Lolly was not in the best of moods. After her school camp, she had not showered for three days straight, and due to lack of washing, now had a Bermuda triangle of pimples on her cheek, making her look like . . . I dunno, like her face was the aurora borealis or something.

Who KNEW pimples came in those colours.

So whatever. With the sniff of her nose, Lolly boredly stopped trying to write Flashlight. It OBVIOUSLY wasn't going to come out tonight. Writer's constipation can do that to you. You try to force out the writing . . . all you get is a sore butt and The Poo That Would Not Flush.

But that wasn't the point. It had been yonks since the torture – I mean, uh, kissing pleasure – of one of Lolly's good MCBC friends.

And plus, there was a handsome beau who was on the verge of homosexuality out there. Lolly needed to act fast before females everywhere lost his attraction COMPLETELY.

With a lollilicious sigh – that always means bad news, ladies – she sniggered, having fully developed her plan.

Because Lolly is just so amazingly hot and talented and possesses a freakish variety of magical powers – including on-command-orgasms – she was able to, of course, dematerialize to her location in question. In a radiant shower of vomit-green light, she landed in . . .

. . . A jail cell.

'Purrrrfect,' she purred. And meowed.

Looking around curiously, she fixed her boobies so they looked all seductive. Ha. And you wonder why people always do what Lolly says . . . foolish mortals.

'Oh, Miiiiiiiiiiichael,' she sang out.

From the corner of the jail cell, a shaggy, pasty, unkempt face looked up at her hollowly. His eyes widened in interest. I mean, that was a really low cut shirt . . .

Because Lolly is like, such a slut.

Snort.

'Uhhh,' he mumbled, 'How'd you get in h – '

'No questions,' Lolly said, dominatrix-y. 'I'll do the talking, big boy.'

'Look,' Michael Meducci said slowly, 'They won't even let me use my Apple Mac in here. I have no Chem. to study. No Physics. My brain is fried. My nerdiness is disintegrating. All I have going for me are my lickeable abs. I'm currently a sexually confused male with genitals that are desperately craving Suze Simon at the moment. I have not seen a female in months. You're probably a bit fat for me – '

HEY!

' – but beggars can't be choosers. It's either you or . . . Kroch.'

Erm . . .

'Who's Kroch?' Lolly asked warily.

Meducci sighed. 'He wants me bad, I can tell. Gang leader. But I refuse to become anyone's ass-monkey. At least, not until I am positive that I am indeed, gay. Prison is tough, fat stranger. And sex is plentiful, providing that you bat for the other team.'

Lolly was starting to severely regret her decision. 'Look,' she said, 'I think that I've made a bad choice . . . I mean, I doubt that my latest victim will really enjoy a fictional kiss from a guy who not only murdered four people, but isn't quite certain where his sexual status lies. So – '

'KISS?' Michael stopped dead, his tattered prison uniform glaring greyly at Little Miss Lollykins, 'A girl?'

Ugh. ONCE YOU'VE GONE MIKE, YOU'LL BECOME A DYKE.

. . . Or ONCE YOU'VE GONE MEDUCCI, YOU'LL NEED A PAULIE-SMOOCHIE.

Heh. Kill me.

'No,' Lolly snapped sarcastically, 'Michael Jackson.' Who is a bit of both – 'Of COURSE a girl.'

'Please!' he leapt at Lolly's feet, and began kissing them, totally giving Paul a run for his money in the foot fetish department, 'Please, ANYTHING to feel the lips of a woman – preferably not you because, as afore mentioned, I prefer my ladies nerdy and not fat – '

YOU'RE PUSHING IT

'Anything,' he said desperately, clinging to her legs in plea, 'For I fear my virginity will only last for so long in this urine-ponged place. And what a sucky way for an eighteen year old to lose his Vs? To a horny child-rapist from Tennessee? Can you LIVE with yourself, fat stranger, knowing that you have subjected me to that?'

Lolly looked down at the dweeb who was holding her knees so. 'Erm . . . can you . . . let go? You kind of . . . stink.'

Meducci scrambled away. 'Anything.'

Lolly put her breasts away in frustration. That obviously hadn't worked. Ha. Fat stranger? What an ass.

'Fine,' she said. 'But my victim isn't going to be happy. In fact, she'll give me the glaring of an eternity.'

Panting, Michael Meducci said, 'As long as she's a she, I'm good.'

Ugh.

8 -

With another amazing display of witchcrap – hehehe . . . wannabe witch and all – Lolly magically transported Michael to the front door of her next victim. Using her ingredients, eye of newt and testicle of Hector – which has several wart-inducing properties – she made Meducci's horrid whiff go away. The fact that he now smelt like a drag queen who lived in a bong was obviously not a turn off.

Cough.

It may be kind of sus for an intelligent, careful thinking author like Lolly to set a homicidal psychopath on one of her gentle readers.

. . . But this is fiction, so shut your face.

As Michael approacheth'd the mystery person's window, he suddenly realized something. EVERYONE always went through the window. So, thinking he'd be different, he whistled a happy tune, and within no time, he was surrounded be an assortment of reindeer. Picking the one with the brightest nose, whose name was Archibald, he climbed upon him, trying to ignore the warm, nice feeling he suddenly felt in his pants, and then Archibald flew him upon the roof.

Certain that this girl would be quite happy with the present HE had to offer, he climbed down her chimney, which isn't as easy as Santa makes it out to be. He got 7lbs of soot in various places on his prison-happy body, along the ridges of his now disintegrating abdominal muscles, and up his nose, so his nostril hairs grew a few inches.

Stumbling on the couch, he stole his way up to the mysterious girl's room, leaving trails of soot from the fireplace on the carpet.

What a dirty little bugger . . .

Pfft.

As he crept into a bedroom, he saw a sleeping figure on a pink bed-spreaded bed. A wobbly grin came onto his face; the same one he had when he had finally finished his type A5DF89 computer chip. With outstretched arms, he went to pull off the girl's covers, humming You Make Me Wanna La-La under his breath, followed by a chorus of I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt.

However, Nicole felt fingers on her shoulder and started SCREAMING.

As you'd do, when a soot-covered fictional entity attempts to touch you.

Mike Meducci, of course, stumbled back in shock. 'Shhh!' he said, 'I just wanna La-La!'

Nicole kept on screaming like a psycho-freak, all the way to her CD Player, where she fumbled for a CD.

'AAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!'

. . . Pretty annoying.

She stopped momentarily. 'Take THAT, you stupid Suze-Stalker! I mean – following her into VICTORIA'S SECRET? That's just GROSS. And then trying to KILL HER? YOU FAGGOT! Pfft!'

She spat on him, as she quickly inserted the silver compact disk into the CD player.

And it began . . .

. . . When I dance they call me Macarena
And the boys they say that I'm buena
They all want me, they can't have me
So they all come and dance beside me
Move with me jam with me
And if your good I take you home with me . . .

'NOOOOOO!' Michael shrieked in terror, 'NO! You found my weakness! NO! Aaargh – '

A la tuhuelpa legria Macarena,
Que tuhuelce paralla legria cosabuena,
A la tuhuelpa legria macarena

Eeeeeh, macarena,

His skin began boiling. His arms jutted forward one by one, rotated, moved jerkily behind his head, against his will. Then, to his hips. He simmered, and bubbled, and pus began oozing from his every inch. More so in the downstairs region. He circled his pelvis, squealing for mercy.

'NOOOOOOOO! NOT THE MACARENA!'

Now don't you worry 'bout my boy friend
The boy whose name is Nicorino
I don't want him, 'couldn't stand him
He was no good so I - hahaaaa
Now, come on, what was I supposed to do?
He was outta town and his two friends were soooooo fine

Nicole just stood there, her long hair draping her shoulders. She'd stopped screaming at least. Thank God.

I mean . . . this FREAK had been THIS CLOSE to kissing her. On LOLLY'S COMMAND?

Nicole was going to brutally assassinate that Flashlight-writing bitch.

A la tuhuelpa legria Macarena,
Que tuhuelce paralla legria cosabuena,
A la tuhuelpa legria macarena

Eeeeeh, Macarena.

And with that . . . Michael Meducci screamed his last, 'I'M MELTING! I'M MEEEEEEEEELTING! OH, WHAT A WORLD, WHAT A WORLD . . . ' before oozing into a puddle of a slimy greeny-white substance on the floor.

Poor kittykatangel watched the ordeal, looking vacant.

Of course, it was then that Spike – the hideously fat cat – leaped through the window.

Nicole caught him with a squeak of delight. 'Oooh! Spikey! YAY! I'm going to keep you here, because surely Jesse'll come looking for his baby. Aww, aren't you a cutie little – OW!'

Spike had scratched her jugular vein open.

SHOCK!

Nicole started losing blood. It just SPLURTED out. Red, everywhere . . . it was gross. Spike was cackling. Nicole was shrieking.

God, enough blood, Nicole? What, did you get blood transfusions that weren't meant for you or something?

She collapsed to the floor, dead from blood loss.

When her ghost rose from her body, she started swearing violently like a potty-mouthed sailor, cursing felines everywhere, and Michael Meducci, and LOLLY, GOD DAMN IT, who is of course, writing everything that is happening, and is damned well enjoying it.

It's been a while since Lolly's written a nice bloodshed, you see.

Alas . . . our favourite fat author has her pangs of guilt.

I mean, Nicole's a NICE chick. Who'd want to kill her?

(A lot of people.)

Okay, I mean, who'd want to kill her in THAT way?

(More than a lot of people - )

OKAY, OKAY. She's got ENEMIES, okay! Well, I mean . . . how would THAT look n a tombstone?

Nicole Swizzlestick . . .

1905-2005 . . .

Died from stupid fictional cat

Who tore jugular vein.

Lots of blood. Gory.

Made-for-TV horror death.

Kind of funny. Snigger

Hehehe . . . good times. I mean - COUGH sorry.

So, due to conscience yelling out YOU SUCK! repeatedly in Lolly's head, she decided to give Nicole a nice end.

Well, as nice as Lolly can give . . .

Randomly, Nicole's ghost saw a bright, bright light.

Go to the light, Nicole . . . you know you want to . . . you want fries with that . . . ?

In awe of the radiance, she looked mistily at the luminance. 'Whoa,' she sighed. 'Perdy . . . '

When she reached the end, she was suddenly in a hallway of doors, with knee-high cold mist and coldly winking stars above in an inky black sky. Looking down and seeing that she was in her Elmo pajamas, she swore again. Great. Meeting the maker in a SESAME STREE GET-UP.

Class act? NO.

She randomly picked a door. 'Here goes nothin',' she muttered helplessly.

BOOM! MAJOR FLASH HERE. SPECIAL EFFECTS OF FANFICTION TO THE MAX.

Somewhere in Australia . . . a random kangaroo died . . .

Upon entering, she looked around and grinned.

'SCORE!'

T'was, of course, Fortunaschwein.

Flashlight-Paul, dressed in a nothing but a leather thong, was swinging around a whip seductively.

'Kittykatangel . . . I've been . . . expecting you . . . '

Nicole giggled in pure glee.

THE END.