Prologue

i

They were doing it. They were getting away from tyranny. Free of the chains of corruption, they fled their Wattpad masters.

Coheed and Cambria, hit progressive-rock band, drove their beat-up green AMC Gremlin away from WattLand and towards the inhospitable salvation of the Canadian tundra. The car had once belonged to the grandma of Claudio Sanchez, the head squealer and guitarist for the band. But now it was his, the beauty, and as the frontman for the band he was, quite naturally, in the driver's seat. The bassist was fellating him from the passenger seat. The drummer rolled around the back, beating off with a drumstick up his butt to the same frenetic rhythm he used on all their songs. And the other guitarist—dead at last—was rotting away in his guitar cases, murdered and dismembered by Claudio before they'd left WattCapital. No more would Igor Sandusky upstage him.

And now they drove. The buildings thinned out the further they got, shrunk in size. The wilderness before them opened up with every kilometre they travelled.

To accompany the experience, the vehicle's customized stereo blasted their own music. Currently, "Apollo I: The Writing Writer"—which Claudio thought righteously fitting, given their present predicament.

"Woah oh oh oh!" Claudio squealed only slightly out of sync with the CD. "If my shame spills a word across this floor!" His caterpillar-shaped eyebrows arched up with some kind of emotional struggle, his nostrils flared with sorrow, and his curly-haired head bobbed with each following syllable: "Woah oh oh oh!" He took his hands from the wheel and played a few notes on his air guitar, inadvertently brushing them against the hair of the slurping head bobbing up and down in his lap. "And tonight"—he pumped his fist—"goodnight, I'm Burning Star IV!"

"Could you stop?" the drummer asked from the backseat, pausing his drumstick penetration. "Your terrible singing is ruining the moment."

"And I don't even think of you," Claudio continued, emphasizing the appropriate words to make a point. "No, I don't want to think of you anymore! Goodnight, tonight, goodbye!"

ii

Camouflaged in the snow-topped treeline, an Asian man watched the oncoming car, waiting for the right moment. He wore a white lab coat and a stethoscope hung around his neck, which led up to a larger-than-normal-sized head. Sunglasses straight out of The Matrix covered his eyes. His black hair was brushed down and off to the side, held in place with enough grease to make a colonoscopy fun. As previously mentioned, he was Asian. His name was Dr. Renneth Ree, and he specialized in leaky bowels. His hobbies included: leaky bowels, giving colonoscopies, receiving colonoscopies, and murder. In that order.

The green Gremlin approached with the subtlety of a fart ripped during the inevitable sad part of a rom-com movie. Ree could almost smell the stench of it, then realized he actually could smell the stench, because the vehicle had failed a recent drive-clean inspection and polluted the atmosphere as much as a Chinese shoe-making factory with every second it was on the road.

Not for long.

The Gremlin passed him, leaving the borders of WattLand, and Ree triggered the explosive.

The last thing he heard before the bomb went boom: "Goodnight, tonight, goodbAAAHOHMYGODAH!"

A slight malfunction in the bomb caused it to only explode with half as much force as planned. Claudio's synthetic hair went up in flames and the man, with his melting face smeared on the glass, banged his hands on the driver's-side window as the car careened out of control.

No matter.

Ree pulled the pin on a trusty grenade and tossed it.

Now the car exploded, and Coheed and Cambria would no longer infest the airwaves with their amelodic caterwauling.

1

Heavy rain. The weather fits the mood, fits the emotions we should be feeling here. Like something out of a bad Wattpad book, Rick Wickerman thought to himself as he listened to the minister-bot drone on and on. Rick suspected Wattpad controlled the weather—seeded clouds, made it rain, decided when the Sun would shine. As if they were gods. As if they were writers.

"And-uh may these nine-uh noble souls-uh rest in writing peace-uh." The minister waved his hands robotically.

There were actually ten dead meant to be remembered at this funeral ceremony, not nine. Rick looked to the freshly dug grave off to the right of the others, belonging to one @skywalkerIV, a no-name writer—but a dead writer nonetheless. He looked around at the other attendees, wondered if any of the weeping faces here were crying for @skywalkerIV. He doubted it.

"And-uh in-uh writing-uh, these noble souls-uh were always at the top of their game-uh."

Rick glanced down the line of tombstones.

@AngusEcrivain, dead because for some reason he laced a cigar with dynamite and smoked it.

@H-A-Spade, dead from a freak accident in an illegal FAME-manufacturing facility.

@Silentis, killed in a Laser Tag game gone wrong.

@Wuckster, eaten by grizzly bears.

@Emmalee_Sky skydived straight into concrete.

@eyeexeyeeye, sucked through an airplane toilet and shat out into the unforgiving Pacific, then eaten by a shark. A fisherman, slicing into his new catch, was surprised when a mangled corpse and an ounce of high-grade weed spilled out onto his boat.

And three of the four members of Coheed and Cambria, hit progressive-rock band, shared a grave together after their car exploded north of WattLand. The fourth band member was missing and presumed dead.

And finally the forgotten one. @skywalkerIV—suicide by gunshot to the head. Rick suspected the poor man had killed himself after trying and failing for forty years to achieve Wattpad fame. The game was rigged, and for some that was a tough pill to swallow.

Even more unnerving to Rick: All of the dead (except @skywalkerIV) were set to be secret witnesses in his ongoing trial against Wattpad. And now they'd all suddenly died. Very suspicious. If Rick were a betting man, he'd place a hefty wager on "conspiracy," thank you very much.

"We look-uh up at the stars-uh, and in each of those stars-uh we see a writer-uh. We now bow-uh our-uh heads-uh, and say a prayer-uh. Oh Lord WattPad-uh, we pray to you-uh, that you will bless us with great-uh writing-uh ability-uh. And that you-uh will ensure our current writers-uh will live forever-uh, and ever-uh. And we hope-uh that this horrible, treacherous trial against Wattpad-uh will end-uh soon-uh. Because it is-uh a lie-uh, and Wattpad loves you all-uh. Wattpad would never-uh... ever-uh... illegally modify the ranking system to ensure the elite-uh remained the elite-uh. The idea is preposterous-uh. And anyone who thinks so-uh is stupid-uh, despite any evidence—which is absolutely fictional—to the contrary-uh."

Rick opened one eye, raised an eyebrow. That sounded suspiciously like an attempt to sway the opinions of the funeral attendees.

"Amen-uh, and-uh hallelujah-uh."

2

After the funeral there was a meet-and-greet among the attendees over blue cheese, stale crackers and an ice-cold Watty: the usual funeral food. Rick wasn't one for food that appeared to be rotting before his very eyes, nor were his taste buds attuned to the subtle nuances brought by a cup of half-melted ice cubes with crispy orange pubic hairs sprinkled on top, so he grabbed a stack of crackers to nibble on and stood by the graves of his would-be witnesses.

Rick looked around at the crowd of people chatting away. He saw lots of big names—@imaginator1D; @Zayn, the renowned pop vocalist; even @AuthorDanBrown. He'd known the honoured dead had been famous, but he hadn't realized they'd been that famous, that they'd commanded that much respect among their contemporaries. Rick was just glad two of his other witnesses-to-be hadn't turned up dead. Ah, there they were now. He saw @MadMikeMarsbergen and @OutrageousOllo schmoozing it up with some of the other Stars. He'd have a talk with them later.

"Richard Wickerman," slurred a heavily English-accented voice from behind. Wheeling furiously towards him was @DingusEcrivain, @AngusEcrivain's wheelchair-bound twin.

Lacking the good looks and long hair of his brother, and not possessing even a smidgen of @AngusEcrivain's talent for writing, @DingusEcrivain had instead become a foot-fetish model. But even that career had come to an end when, fuelled by an ego blown way out of proportion, he decided to try his hand at becoming a face-fetish model—people were horrified, and nobody looked at @DingusEcrivain's feet the same way again. Out of work and hungry for money, he'd opted to prostitute himself to the blind. This venture turned sour after a blind man shot him in the spine. Now @DingusEcrivain was crippled, but he'd achieved some success recently with his art career, painting solely with his paralyzed feet.

"Sucks about Cohort and Canberra," said @DingusEcrivain, who then hawked up phlegm, swished it around and let it fly. His spit dribbled down his chin. "Fuckin' Australians."

Rick knew the man was also legally blind, though he still possessed some vision. "Sorry about your brother," Rick told him.

The man shrugged. "We didn't exactly exchange Wattmas cards or anythin' like that, but I am a bit teary-eyed the cunt's fuckin' dead, y'know. Now I'll never get that fifty quid he owed me. 'Ey, y'know if they take the wallets off the stiffs 'fore they bury 'em, or...?"

"I'm pretty sure all the bodies were cremated and their ashes were then shot from a cannon..."

"Did the bastards burn his wallet, too?"

"I dunno—" Rick started to say, but then a mysterious Asian man wearing sunglasses on an overcast day, as well as a lab coat, appeared out of nowhere.

"Rentlemen," the stranger said, bowing. His stethoscope nearly slid off his neck. "Ry rame ris Roctor Renneth Ree. Ri ram rleased roo reet rou. Rif rou reed ray rolonoscopy ror rould rike roo rive run roo re, rere's ry rard. Rhank rou." The man bowed again before passing out a couple laminated cards and going away, presumably to bother other mourners about their bowels.

"Dr. Renneth Ree," Rick said, reading the name on the card.

"Rolonoscopy, eh?" @DingusEcrivain muttered, taking a long sniff of the card. "Mmm, smells like China. Wouldn't mind gettin' me one o' those rolonoscopies. Speakin' of Chinese wood pokin' me up the ass, you mind grabbin' my smokes?"

Shrugging, Rick shifted @DingusEcrivain over and dug around under his butt.

"Just toss aside whatever you find under there. It's all shit anyway."

The first item was an authentic, still-in-the-package Wookie toy—bent out of shape by time and all the other garbage that'd been piled on top of it.

"Maybe put that one back afterward. It was massagin' my prostate."

Fray #7, a crappy limited-edition print of @JossWhedon's god-awful vampire-slayer-from-the-future series of comics. The pages were all stuck together and @DingusEcrivain had cut out pictures of his own head and plastered them in between Fray's bosom.

"What can I say? I like the art 'n' the writin'."

Finally Rick found the jackpot: a half-empty carton of Ecrivain's Specials—the only cigarette taken off and then put back on the market because they made you bleed from your anus and spiked your risk of terminal brain cancer by a trillion percent.

When Rick tried to place a cigarette into @DingusEcrivain's mouth, he shook his head.

"This mouth's for speakin'. Stick it in here." He opened his jacket and revealed a small hole in his chest, perfect for sticking cigarettes into.

Cigarette in place and lit, @DingusEcrivain expanded his chest for a moment, then blew smoke out his nostrils. "That's the shit I needed. You know Ecrivain's ain't named after my brother, right? I was the guy who designed 'em."

"Uh-huh," Rick said, not wanting a longwinded, probably made-up story. "So was there something specific you wanted to tell me, or...?"

"Yeah," @DingusEcrivain said. "It wasn't suicide, it was—"

Suddenly blood poured from every single of the man's orifices and he fell forwards off his wheelchair. He flopped on the ground while Rick screamed for help.

And then @DingusEcrivain's head popped like an overly inflated balloon stuck with a thumbtack.

3

After quickly cremating the eleventh body and mumbling another prayer for the additional newly deceased, things went on as normal.

Except for Rick. He was traumatized, and understandably so. A man had just died—quite brutally—in front of him. And just before the guy was about to tell him something important about @AngusEcrivain's sudden death, too. What startling new evidence was about to be revealed? @DingusEcrivain had said the words "it wasn't a suicide, it was—" It was what? Rick would never know, could only guess. All he knew was he was that much more suspicious. The timing of these deaths. The fact most of his witnesses for his case against Wattpad had died.

And now someone—entirely unrelated to the trial except through relation to one of the witness-cum-victims—with new, pertinent information had died, too.

Too many coincidences to stomach. Hell, even one was one too many for this situation.

He saw his two remaining witnesses laughing it up near the inflatable bouncy keyboard. Other funeral attendees jumped around on the giant keyboard. Life was good for them. They'd moved on fine.

Rick stormed over. "What the shit are you two laughing about?" He didn't bother to keep his voice down.

Their laughter stopped in an instant. They turned to him.

"What crawled up your ass and built a rollercoaster out of fecal matter?" @MadMikeMarsbergen asked him. He was a tall, skinny guy, and he wore glasses to correct the myopia caused by staring too long at CRT monitors when he was a kid. "Chill out and bounce on the keyboard. You'll live longer, man."

"Need some FAME?" @OutrageousOllo opened her jean jacket and revealed a row of FAME-containing needles, ready to inject. She was incredibly short and hyperactive. "Might help you focus your energy before today's trial."

"Put that away!" Rick hissed. "You know they're always watching, and you know lawyers aren't allowed that trash. And there won't even be a trial if all of my witnesses end up dead!" He ran his fingers through his hair, then blurted: "You two aren't working for Lord WattPad, are you?"

@OutrageousOllo cracked her knuckles. "Oh, you did not just say that!" She turned to her husband. "He did not just say that!"

"I think he said it," @MadMikeMarsbergen replied.

"Well how else could my witnesses all die within days of each other? Unless one of you is on the inside. Feeding him information." Rick sighed. "Sorry. I'm stressed. But there's something not right in WattLand. It stinks of something. Did you hear the minister-bot before? He tried to claim the lawsuit was phony. At a funeral. For secret witnesses set to testify for that very lawsuit. Fuck, I need an Ecrivain's..."

"Thought you quit."

"I did. Ten years ago. I quit when my brother Phil went missing—you know that; I mentioned it when we did our first meeting together and @AngusEcrivain lit up fifteen smokes at the same time and shoved them in every hole he had, and even some he didn't... Anyway, Phil was the one who got me hooked on the sawdust. He's the one who got me off them, too. But I guess old habits die hard," Rick added, "when you get tossed into the deep end of an ocean made of shit."

@MadMikeMarsbergen quickly scribbled on a notepad. "That's a good line. Mind if I... take it?"

"Anyway," Rick continued, "@AngusEcrivain's brother's last words. Guess what they were."

"What?"

"'It wasn't suicide, it was—'"

"It was what?" @OutrageousOllo asked.

"I don't know," Rick told her, clearly flustered. He'd made his hair stick up from running his fingers through it so much. "Blood poured out of him right after. He never finished his thought." Rick checked his watch. "Shit. I gotta scoot. And so do you two. Don't be late."

He had a lawsuit to win.

4

Inside the courthouse, Rick Wickerman checked his notes. Made sure everything was orderly. He had a plan of attack in mind, one that would blow away the defence, but it required finesse. He'd need to present his case and the evidence he'd gathered in such a way that it almost resembled a juicy mystery novel.

First, present the mystery itself. Leave people asking Who? and Why? Then give them a few clues, some of which might be red herrings, but most would be questions answered at various points in time throughout the investigation. Just follow the clues. Make note of new clues. Try to place them within the known constraints of the mystery. Open a few doors, close a couple more. And follow that trail to the finish line.

Unfortunately, Rick's plan had been partially blown to hell when practically all of his witnesses ended up dead. Thankfully he still had records—tax details, emails, transcripts of recordings. A lot of the details to supplement those records would have been provided through witness testimony. And now those witnesses were too dead to provide testimony.

But nobody said winning against Wattpad would be easy.

Flipping to the back where all his records were kept, Rick wanted to make sure he had the right numbers in—

"Where'd they go!" he shouted to himself, frantically flipping back through his notes. Here, there, anywhere? Nowhere. All the direct links provided by his now-dead witnesses were gone. Missing. Stolen? Did they take his records? Could they have?

"Looking for these?" said a sibilant-heavy voice from behind. It was the voice of his nightmares.

Rick turned to see Lord WattPad himself, defendant of that very case, sitting daintily with one leg tucked over the other. His platform shoes dangled by the straps hooked over the tops of his hairless, baby-smooth feet. He wore one of his many top hats—this one said "Hitler Was Vegan" along its brim in flowery font—and had pink sunglasses with blinds over his eyes. He wore a diamond-encrusted ruby nose ring and his bottom lip had been tattooed with "ENTER ME" in reversed writing so people facing him could read it. Perhaps most disturbing was the white glove on his left hand, with its companion always hanging out the back pocket of his purple corduroys.

Lord WattPad fanned a stack of papers, then rolled them up into a makeshift joint and smoked it, coughing like a child with every puff.

Seeing @eyeexeyeeye's shady tax returns go up in smoke brought a tear to Rick's eye, mainly because the burning ink produced an astounding amount of toxic black smoke. "You're committing a crime," he told Lord WattPad, the ruler of WattLand, the king of the world.

"Make me," Lord WattPad said between coughs. His guy-liner ran down his cheeks, cutting through the rouge blush in sparkly-blue rivulets.

"That... That doesn't even make sense."

"I know what you are, but what am I."

"You won't win. Thi—"

"Bite— Sorry, continue."

"I was saying, this illegal act w—"

"Go fuck yourself, peasant."

The judge walked in and sat behind the bench and Rick tried to keep himself under control. Lord WattPad squeezed out a rancid, beef-brisket-smelling fart before he walked over to his table, laughing away to himself.

"ORDER IN THE COURT!" The judge slammed his gavel all over the place, then threw it.

Rick ducked to avoid getting brained by the flying gavel.

"I WILL NOT HAVE THIS COURTROOM BE A HAVEN FOR MONKEYS! IF YOU WANT TO BEHAVE LIKE A CHILD, RICKIE W., THEN YOU CAN GO HAVE TIMEOUT IN THE PLAYGROUND!"

"Your Honour?" he asked. Didn't know what he'd done to set the judge off, but this wasn't looking good.

"D-D-D-DID I-I-I-I S-S-ST-STUTTER!?"

Biting off a "You did now," Rick simply said, "No, Your Honour. I'm sorry."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU GODDAMN AMBULANCE-CHASER!"

Rick scratched his head.

"DO THAT AGAIN AND I WILL THROW YOU OUT OF THE COURT SO FAST!"

Rick sat perfectly still, doing nothing except drawing breath.

"DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE WORM! I HEREBY FIND LORD WATTPAD—THE DEFENDANT AND OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR—NOT GUILTY OF ALL CHARGES, AND HEREBY SENTENCE THE PROSECUTOR—ONE RICKIE W.—GUILTY OF WASTING MY FUCKING TIME! GIVE HIM A HEFTY FINE! NOW GET OUTTA HERE! I GOT BITCHES TO BANG WITH MY MALLET!"

Lord Wattpad went up to the judge and handed him a large sack with a dollar sign on it. Wads of bills oozed out the top of the sack and thudded onto the bench. "Nice work. Here's your bribe."

The judge picked up one of the wads and riffled through it, sniffing at the orange cash. "NOTHING LIKE A HARD DAY'S WORK!"

"See you at the sexual-assault-and-drugging-of-a-minor lawsuit next week, Herb." Lord WattPad pointed at the sack of money with a gloved finger. "It'll be double then."

Staring in disbelief, Rick watched everyone leave the courtroom. There was no way what had just happened was legal.

"Smell ya later, dirtbag," Lord WattPad said with a sneer as he walked out.

The bailiff came and handed Rick a four-million-dollar fine before leaving.

Rick collapsed against the back of his chair. The law in WattLand was clearly corrupt. He'd tried doing it the right way. The just way. And it had blown up in his face. That way was hopeless.

So he'd have to do it the wrong way.

He'd have to meet with The Chosen One.

His WattPhone let out a ding! to indicate he'd received a text. It was from @MadMikeMarsbergen: Hey, we can't make it today. Something came up. Good luck with the case.

Rick sighed. Yup. The Chosen One was his only hope.

5

When night had fallen and the rain had stopped, Rick Wickerman headed out to the usual spot to meet with The Chosen One.

Nobody knew who The Chosen One really was, but most knew what he stood for: justice, truth, a pledge to put an end to Wattpad's tyranny. Of course, some believed the propaganda Wattpad spread about him—that he was a pervert, a sadist, a terrorist, and a sodomite. Lord WattPad would give near-daily speeches about how The Chosen One was very close to being caught, and he'd even posted a hefty reward for anyone who caught him. Some thought The Chosen One was a myth, a legend, created by those in power to make an eternal enemy for themselves, so they could appear to be doing something worthwhile with taxpayers' money.

But Rick knew the man was quite real. He'd met with The Chosen One a few times before. The first time had been a random coincidence. This was a year ago, long after his brother Phil had gone missing. He'd gone up to the roof of Phil's old apartment, where they used to smoke WattPot together, back before it was outlawed. It was one of those nights. He'd needed something tangible to touch, to better remember him. Sometimes Rick would come up there and think about old times, about how he and his brother would get baked and watch cartoons together, how they used to throw Frisbees in the park and try to hit little kids in the head, how Phil would go on and on about his newest story idea.

Phil had been a writer—unlike Rick. Back then, Phil had been known as @dickswinger420. He'd been making waves in the writing world, earning millions of reads in no time at all. And then he'd just... disappeared. Gone without a trace.

But that night, a year ago, Rick—lost in thoughts of Phil—wiped away tears with the sleeves of his jacket.

And a deep voice had spoken to him from behind: "Why are you crying?"

Rick had turned and seen a figure cloaked in shadow. "Wh-Who are you?" he'd asked.

"My name is unimportant," the figure said. "Was it someone you loved? Did Wattpad take them away?"

"I was..." It was stupid. Telling a complete stranger something so personal, so intimate. "Just thinking about my brother," Rick had said. "Phil. He disappeared a long time ago. And I— You know, I remember the rumours about a place where they jail you, or treat you, or something. Against your will, or without your consent, or whatever... Part of me always wondered if Phil had been taken there."

The figure grunted. "I know exactly the place. I was sent there once. CrazyTown Resanitization Centre. Only the sanest ones get put there. 'Phil,' you said his name was? Phil what?"

"Wickerman. Phillip Wickerman. But his writing name was @dickswinger420," Rick told him.

"I'll keep an ear out and an eye open, Rick," the figure said, and Rick realized he'd never told him his name. "In the meantime, if you ever need me, I set up this really cool spotlight here on this roof. So just shine it into the night sky and I'll come."

The figure turned and Rick quickly shouted, "But wait! I don't even know your name!"

"Call me whatever you like. Names aren't important. My message is. My actions are. Until next time, Rick. Remember the good times, and remain hopeful." And the man swooped away, soaring through the night sky like a bat with the wings of an eagle.

6

Rick never did learn the figure's name. But after a series of pedophile rings had been busted—with the children freed and the perpetrators left butchered with their own severed dicks in their mouths—"a lone figure in black fleeing from the crime scene" was the common witness description. Lord WattPad's media goons quickly referred to him as The Chosen One—sarcastically—and said he was a terrorist who had planted evidence all over the crime scenes, even going so far as to drag there the dead bodies of numerous Wattpad elite.

But Rick didn't believe the propaganda.

Now he climbed the ladder up to the apartment's roof. He found the spotlight, turned it up to a patch of grey-white clouds, which travelled swiftly across the black sky. He activated it and, surrounded by a circle of light, a black erection filled the sky.

He only had to wait five minutes before The Chosen One swooped in and landed on the roof at a run.

"You rang?" he asked Rick.

"This city stinks," Rick said.

"Don't I know it."

"I had a trial today. Against Wattpad's tyranny. As you might've noticed, lots of people have turned up dead as of late. They were my witnesses. Most of them, anyway. The other two—@MadMikeMarsbergen and @OutrageousOllo—didn't even bother to show. Wouldn't have mattered anyway. Lord WattPad bought off the judge. Actually paid him with a dollar-sign-covered sack full of money. Right in front of me. Just pisses me off. I can't win here. Not with the law. Because the law isn't on the side of truth and justice."

"What do you need?"

"I need you to dig into some of the evidence I gathered through my witnesses," Rick told him. "The boys from Coheed and Cambria gave me a written statement—before it was smoked by Lord WattPad—saying he used to have them play music for him while he... fondled naked children."

The Chosen One shook with suppressed rage. "I'm on it, Rick. Lord WattPad will pay. With dividends." He turned away.

"Chosen One?"

"You know I don't like that name," The Chosen One said, looking over his shoulder. "Call me Freedom, Trust, Truth, Honesty, Justice... Anything except that name."

"Those other names don't really have the same ring. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd come any closer to tracking down my brother."

"I'm close alright," said The Chosen One. "I've got a lead I'm working on. Rick, don't get excited... But I believe your brother might be alive. I'll keep you posted."

Barely able to keep his emotions in check, Rick watched the masked vigilante leap into the night. Phil might be alive... Could it be true? Would he still be Phil, though, after all this time? His heart wouldn't stop pounding. He needed to clear his head. He needed a distraction.

7

Way up at the top of Lord WattPad's Pleasure Tower, the man himself laughed madly. "And then I— Aha ha ha!" He wiped tears from his eyes. "And then I said, 'Smell ya later, dirtbag,' and sneered at him. Ahahaha! Oh, it was so vainglorious!"

"Yes, you told me," said @TheGorillatan, Lord WattPad's latest and greatest assistant. "Many times today, in fact."

"Are you giving me lip, boy? Because if you are, I will have you replaced. I thought when I had your red-headed brother hung by his nipples in the street and hired you that things would be different. But you're giving me as much lip as he was. I don't like it. Now change my crayon, please." Lord WattPad bent over his enormous desk.

"Sorry, sir," @TheGorillatan said, and proceeded to remove the orange crayon from his master's behind and inserted a brown crayon in its stead.

"Ah, that's better. It's brown, yes?"

"Of course."

"It felt brown, yes... Our primary agent—can we confirm we scraped his remains from the pavement?" Lord WattPad arched his fingers in front of his face, surreptitiously picking his nose with a finger from his gloveless hand. This was an old habit. He thought people didn't notice.

@TheGorillatan fiddled with his WattTablet. "Indeed. DNA analysis says it was @P—"

"Don't say his name!" Lord WattPad hissed, jamming his fingers into his ears. "I don't want to hear his name anymore! He failed! He's a loser! A bigtime loser! Obliterate his name from historical records!"

"You— You already did that, sir. A few times."

"Well, do it again, you dirty ape!"

@TheGorillatan sniffed. "Yes, sir."

"And where is our secondary agent?"

"In the field. Observing, as you ordered."

"Good. Good. Well, this calls for a celebration. I feel like girl tonight," Lord WattPad said, grinning. "Get me a six-year-old. No, wait. Get me a four-year-old this time. A real bratty one."

@TheGorillatan frowned. "Sir, it's almost midnight. I don't know if we'll be able to tell whether she's a brat or not. They're all in bed at this hour."

"Just do it! And what is the latest and greatest musical group these days? Coheed and Cambria were so dreadfully boring. I'm glad I had them killed."

"2Fresh4U are making the girls scream, I believe."

"Making girls scream, eh..." Lord WattPad let out a high-pitched giggle into his hands. "That sounds scrumptious. Go now, ape, go, go, go!"

"Yes, sir," @TheGorillatan grumbled, then loped to the set of double doors.

"Ape, one more thing!" shouted Lord WattPad from his desk, fifty feet away. "Have @MadHatter in Section B-3 ramp up his annoyingness. I think it's time we brought our little experiment with @Writerbot52 to a close. Heh. Heheh. Hehehehahahahahaha! HAHAHAHAHAHA! MWAHAHAHEHEHEHEHehehehahah ha ha haa."