Got the idea from Sean Little by Vince's brother. Eat it.





An overwhelmingly hilariously of hilariousness comedy by David Macintyre at 3 in the morning


Disclaimer: Don't try this at home.

Foreword to Stephen: No offense.

Foreword to everyone else: Vince told me to.

Legal bullshit: The following is very loosely based on actual events in the life of mighty Sonic author and playwright Stephen Zacharus, mostly key elements from past experiences used for the purpose of parody. I do not own Stephen or Sonic or anything like that, and if you don't know who Stephen Zacharus is and you call yourself a fanfiction author, then you have some serious catching up to do.


For you see, that evening was to be completely random in all entirety and silliness.


Why forsay, was it to be such like this? Why so random, that in fact I am making up words like forsay at 3 in the morning to write it and sound like Shakeaspear?


They knew this. They knew this, damn them, because they know everything.


Who are THEY?

THEY were the audience at the opening night.


Of what? Of the latest dramatically dramatic play, written by none other than the urban legend Stephen Zacharus… of Nazareth.

The descriptionless environment was fraught with fresh, ripe innocent bystanders and bustling fans as they all settled into their seats and waited for the curtain to open.

They waited…

And waited…

And waited…

A few of them fell asleep.

Then they woke up, and it hadn't quite started yet, you see. For behind the curtain, our hero Stephen Zacharus was having a wee bout of stage fright.

"I can't do this!" Stephen was pissing his little red tights with fright, anxious about the turnout of his newest play. You see, the entire thing was written on a Moulin-Rouge-and-shrimp-cocktail binge one morning-slash-evening in celebration of finally getting that new laptop of his. Friggin Dell bitches. And so it was, needless to say, a total disaster of a piece. I mean, man, it was REALLY bad. Hell, YOU could do better than that piece of shit. And you can't even spell!

But never fear! For…


A huge, doomy evil voice boomed across the entire backstage.

Stephen shat himself in petrified shock and had to change into the supremely sexy blue tights. The voice continued.

"FEAR not MY presence! FOR i SHALL save THE playish PLAY of PLAYNESS!"

Stephen nodded, taking a peek outside of the (color not specified) curtain. The crowd was getting restless, resorting to throwing their beer and each other at the stage in anxiety.

"The show must go on!" Stephen cried, commanding his mighty servant to open the curtain. And this servant had a very sad story. You see, his mama, she wasa sicka, and he didn'ta have any moneya… anda she hada thisa condition, you seea, where she hada buttocks wherea her head-a should be-a…butta that's-a nother story-a for another-a day-a.

And the mighty servant pulled the rope, opening the curtain and revealing the descriptionless stage.

Stephen stepped out on stage, his usual charismatic sexy bitch self, and held a skull. People listened, and listened well. Some in the audience, like Weston, who were deaf AND had the common sense of a gnat, weren't really paying attention, as they were too busy planning for world deaf domination. But still all in all the listening factor was pretty high.

"TO BE or NOT to eat cheese sandwich… mm… this cheese sandwich tastes so good at 3 in the morning… munch munch… DVD BINGE! And so it was--"

Suddenly, before Stephen with his mighty red-shirt-and-green-tights combo could recite any more lines, a doomy presence drifted on stage, wearing a pink tutu and sporting a heavy Swedish accent. It was VINCENT VALENTINE (dramatic piano chord), master of all things bizarre!

And dance he sooo did, in a sooo Vdogg-hating way, sooo doing several twirly moves and sooo swinging claws on a chain ala Kung Pow.

"HIT it!"

And so the mighty servant David Macintyre, in the sound effects room, pushed a button and music blared across the room.

"You can't touch this DOO DOO DOO DOO…"

"CHANGE it!"


Vince, pasty albino white rapper that he was, began singing along to the lyrics as he twirled. Stephen's uncultured ears began to bleed at the sound of Eminem's lyrics, but he did not notice, for he was too busy being almightily angry at Vince for wearing PINK.

"You are ruining my show!"

"RUINING it? OR improving IT?"

Stephen was thrown by the comment. Instead of having an intelligent debate about it he decided to go for a low blow.

"Shut cho' mouth, you pasty ass sucka!"

Vince, the master of Verbal Combat, began to use his mighty powers of deduction to indeed inform Stephen that he had a nasal sponge lodged in his behind.

But there was a problem. For in the audience, a certain bony assed individual known as Shadow (THE SHADOW GOVERNMENT WATCHES EVERYTHING) stood up from the audience.


Suddenly all was silent.

Who, in all total insanity, could dare insult the almighty Stephen Fl…Zacharus?

Shadow the hedgehog, master of all things doomy little asshole, that's for fucking who!

Shadow stood up and walked on stage. He was wearing a tight black shirt with pink lettering across the front that said 'sexy bitch'. Steve was too busy gasping repeatedly at Shadow's outburst while holding his skull to care that Vince was still pretty much fucking the show to hell and beyond.

Shadow spoke, and spoke loudly. So loudly that even the deaf Hitler contemporary sitting in seat 7C could hear him. So loudly that Weston put aside his plans of world domination to listen, despite how difficult and annoying it was for him.


Stephen was not amused.

Shadow spoke again.


Stephen was not amused yet.


"Yes, we've established that, but I'd like to see what you plan on doing about it."

Shadow's face suddenly became very very angry, and his expression stoned. His bladder looked full to bursting.

Stephen drew a badass sword from that performance he had a couple years ago.

Shadow drew a pen.

"The pen is mightier than the sword," Stephen admitted, "But a pen can't chop your balls off." He then swung the swordy sword of swordiness and removed Shadow's nonexistent testicles.

But unfortunately it didn't do a whole lot because

Shadow doesn't have any balls. The sword was made out of cardboard. Stephen's too much of a pussy to swing a sword anyhow. (Just kidding Steve.)

Shadow then took the penny pen of penniness and puked into it. Then he put a stamp on it and threw it very, very far away.

A few moments later a thick script flew unceremoniously through the roof and whacked Shadow across the head. He bent down and picked it up.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMAN! You shall now be treated to a performance of a play that was written by inhabitants of a monkey house with a puke-filled fountain pen and is still better than this cheesy piece of shit by Stephen Zacharus, entitled ANYTHING GOES: the different version!"

Shadow then kicked Stephen away and read from the script. He drew an uber guitar out of nowhere and suddenly the Chaotix appeared, with other backup instruments. Yay.


And then the story became a songfic, as Shadow belted out Linkin Park and Vincent danced a mesmerizing belly dance of seduction.


While the crowd uber-danced and uber-beated off to Vince's mighty seductive motions, Stephen lay on the stage infuriated.

"Nuuuu! Forsooth I say, that whatsoever I can do about this cretin, it shall be done, even with a thought! For now I shall keep mine oath, that I shall be the most righteous Playwrighteous in all of sterling silver and monkey piss, which are actually weird Shakespearian words for modern day terms that could easily be translated into the corresponding terms, even with a thought, so that Shakespeare's bad jokes and inane plots could actually be understood!"

And so he stood up, adjusting his evil glasses of sinisterhood, then redrew his sword once more. He threw it to the ground.


And so he pulled out a shiny switch of shinybitch and pushed it.

And then…

He began to sing. His favorite broadway tune, no less.


Shadow was shocked. He froze.

He fell to the ground, non-apparent, nonexistent ears bleeding.


As some random dude from Stephen's school handed him the first place trophy for the apparent singing contest, Stephen continued to sing.

Meanwhile Vincent had finished twirling and making a general fag out of himself to witness the loudness and mayhem of the spectacle in front of him.

The people had stopped paying attention to the acting, now enthralled that they were being treated to a rock concert and broadway musical in one. Shadow and Stephen continued to try and outsing each other, their faces turning a delightful shade of purple with the effort.

And then a funny feeling came over Vince.

He adjusted his little pink tutu and tried to figure out what this insatiable appetite and weird stirring in his crotch meant.

Hunger, crotch, hunger, crotch, hunger, crotch, loud music, hunger, crotch…

And then suddenly it hit him, like a large wet fish.

He knew what he had to do. He craved… he craved… he had an insatiable appetite to…

Hunger, crotch, hunger, crotch, hunger, stirring…

"I have TO… EAT A BAT!"

An Ozzy-ish smile spread across his lips as he used the Force to pull Rouge out of the audience. She did not scream, for she was too enraptured by Shadow's 'sexy bitch' shirt and the thought of seeing Vince perform his powerful dance of bellyness. Her mind was full to brimming with dirty fantasies and lesbian enticements.

And so Vince yelled something extremely loudly in Swedish and took Rouge's entire head into his mouth, then bit down.


Unfortunately, the dickweed didn't think about the kind of effect this would have on the crowd, let alone Knuckles. Uproarious, unexplainable volumes of screaming and cheering emanated from the audience, as Vince went for encore and proceeded to chow down on Rouge's entire body.


Meanwhile, the author decided to make a funny reference. A certain long-haired individual walked on stage, in fact he WAS a large mass of black tangled hair, nothing more than a blob of follicle product, snacking down on a small character called Verso the bat, which made The Tears of a Mad Man very, very happy. Happy indeed. Revenge works.

The person tossed back his hair in a sexy manner, keeping to the general homoerotic atmosphere of this humorous piece designed to poke fun at people. Now could be seen a black shirt, black sunglasses, black jeans, black shoes, black socks, you get it.

And Vince said: "WHO in THE name OF FUBAR are YOU?"

The man bit off the bat's arm. He chewed on it thoughtfully, appearing to be in deep contemplation mode.

"Wonder if this is non-dairy…" he said to himself.

"ARE you OZZY?!"

For indeed he did resemble Ozzy Osbourne, with his black shirt and round sunglasses and tangled black hair, and black everything else except skin. But he shook his head.

"No," he said. "I am M.C. Griffin." Chomp.

When Vince was done laughing like this: AHAHAHAHAHAHA XD, he asked over the music, "Why are you here munching on that bat?"

M.C. looked at the bat and questioned that himself, actually. "I dunno… um… just helping Tears out, I suppose. Revenge works." And indeed it did, for when The Impure Hedgehog read this, she sent David the author another pitiful email flame with insults to the effect of 'your mama! Fucker!' and laughing evilly (HA HA HA HA HA) at her own jokes. In fact I have that mail in memory.

'Subject: Shut the fuck up! bitch!

Message says:

Fuck you if you don't like it! (and also keep in mind I, David the author, had no idea what she was talking about)


The Impure Hedghog

P.S. your mama! Fucker! HA HA HA HA HA'

…sad, isn't it?

"AND why MIGHT you BE biting THAT small CREATURE?"

M.C. looked at it again. Now he was also smoking a cigarette and riding in Impure Hedgehog's weird 'Z Walker' thing. "Dunno. I suppose I… just… look like Ozzy, so David figured it'd be fun to stick me in this piece of crap because of that."

"AH… okay. AS you WERE."

And suddenly M.C. disappeared as did the Z Walker, and in his place was Knuckles with a Z hammer. Knuckles was not happy. For he did not look amused. No, he was indeed not very pleased with what was going on. Not at all. Not only was he unhappy, but he was angry. Yes, very angry. Not pleased at all, uh uh, no way man, not gonna happen, not liking what was going on. I mean, damn, man, he was lookin' EVIL.

"You just ATE my girlfriend."

Vince was not fazed. Nope, not fazed at all. Not in the least. His expression didn't change one bit. Not at all. No way, no how. He was just NOT fazed, man. It just didn't bother him, you know? I mean, it bothered him about as much as Vdogg's mass flames. Which wasn't at all. In fact Vince laughed very heartily at those, glad that he had accomplished what he'd set out to do. But he wasn't laughing at all now because he was just not fazed so much that he wasn't even laughing. Weird huh? I mean… damn, man, he was just lookin' NORMAL.

And then suddenly Vince became serious, and his voice stopped cracking up and down between capitals and lowercase.

"Come on, I bet you've done it tons of times."

"No, I mean, you just ATE my girlfriend. You fucking devoured her."

Vince looked at the remains of Rouge—a single foot.

"No I didn't. I only ate 19/20 of her. Here, want some? Tastes as good as it looks."

"I am going to kick your ass now."

So Vince and Knuckles stared at each other very hard.





"Hey, isn't that Andreas?!"

Suddenly Vince tore off his tutu and ran out of the auditorium screaming. That was the last anyone ever saw of him. Six months later he was seen as an extra in Signs—I think he was that dude in the Indian guy's pantry. But that's about it.

And now, back to Stephen…

Who was still looking very shagadelic in those blue tights of his. And singing his heart out, his body so thin from trying to salvage extra air that he looked like… a really thin person.

Shadow wasn't having much luck either. Even the pink lettering on his shirt had turned purple.

And suddenly M.C. was there, and started choking on Verso.

A pointless character stood up from the audience and said, "Oh no! That man is dying, and shit!"

"Not on MY shift!"

Shadow's song suddenly changed to 'Shifter' by Timo Maas as he transformed into the equally bony assed Sean Catlett. And then he proceeded to give M.C. the Heimlich maneuver. Although I don't remember the last Heimlich that involved a piece of pie and a Gamecube controller.

Meanwhile Stephen was really beginning to realize how stupid this was. He again adjusted his evil little spectacles of doom and rubbed the part of his jaw where the wisdom teeth were before he started looking like Elvis. And he said something.

"Divine intervention is needed here!"

Nothing happened.

"No, really! This is getting friggin stupid now! I'm not even laughing, because I'm so fucking stressed! This is dumb! Where's the black dude with the neuralyzer already?!"

And then it happened.

Oh, yes, doG was very angry at this remark.

So everything froze.

Stephen looked around.


He looked around and tapped the thin man Sean, who was locked in an endless Heimlich—which was being performed all wrong, I might add. His Sonic Burger cap was suspended in midair.


There was a doomy bitch voice!

"Now you REALLY pissed me off…"

It was doG, who sounded oh so incredibly like Morpheus.

Stephen was scared. Eager not to die, he said "I'm….sorry."

The voice rubbed its chin.

"No. You see, now you must be punished. Because I do not enjoy being pissed off. Not at all. No way bud. Not… ah, fuck that shit. YOU MUST BE PUNISHED!"

Stephen understood, or so he thought. "I…see."

And suddenly…

In the audience…

The weird creepy guy from this address: appeared out of the audience.

Stephen froze and stared. His heart jumped.

The man screamed.


Stephen suddenly jumped back. Bad memories began to burn his brain and stain his crotch.

He remembered when he actually barfed out his heart from fright at seeing this man monster do this.. WAAAUUUGH! thing at him, and how much the ants had laughed the day after that.

The scene faded to a dramatic mental conflict picture, as several images of this man began spinning around him. Stephen's face contorted into this weird ass scream like in that painting by Edvard Munch. 'The Scream' I think it was.





"OOOOOAAAAGGGH!!" Stephen yelled, shitting his tights again. As he ran off stage, he contemplated fearfully what a terrible thing had come of a little friggin stage fright and bad writing. He died on the way home, by the way. Got hit by a car or something.

And then it was realized how stupid this story was. And all was crushed by the Monty Python foot. The end.

No, really, it's over.

Go away now.

I'm serious!

….Die now.


STILL don't know who Stephen Zacharus is? First, go here:

Then come back here and search for him on the Fido wonder dog thing. Read everything in his 'stories authored' list and review them all. And go here, to his very shagadelic website, the Graffiti Wall, while you're at it: It's a very good site and doesn't get nearly the attention it deserves, a little like Steve himself.

Oh yeah, and M.C., Sean, Vince, and Ozzy Osbourne own themselves, not me.

This fic was dedicated to the mighty Stephen Zacharus, who is credited with discovering me as a writer and making me realize 'Hey! I'm not just a stupid fuck who won't get much further than writing bad sitcoms!' But Vince told me to do it. So eat me.

Oh, by the way, you did not read this fic. It doesn't exist. It's a conspiracy. The shadow government watches everything. Go back to your corporate masters, bitch.