ATTENTION:

Since this is practically one the most dedicated trollpastas I have sadly found, it will not be such a surprise to know that its content will be very... hyper-realistically bloody, gory, bodily disturbing, nonsensical, and possibly offensive to some-and if you are offended, I will respect that. I will not, however, place this under an "only users can see it because of its SCAAAARY rating"-and in actuality, this Pasta doesn't really describe it's content in full and disturbing detail. It's more like throwing "yucky" words in your face and telling you how spooky they are. You have now been warned.

Have a nice day!

The beautiful Pasta under the spotlight: The Skeleton Parable by Sonic'sadventure33473 on the Trollpasta


Stanley sits alone in his office, not pushing buttons, as one might expect from the seemingly senseless fellow, but reading.

Or, at least, he's trying to read. He whirls on his swivel chair, round and round, like a spinning tea-cup ride. His hysterical cackling bounces off the walls, gasping and wheezing interjecting at random intervals. He clutches at his sides, which give off sharp pangs from the laughter he has no control over. He doesn't really care, actually. He's having the time of his life.

A knocking on Stanley's office door sounds out noisily in threes, making an effort to call his attention. He fails to respond and continues to laugh louder, shriller.

"Stanley," says a voice muffled behind the door. It sure sounds concerned.

The laughing ensues, the knocking on the door doing the same.

"A–Are you alright–Stanley, are you alright?" asks the voice, its volume increasing.

"It's been three hours, Stanley. You have to come out of there at some point."

Stanley spins so fast on the swivel chair it leans on its fourth wheel and topples over. Now with his face unwillingly suppressed in the floor, his laughter cuts short, but only for a moment. This causes the voice on the other end of the door to panic.

"THAT'S IT, STANLEY. I'M NOT PLAYING GAMES." The door bursts wide open and crashes into the wall beside it well enough to create a serious indentation. The switch in that wall is flipped on, shedding a yellow light on Stanley's predicament with the floor.

"What in the hell has gotten into you?" The Narrator hoists Stanley up by the white collar of his shirt, unintentionally shaking the poor guy out of his wits. Stanley tries his best to sober up, but fails miserably, letting a toothy smile creep up on his reddening face.

"I tried calling you three times. Three times, Stanley!" shouts the Narrator, making himself out to be some overly attached girlfriend, which causes Stanley to snort in amusement.

The Narrator somehow catches the message on what he snorted about. He releases his grip on Stanley's collar, allowing the man to trip over the fallen chair. Repulsed by Stanley's assumption about him, the Narrator proceeds ranting,

"I could hear you from across the entire facility. With that stupid laughter of yours, I was about ready to call a hospital. I thought you finally descended into insanity!"

With the help of the desk, Stanley lifts himself onto his feet. His nose suddenly itches. He places a finger below it to prepare for a sneeze, but, instead, he catches a small amount of red fluid on his hands. The Narrator glues his own hand to face at the sight of his colleague's bloody nose.

"Look what you've done to yourself. I swear, you have the mentality of a child." He tosses Stanley the small tissue box on the shelf.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you had nothing to even laugh at; your maturity needs a drastic amount of improvement."

A jeering, monotonous "Oh, reeeeally?" arises from the Narrator when Stanley shakes his head. His eyes drift towards the ceiling in a lack of amusement.

"Then what, exactly, did you think was so hilarious?"

Stanley shifts the monitor of the computer towards him, presenting a white, extremely boring looking webpage. It's mainly composed of text in awfully tiny font, most of it in blocky caps, and the spelling... The Narrator involuntarily cringes. The only picture it shows is horrendously obscure. He can only assume it's a stock image of a yellow kitchen sponge exposed to a terrible choice of photo-shop filtering and a juvenile attempt at drawing with Microsoft Paint. Nonetheless, his interest has been piqued.

"What is this?"

"Trollpasta," Stanley replies rather bluntly.

The Narrator's nose crinkles up in disgust. All his life, he never thought those two words would ever have a chance of merging together. He can't even fathom why there would ever be a need to fuse these two words into one baffling, hideous word such as…

"Troll… pasta…" He now feels a strong urge to slap Stanley in the face with a dictionary.

"That… is the most revolting thing I have ever heard. You fancy some strange things, Stanley."

Stanley chuckles lightheartedly, picking off another sheet of tissue paper from the flowery cardboard box. The countless amount tissues he had previously are crumpled up into a ball and stuffed into his closed hand. Such a slob Stanley is...

"It's not like that," he says.

"Well, what does a damn 'troll-pasta' even mean! Explain, please, I'm practically dying to know by now."

On the inside, the Narrator is strongly against learning about the true meaning of this "trollpasta". Curious or not, he knows delving too far into the bottomless, wretched pits of the World Wide Web is the equivalent of a suicide mission. He would rather clear out his head by pouring bleach through his ears than go that far. He chokes his revulsion back down his throat though–have to have some respect for the bloke.

"They're stories on the internet that are supposed to be scary, but are really just stupid," Stanley says.

Just foolish tales of horror, huh? That doesn't seem nearly as insufferable as originally thought. The two of them experienced the works of famous horror storytellers before, reading those old bricks of books on the shelves of the boss' office that had a tendency of collecting dust. And these tales are supposed to be stupid, right? That'll be a breeze to go through. They've handled the Line™; they can surely handle stupid.

"Is that true?" Stanley nods eagerly in response to this bizarrely not-so-antagonistic question.

But then a thought occurs.

It took years to make an intelligent stab at a story, the Narrator thinks, but Stanley is somehow amused-to-death by these so-called "trollpastas" that only had–what–five minutes in the making? That's just offensive.

"What makes them so great?" he snaps, standing rigid with his fists clenched and his nose pointed upward proudly.

Stanley fixes his chair and sits back on it, facing the computer and scrolling down the webpage with the mouse. "I just like reading them."

"That is no excuse, Stanley."

He ignores this, telling a story about a cursed video game, a video game about a blue hedgehog in sneakers. He recounts the tale of episodes of old and recent cartoons–to be more precise–the "lost" episodes of old and recent cartoons.

"… And there was this one Pasta," says Stanley, "it was about this guy on this website called 'Youtube'. He was called 'Username666'…"

"Classy." The Narrator rolls his eyes. He sits on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, as if he's at a fancy party of some sort.

"… His account was banned, so you couldn't access it." Stanley switches to a gruff voice, imitating one of a demonic entity.

"Or so you thought!"

"Yuh-huh…"

"But this random guy says that if you refresh the page for a while, Username666's account will show…

"And then Satan reaches out from the computer and eats you."

This is when the Narrator quits inspecting his fingernails. He frowns, deep in thought, and says to Stanley:

"Well, that's one way to kill off a character."

Stanley clicks on another web-link.

"There's also this other story about a guy who bought a Playstation 3–whatever that is–and went to this second-hand store to buy video games. The cashier said: 'Hope you don't die playing these games MwahaHAHA!'–or something along the lines of that."

"Do I detect foreshadowing?"

"So when he went home to play the games, they had really gory gameplay, with hyper-realistic blood and everything.

"He destroyed the disks, but on the T.V., the words 'you will suffer' were painted on the screen in real blood.

"So when he tried to leave, someone put a gun to his head and–if I'm reading this correctly–'BANG! My life was over…'"

"I'm sure he deserved it."

"And there's this story about–" The faint memory of those words linger in the atmosphere, the dead and noiseless atmosphere. If there is any color on the spectrum Stanley could feel attributed towards at this moment, it would either be white or green. White, which consumes the pigment of his skin, for the ghostly expression he resembles as he stares at the webpage. Or green for the painfully nauseous look he also resembles as he stares at the webpage. Actually, the Narrator swears to himself he saw a hint of green in his cheeks.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're actually scared of this rubbish," the Narrator taunts him. He loses his joking attitude in a matter of seconds. His high-spiritedness recedes, letting apprehension wash over.

"… Stanley. What happens in the story?"

The corners of Stanley's mouth curl into a devilish smile.

"Stanley?"

Without tearing his eyes away from the screen, Stanley finally speaks up, slowly. He says his words in such a sinister way they possess the ability to make skin crawl…

"You need to see this."

It's unknown to the Narrator whether he intended to sound so disturbing like that or not.

Reluctant, the Narrator inches forward to the computer.

"What is this?"

"Just read it."

"I need an explanation. What is this–"

"Just read it."

The Narrator dares not to stand too close to Stanley, who appears to be in a mindless state. He glimpses worriedly at the screen, then at Stanley.

"What if I don't want t–"

"Just read it."

There really isn't any use for arguing with a zombie, the Narrator thinks. He looks to the screen again.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," he mumbles to himself and scans over the words.

'You might not believe that this story is real BUT IT ACTUALY HAPPENED 4 REALZ!1111'

Oh.

'so one day I was fapping in a rofl copter when I saw a game store in a dark ally way out the window'

"I don't understand what this particular word means." The Narrator puts a finger on the monitor screen, pointing to the word "fapping".

"I'm absolutely positive it isn't in any dictionary I've looked over. Is it one of those words composed of other words?"

Stanley shakes his head slowly.

'and then jumped out the window in to the ally way and there was an old man raping a cat and–'

The Narrator shrinks back, gaping, eyes wide open in absolute horror.

"WHAT AM I READING?"

Stanley takes a strong hold of his arm before he has the chance of running off.

'he gave me two game discs for free the first one had "SCAAAAARY SKELYBUMS" written on it in red marker and the second disc had "My Little Pony Rape Game" written on it in cum so I decided to put the first disc(SCAAAAARY SKELYBUMS)in my computer and then a file called "DONTPLAYTHISHIT UNLESSYOUWANT AMILLION VIRUSESON YOURCOMPUTER. EXE" was added on my computer I decided to play it because I can MOTHERFUCKA!1 #ANARCHYREIGNS anyway

when I loaded the game up there was a warning screen that said "YOU ARE A FUCKING IDIOT!" then the title screen showed up and it was the same one from the Stanley Parable Demo–'

This sends the Narrator's vision spiraling.

It's one thing to enjoy reading a piece of rubbish you received from shoving your hand down a garbage receptacle. It's one thing to enjoy that piece of rubbish more than the work your colleague spent years trying to make. But having the game that colleague put his heart and soul into included in this... well...

"ARE YOU TRYING TO TORMENT ME?" the Narrator hollers, thrashing his arm to and fro haphazardly.

Stanley shakes his head.

'which I keep playing on repeat because I don't have any actual money ;^; I only have fudge but on the title screen the word "Stanley" was replaced with "Skeleton" I figured this was just a glitch and kept playing when I got into the demo THERE WAS HYPER REALISTIC BLOOD ERRYWER AND DEAD SKELETONS ERRYWER AND THE TWO CARS AT THE START WERE FLIPPED OVER AND ON FIRE AND THE SODA MACHINE HAD "BLOODY BLOOD SODA" WRITTEN ON IT IN HYPER REALISTIC BLOOD IT WAS SCARIER THAN MY PERIOD but I assumed it was just a glitch and kept playing I went to the waiting room WHICH WAS ALSO COVERED IN BLOOD AND SKELETONS AND ALL THE COFFEE CUPS WERE FILLED WITH BLOOD AND INSTEAD OF WHITENESS OUT THE WINDOW THERE WAS TANKS OF HYPER REALISTIC BLOOD AND ON THE WAY TO THE GREEN ROOM THE ROW OF PICTURES THAT SHOWED FAMOUS DEMOS WERE REPLACED WITH SCARY PICTURES OF
SKELETONS AND BLOOD!1'

It's not entirely the–dare I say this so loosely–gritty content this Pasta possesses that makes their stomachs turn, it's the fact that some plucky riffraff-person in this world conceived the idea for this nightmarish garbage, had the nerve to type it and post it for some poor sap to come across. The word for this most likely is "sadism".

And to think there's a whole Wikipedia archive gathering over five thousand of these like some hellish spider-web for which wriggly insects and other forms of writhing crap can get themselves caught into.

'when I got into the green room there was some hyper realistic skeleton blood porn on the screen and a living skeleton was smoking some hyper realistic weed and stole my soul and gouged out my eyes but I assumed it was a glitch and kept playing then the screens lifted up and the eight game was there BUT IT WAS SCAAAAAAAARY!1SOOOOOOOO SCAAAAAAAARY'

The Narrator stops lashing his arm around to the point of almost breaking it and slams his head on the table, going limp, a good sign of unconsciousness.

'so I pressed the button and my computer red ringed and my mom took my sonic fan character porn away AND IT MADE ME SO MAD I DECIDED TO GO ON A MURDEROUS RAMPAGE but I ended up holding the wrong end of the chainsaw and died... UR NEXT!1111'

Stanley sits motionless, still holding the arm of the Narrator, who lays face-up on the floor, eyes glazed over and unblinking.

To both of them, having a supernatural entity eat their souls and whatnot doesn't seem like a terrible idea anymore.

Stanley snaps out of his trance, returning his focus onto the computer and typing the word "YouTube" into the search bar.

Before Stanley can even type in anything else, the seemingly conscious Narrator extends an arm out to the wall outlet, ripping every plug out of its socket in one tug. Blackness overwhelms the monitor screen. The computer gives out a soft, quiet hiss as it shuts itself down.

"Hey!" protests Stanley, slapping his hands on the keyboard.

"That is enough internet for you today." The Narrator gathers his senses and stands back up. He tosses the cables he holds in his hand onto his colleague's lap. Lacking any sort of emotion or visible and justifiable trauma after experiencing an ordeal worthy of a vist to the shrink, he approaches the door and flips the light switch off, leaving the room in a rather awkwardly cold fashion.

"Goodnight, Stanley."