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« on: July 07, 2015, 12:47:41 AM »
Roger shivered as he slammed the laptop shut. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dark, but when they did he was greeted by a shelf of empty energy drink cans and bottles. He idly wiped his bleary eyes.
"There's fan fiction, and then there's whatever this is. I'm going to go get drunk," he grated. The words were gravel, and he chewed them slowly as he came to his feet. As he stumbled to the fridge, visions of a crisp twelve pack dancing before him, a long screech caught him mid-stride. He slowly turned to the window just in time to see a streak of white-hot light scream across the yard. Before he could react, the house flexed, as if being sheared by impossible gravitational forces. Just in time for him to realize the implication, the rigidity of his floor suddenly asserted itself and he was flung to the ceiling.
He wasn't sure if it was a minute or an hour, but he eventually regained the strength to stand. When he did, he was greeted by a wall of slithering green mist creeping across his kitchen. As he pulled himself to the window, he saw the mist clearing from what used to be his favorite azalea bush. In its spot writhed a shadowy figure. Roger wiped his eyes, then wiped his sweaty hands on his tattered robe. "What in the...?" he croaked.
He was sure it only took him a few moments, but by the time he got out the back door, baseball bat in hand, the mist had completely cleared. Bathed in the pale yellow of his back porch light was not a writhing figure, but a young man swinging his hands wildly, what appeared to be a whip in each hand. Roger raised his bat, and inched forwards.
"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted to the best his creaky late-night voice would allow.
The young man stopped moving long enough for Roger to see the whips were in fact computer keyboards, the keys slamming down on the ground with a clatter. Behind him stood a monitor, filled with eldritch phrases and glowing with sinister purpose. The keystrokes made no sense, they hovered there expectantly, waiting to be deciphered. His eyes were bloated with what looked like some kind of fever, dark circles beneath them. His hair clung to his head with the weight of sweat, and his mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer. "Let's write something!" he cackled.