knew they made. In one deft and silent motion, he simultaneously turned both keys. Removing the padlock, he stumbled across the threshold, eased the door shut, fell against it and breathed a sigh of relief.
He hesitated a moment, scanning the room. He looked up at the shelf that ran around the perimeter of his sanctuary. Placed along these lengths was every holiday Barbie ever released, including the first one from 1988. His eyes wandered down to the posters hung carefully on the soft pink walls. Menudo, New Kids, Backstreet Boys, N’Sync, 98* and countless others graced these walls. In the far corner a net had been hung to gracefully cradle his collection of stuffed elephants.
Small pink ones to larger purple ones and every color in between. Each had a name, and he slowly recalled them to himself, calming him. The urge to flee, to hide, slowly subsided as he recited, “Babar, Horton, Dumbo...” The names became quieter and quieter as he finished the list, the last coming out in little more than a whisper.
He crossed the light yellow carpet to the large bean bag chair in the middle of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, the divet in the middle perfectly sculpted to his rear. As he flopped down, a sense of peace came over him. As he settled in, he debated whether or not he should ever get up. They could find him in here, if they desired, but he didn’t care. He could die happily in this room, surrounded by everything in the world that was important.
After a brief moment he felt the weight of those eyes bearing down on him. He tried to shake it off but it wouldn’t go away. Like tiny daggers, they bore into his soul, urging him to get up, to fight. Finally, he met their gaze with a steelied determination.
“You’re right Donnie, you too Ricky. I will get up. I will fight. I will win. Today will not be the day I go gentle into that good night. Yes Justin, I will rage, rage against the dying of the night.”
With a fierce determination he rose from the bean bag chair and crossed the small patch of floor to the closet. He swung the accordian style doors open revealing a large gun safe. With an efficiency that spoke of practice, he turned the dial until he heard the soft click and then swung the lever.
What he revealed was an arsenal that would impress most small countries. He stared for a moment, trying to decide how best to arm himself for the coming fight. After a short while, he smiled as he reached in and pulled out his baby, his problem solver, his HiPoint in .40S&W.
Tucking it into the waistband at the small of his back, he raced into the hallway, moving from cover to cover in such a manner that a vaping asian hog-hunter would be proud. The wind still blew, the odor stronger. “They’re close,” he thought.
Just then he heard the creak of the boards on the porch and a soft knock at the front door. One word was spoken, a word that would bring any man to his knees in terror. “Girlscouts.”
“Gametime,” Bypass chuckled to himself with an evil glint in his eye. “Gametime.”
