Welcome to the fourth edition of Guess the Author. I am your humble host, Jason "Zaratan" Jones, and I come to you 11 tales from a wide variety of authors to dazzle your senses.

Yvj won last time, oh so long ago, so this intriguing topic, soap opera, is all his doing. On the other hand, it looks like a LOT of people had a lot of fun with this one.

The rules are simple. Read through all the stories, and then try to guess which of our amazing authors wrote that particular story. Write out your responses to me, Zaratan, by either PM or by email at zaratan4 at hotmail dot com, and the one closest, getting the most correct, wins and gets to select our next contest topic.

And now, for our list of authors, in alphabetical order;

Cesudo

Cpneb

FatherFigure1

Gray Cardinal

Joe Stoppinghem

Mangafangirl

Noobfish

RonHeartbreaker

Scoutcraft Piratess

Whitem

Zaratan

Remember, match as many stories as you can with these authors, happy reading, and good luck to you all!

…x x x x…

Addictive

It was lunchtime at Drakken's lair, which meant that the self-proclaimed evil genius was on a path that would inevitably lead him towards being thwarted by an everyday food container of some sort. Last Thursday it was the salsa jar, the Tuesday before an unruly can of tomato soup. Today, fate would strike Drakken in the form of his ancient nemesis: the pickle jar.

He had all the required pieces in place for his hamburger except the pickles, and since no self-respecting villain dares eat a burger without any pickles, he proceeded with yet another mealtime tradition – finding his professional pickle jar opener.

Shego was lounging in one of those comically high-backed chairs that Drakken had, watching the big-screen TV. Drakken paid no mind to that, but the look on her face led him to believe that she was completely engrossed in whatever it was being shown, which she wasn't prone to.

"Shego, I need help with this jar…and don't make any snide remarks about it either or I'll…" he thought better of threatening her, lest he get scorched by lime-colored plasma, but Shego didn't reply, or even seem to notice.

Confused, he sat in the other chair nearby to see what was so interesting on TV. Whatever it was, it was in a commercial break, so he just blinked at Shego.

"What are you watching?" he asked.

She blinked, being shaken out of her stupor, and looked at him. "Eh…what? Oh…I don't know what it's called."

The commercials ended, and they both looked back at the TV. There was a woman on it, railing about another woman who had slept with her husband or father or cousin…maybe all three.

"…oh come on, she died before the commercials and now she's whining about what's her name AGAIN?!" Shego raved at the TV screen.

Drakken blinked again, setting down the pickle jar. "Shego, I didn't know you watched soap operas…"

She glanced sideways at him. "Yeah…I don't, really. I just caught it yesterday and it was so ridiculous, I wanted to see if it was a joke or not. Apparently…they're serious."

He tilted his head as they watched on. "Wait, I remember this show, my mother watches it. Every weekday. Religiously. For what reason…well, I fail to understand, but oh well."

Shego looked back at the TV. "What the hell…look at that guy! Yesterday he was a six-month old baby with anaemia that got shipped to boarding school in the Ukraine! Now he's twenty-five and looks like he could bench press a Buick!"

"They have boarding schools in the Ukraine?" Drakken scratched his head.

Shego smacked her forehead. "…doy, that's not the point…he was six months old yesterday and now he's TWENTY-FIVE. Don't you see something wrong with this picture?"

He just shrugged at her. "Oh, that's just how this show's written. All soap operas are like this."

"…you can't be serious. This isn't writing, it's a massacre of creativity. I mean, the people that write fanfics and pair you up with Lucre don't have continuity problems THIS bad."

That made Drakken gag, but he recovered quickly. "Ahem…that notwithstanding, it's the way the shows are written, for some reason."

She could only sigh. "…I can't believe this. These people get paid to write? I wouldn't pay them to wash my car. I'd take in my new ride and probably get something from 1934 when they were finished."

They continued to watch.

"So…if it's so bad, why haven't you changed the channel yet?" Drakken blinked.

The instant-man was on-screen now…a commercial break ago he'd thrown someone out a window and beat them to death, but they were alive again and the two of them were helping poor villagers in Zambia for some reason which was wholly unknown to either Drakken or Shego.

"…It's kinda like a train full of orphans derailing and crashing into an explosives factory…it's so awful, you can only look away just long enough to throw up," she stared.

Somebody had gotten a bazooka and was shooting at a private plane belonging to…well, they'd lost track.

"I don't quite remember it being this…jumpy. Or anybody having recoilless rifles, either." Drakken pointed out.

The instant-man was now 67, had four adult kids, sixteen grandkids, and a multinational corporation dedicated to making and selling tire irons. At least, he did, until the same beating victim from before – who hadn't aged a day – burst into his office and shot him fourteen times with two Desert Eagles. It was here that the show ended for the day.

"…My head's going to explode," Shego grumbled.

"I think I agree with you…I have absolutely no idea what on earth I just witnessed," Drakken rubbed his head.

"I know one thing, though," she folded her arms.

"Which is?"

"…I have GOT to see tomorrow's episode."