literature

Cusk II: The Extrapolated Derailment

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9.12.2015


Hey there, son.  Come in.  Sit down.  We have to talk.  So I just got the email with your continuation of our story, and I... I'm not sure where to begin.  I suppose I should start by admitting that this is partially my fault.  I was so eager to be counseling with my son that I might have... I might have not thought things all the way through.  

I mean, I get it.  When James, Ginch, and myself started writing Council Stories way back in 1998, our stuff could be a little crude.  Sure.  We'd toss off some very clumsy poems about feces and whores and ballsacks and whatnot... I'm not sure, I may be misremembering, but we were always writing with a sort of purpose.  A sort of purpose and clarity.  Our technique evolved and we started writing longer and better works, and in a year or two we were producing some truly epic stuff.  Did you read The Tale of Vidrastone and Fenriclitus that I posted on your wall?  Epic stuff like that.  That... is the level that I'm more accustomed to operating at.  But it did take time to get there.  Which is why I don't want to come down too hard on you, son.  But damnit... look, my Cusk Quadrilogy is very dear to me, and I feel like I've laid down a very strong foundation from which to proceed.   The way that I developed the main characters -- having them exist in different dimensions and living multiple parallel lives -- is one of the most advanced concepts I've ever explored.  The way Cilatrone and Zemitrus interact with the Circle of Sages?  The differing ways they remember their shared past during the Wars of Attritia?  The subtle implications that the Cusk Realm is a future version of Mars (or perhaps another planet in our solar system) after extensive terraforming and the rediscovery of magic?  It's some good stuff, I think, perhaps immodestly.  Did you even notice that if you take the first letter of every line of Cilatrone's dialogue, it spells out the names of the Arkan Sigils that aren't revealed until much later?  No?

And what did you do with my foundation?  What did you do with all of that gold?

Look, I'm just going to read what you sent me...

-ahem-


And after the Grand Lord cleansed the Cusk of all impurities, he demanded that a new reign commence, a reign far less retarded than all that had come before.  All the stupid asshole characters like Cilatron and Zemitrus fucked off and died in horrible ways never to be seen again.  Then he summoned Twilight Sparkle to make a whole new world that was less gay. Then Twilight Sparkle died too because she was a cum-filled lesbian faggit. And no one gave a shit. Bronies are hella gay my nigga your mom know that.  

“Wait, Wait. Where are you trying to go with this?”

“well I was…”

The door suddenly bursts open to reveal Jar Jar Binks with dark sunglasses, a long gold chain around his neck and dress in loose black pants. “Yo what be up mesa homies! I come to annoy all y’all!”

“Oh dear lord…someone get security!”

“Hulk Hogan will fix dis!”

“Hey! Are we getting back to my story now?!” the gRand loRd shouted.

“Ahem…”

The gRand loRd’s first act was to host a rave party in the lands he had so veliently liberetad.

“Yes! Raves. We likes raVes! All da rAves!”

“Are you quite done?”

“Mesa want to attend dat partay!”

“Wat…I thought I asked for security to get him out of ere!”

“Alein too fast for Hogan. Hogan need nap now.”

“Oh for the love of…Okay let’s just continue where we left off…”

However, before the partays could begin, the parti was interrupted by none other than Peter Quill. The Star LoRd immediately put on some crazie tunes, but before he could bust a move…

“Hey! This be mine partay!” The gRand loRd shouted.

“Oh for the love of… That’s it! I’m done!”

The door slams shut. The blast of air causes a sheet of paper to fly through the air and lands at the feet of Hulk Hogan. Picking it up, he sees written on the page “And Hulk Hogan decides to take matters into his own hands, and evolves into ‘Mega Hulk.'  Hogan stares at the page, rereading it again before feeling a powerful surge through him, and then grins evilly as he walks out the door.  It came time for a new hero to emerge to defend the Cusk, and that hero was a Hokage Ninja Shinigami named Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama.  Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama stood before the Grand Lord, proudly waving his lightkatana, which was like a lightsaber but so much cooler. His powerful, glistening, sweaty muscles glistened, and he pushed back his long black and purple hair as he spoke. "I'M HERE TO SERVE YOU," said Lukesuke Skywalkersan-sama.

"Please do," said the Grand Lord, staring blissfully at Lukesuke's glistening abs in a totally not homo way, because homos are gross.

"I WILL," said Lukesuke as he decapitated one of the Grand Lord's guards with a mighty swing of his ten-foot lightkatana, then sheathed the long, hard weapon and stored it in his tight-fitting trousers that framed his flawless buttocks perfectly.

And so the people rejoiced and then they ate cheese and sausages and ham and the first pair of pliers said "Hi I want to play with oil and a loaf of bread" and the Grand Lord said "no you will not play with oil and a loaf of bread because the bazuka is mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine and mine not yours" and the the 46 cutelry sage went to declare war on Norway beasce he would  not say hi to them and then the Grand Lord whose name was Ankinten danubed to the sages and declared peace by killing the saegss saying that should prsuade them persuade them to conform to my reign because I do not need them because my wardrobe is obsddxian howedvre zxfse asdaa andw  coif dzxpxdf sages are stuolpid an O aawyhldb uioub jhmntgytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytyty tytytytytytytytytyty tytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytytygv ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff (AN: soz had a stroke looooooooooooooooooooooooooool!1111one111eleven :3) so the Grand Lord whose name was Viviviviviviwiss declares that the trousers of 1234123bc will save the Persian Empire because I find it always best to ghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghghg (AN: soz backspace doesn't work >:( )  So the Grand Lord whose name was Obsodios Mariariariarias FeloweoweoweoweoweoweHUUUUUUUUURGHs Gurk will tell you to addreaa and fly to Ultramar abd talk to Abaddon the Desopiler and Lyra Silvertongue abd all their friends: - Simon the First, Simon the Second, Simon the Third, Simon the Fourth, Simon the Fifth, Simon the Sixth, Simon the Seventh, Simon the Eighth, Simon the Ninth, Simon the Tenth, Simon the Eleventh, Simon the Twelfth, Simon the Thirteenth, the entire Royal Houses of Plantaganet, Hapsburg, Trastamara, Tudor, Stewart, Bourbon, Hanover, Saxe-Coburg, Donkey Kong, the potato king,                    some guy I ran into called Tom, a recitation, a recycling, an eclectic breakfast and a partridge in a pine tree....... I had something, didn't I ? Whatever. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance.
the then.................................................................................
(AN: Yeah, I lost a train,l me h)
................... everyone does nothing but sat around using up all they oxygen until thei die , leaving Abaddon and Lyra alive and triumphant. Laughing at the plight of the millions of idiots who weere there fro no raisin, they high-fived and then Abaddon's arms fell off.  And then Lyra walked off to the castle of the Grand Lord whose name will be Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiguirius Ooooooooooooooooooaf, to help manipulate the blu;lber brainges to proceate the Reoublic of Heaven and have adventures and gifghr for good. So Lorgar Aurelia n then deceidec to



Hmm.

Yes.

I don't know, son.  

I don't know what to do with this, what you gave me.

I understand the need to eliminate characters at times.  Sudden and unexpected upheavals in the narrative are certainly encouraged, but to just flippantly sweep Cilatrone and Zemitrus away in such an unceremonious fashion?  I find the way you did it unacceptable.  And... I thought I made it clear to you how I feel about making too many pop culture references and using characters like... I mean, honestly, you kill off Cilatrone and Zemitrus and bring in Hulk Hogan, Luke Skywalker, and Jar Jar Binks?  I... I cannot abide this.  What you've given me is garbage.  It's FUCKING GARBAGE.  There's a difference between entertaining freeform madness and TRASH.  I'm not sure why you can't see that.  Worthless crap like this might fly with Liam and Noah, but not with me, son.  Not with me.  

James and I used to have a word for this.  We called it a "derailment."  Damnit.  Ginch would do this to us sometimes in the early days when we'd collaborate.  It always pissed me off.  James and I would start something epic, like our Edward Grim poem,  and Ginch would derail it utterly with his simplistic juvenile rape stories.  And we'd call him out on it, we'd say, "Dude!  Ginch, you've derailed us, come on, man!"  It led to arguments, because Ginch had a philosophical belief in pure spontaneity, while James and I advocated a certain level of cohesion in our work.  In the end, we reached a good balance between reverence for our creations and the proper amount of flippancy and self-vandalism to keep things fresh and exciting.

But before we reached that golden state of process, there were many tragic derailments.

That's what this is.  A derailment.  

But son, I think we can salvage this.  It's Friday.  We have time to salvage but we have to act quickly.  I've already told your friends that you won't be able to go to the movies or do anything else this weekend.  And whatever your mother might have planned, it's canceled.  Forget about it.  Do you know what you're going to do, son?  First, you're going to go up to your room and finish off whatever homework you might have in the next few hours.  If I know you, you've already done most of it.  Your grades come first... but after that, you're going to start over and come up with a worthy continuation of the Cusk story.  Something that doesn't TAKE A GIANT SHIT ALL OVER MY WORK.  SOMETHING THAT WE CAN BE FUCKING PROUD OF.  SOMETHING THAT'S NOT PURE SHIT.  START OVER.  DO NOT KILL OFF CILATRONE AND ZEMITRUS OR YOU'LL BE SORRY.  DO NOT WRITE ABOUT FUCKING HULK HOGAN OR FUCKING JAR JAR BINKS.  TAKE WHAT I HAVE ESTABLISHED AND BUILD UPON IT IN A LOGICAL MANNER.  IS THAT CLEAR?

I'll tell your mother you're working on a book report or something.  Yes, heh, a report that you have on some really long book, and you put it off until the last minute.  So you'll be in your room working on it all weekend.  Heh, heh... yes.  

You can do this, son.  You can do better.  I believe in you.

I love you, son.  I'm so glad we're doing this together.

(Thanks to Users Seer99, Tasakeru828, and MartmeisterPaladin for their invaluable contributions)
There is only one man in the world who truly understands what this means.  He is a friend.  
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Seer99's avatar
Ok. That was a good laugh xD