Please read 'Problems with the Document' and maybe 'Berri and I' to get this. If you don't, I guess it could stand on its own in a random way. That said, its random, and only leaves a possibility for a continuation, not a guarantee. I may not come back to these XD
Conker and the Writer
"Outa be ashamed, Writer."
Easy for you to say...
"Why start stuff ya don't intend ta finish?" The decidedly orange Squirrel clicked his tongue against his buck teeth, "Just ain't professional."
I know, I know.
He waggled his finger in a comic sort of teacher-imitation. Lately the land he lived in had been slow to say in the least. Nothing much happened at all; those haystacks weren't running around anymore, the bar drinks seemed a little stale and even the clouds looked bored.
So it was a surprise when the newspaper actually started having interesting headlines again and a bunch of Beaver Bikers began roaming around bashing mailboxes.
Hey, it wasn't a great event of the ages but at least it was better than growing grass.
Conker the Squirrel rocked back and forth on his heels, tail curling absently. He stood in a green meadow just a few roads away from the bar. Any passer-by would quickly walk past him as he seemed to be talking to himself. Or the sky.
They'd never guess who he was really addressing.
You did kind of owe my one after the vampire escape, Conker.
"Yeeeaah But that was months ago." Conker piped, a finger in the air as a gesture to make his point.
I've been busy.
"Now your makin' exuses."
Said cheerfully enough, almost teasing, but the writer replied:
Says the fluffy alcoholic who makes excuses on a daily basis.
*Sigh* But I guess you're right. I shouldn't let Writer's block get a hold for too long.
"How come you don't draw me?"
Did you SEE what my drawings used to look like?
Conker raised a brow and folded his arms. "It looks better to me. "
Alrighty, then. I'll draw you as a desk supporter for this laptop.
Conker crossed his arms and glared at the blue heavens between the clouds. "Funny, Writah."
You're grumpy today.
Conker smiled brightly after that. He tilted his head and placed his paws behind his back again cheerfully. Ah, writers, always looking too much into things.
"Don't worry, Writer. We all forgive ya. Looks like your tidying up on the detail I hear."
"So...does this mean more fun stories with me in it? Some beer?"
As if seeing the optimistic, hopeful look upon the red squirrel's face, the disembodied italics replied humorously, Maybe a little, but your not doing anything beyond that. I didn't give you a second chance with tha alternate ending for nothing, you know. Greg's after my blood as it is.
Conker laughed to himself upon being reminded of Greg the Grim Reepor, who hated his guts to no end. "Ah, ole' Greg. He must hate Writers who bring people back."
It isn't hard if you have a good explanation.
Conker rose a brow, blue eyes quizzical as he piped, "Cloned?"
Out of the question.
"Oh." Conker beamed to himself, once again rocking on his heels. The land itself seemed more lively; the grass was bright and the birds were singing like nobodies business. He was just about to ask about the possibility of the writer giving him a bear out of thin air when another thought occurred to him.
"Saaaay...ya wouldn't bring back that crazy legless weasel would ya?"
Conker stared up at the sky, and waited. And waited. And waited some more. He frowned and put his paws on his hips, tapping his foot. "Wri'-ah, you still there?"
"Is the crazy weasel gonna be back?" Conker had a tinge of suspicion in his usually care-free voice. The writer didn't reply for some time. "Ya can't bring 'im back."
I don't know what you're talking about. How can I bring him back?
Conker looked beyond confused, "You just said writers can bring bad guys back if their ex-plan-a-shun is believable. And in this place anything is riggght?" He scratched his head, "So that' only way you wouldn't be able ta bring him back was if..."
He stared upwards. The Sky seemed to dim; caught out. Conker's eyes widened. "Aw, no. Ya brought 'im back already, didn't ya?"
"Sir, You-re hurt, you shouldn't be-OW!"
The young guard weasel was tossed away by the metallic hand. He slammed up against the wall like a ragdoll, and fell back among the shivering ranks of the other weasels.
Leaning over a desk in a dank, dark chamber that had the makings of a torturous underground lab, the Professor sat scarred and brooding in his new hover chair.
He glared upwards, and the weasel guards cowering behind him cringed, ducking for cover as he spoke.
"You where a fooool." He sang in a raspy, snide voice, "To bring me baa-ack..."
Somewhere else, a hooded figured shut the laptop and sat back.
You know you should really stop typing when the characters start threatening you...