This is the story of a man named Macazoroth.

A cyborg, shape-shifting descendant of Zeus that's now suffered through his seventy-fifth reincarnation as an extraterrestrial star-child, becoming the no-nonsense maverick he is at this very moment–who's also a vegetarian vampire.

After losing his telepathic Siamese-twin to ruthless demons possessing the bodies of dragon-dinosaurs–or 'dragosaurs', he scavenges through the post-apocalyptic remains of what used to be Tancrosynide, a nuclear battlefield, to carry out his late step-sister's wish.

To serve as conflict, zombie-assassins are in pursuit for Macazoroth for the sole purpose to execute him, being that they're too uninterested to actually accomplish productive tasks such as beginning a new stage of evolution. How lovely.

Now, to carry out his late step-sisters wish, he must go into a hidden temple off the coast of what used to be southern Bermuda, and steal the somewhat rare Emerald Sun-Bear that has been suitably placed on a pedestal for his very convenience, so he can be unceasingly worshiped by–Oh, no, no, no, no… This... This is just... I can't even look at this anymore.

Now, storytelling may be a profession of mine, but I am most certainly not telling this.

Nope. Won't do it. Won't, and never will.

I assume you're asking 'why?'. Just–Just look at it! Scroll up to the beginning and read it. Carefully. Look at it. Look at it and cringe in it's Marty-Stu-ness, the done-to-death tropes, the sheer horror of this... garbage. Well, I–here... I'll wait for you while you do just that.

Did you do it?

Let me guess – You didn't do it.

Ah… Nobody's compliant these days. Trust issues and second-guesses, and all that. You can't even tell someone to look over a few words without them accusing you of attempted chicanery. Like I intend to kill them–with words. Really now, is this what the world's reduced to? Just gutless paperweights without a spine to keep them up?

But you have to agree with me on the fact that that story was utter rubbish.

I assume that you're sneering at me.

'Oh, you're the narrator. Just make up another story.'

You're questioning yourself how I can possibly quote you when I can't even perceive you, nor interact with you in any way other than these strings of text. The answer–

Predictability.

In truth, you're all predictable. I've been through this numerous times, just so you know. And don't you think I've ever received anything remotely different. Yes, I'll admit, you're boring. You should've caught that a while ago, then maybe, this conversation would be more stimulating–and I wouldn't have to comment on how dull you are.

It's pertinent that I note that you have room for improvement. Really, you should take that into consideration.

... A new story? Well, if you feel so strongly for a change in narrative, why don't you come up with one yourself?

Hm.

Just what I thought.

You know... with irritable moods against you aside, I feel the need to take pity on you.

I mean, I shouldn't dump such a troublesome responsibility on you like that. It takes an incredible amount of ability to conjure up a plot, and scenery, and characters. I shouldn't expose such an academic challenge to someone of your intellectual naivety.

Hint, hint.

On a much brighter note, I'm more than willing to serve as a helpful, noble, heroic aid on this literary journey you've decided to partake in. So, being the selfless, sacrificing fellow that I am, why don't I give you a head-start? To... 'set the ideas in motion', as one might say?

Hey! Why don't I start you off with a protagonist? After all, the leading role takes a crucial part in the overall experience. And I certainly couldn't send you on your way with a half-baked character–and still keep a spotless conscience.

Tsk, tsk, tsk… Well, let's give him a conventional approach, so everyone would have someone to relate to.

Yes, I know–'lack of interest'... 'boring'... 'you hypocrite'. But, you see, he's not going to be static. Everyone's a subject to change.

Ah!

I've got it now! Listen to this –

Stanley.

An everyman. A white-collared man amongst the others. Bearing a forgetful face, he's an impassive individual who lacks a voice. No redeemable, exceptional qualities.

Remind you of anyone?

... No?

Hm, well, now that we've got the protagonist, I'll let you come up with the rest… If you can keep up, that is…

This is the story of a man named Stanley…