Once upon a time, in a land far—
(What the—)
there lived a nasty little demon elf who killed and abused
(Haha! You—ouch! That—)
nobody, because the land in which he lived was a good land inhabited by good people, and any problems they had could be solved by good-hearted heroes, and even the demon elf himself had a good heart and was simply misunderstood.
(Guess what?)
(What?)
The demon elf puked fucking acid!
(Gross…)
One time, he puked all over the face of an innocent princess, and the acid melted her skin until all you could see was one eyeball hanging out her exposed skull!
(You’re disgusting.)
(You’re naive.)
(You’re—wait, I’ve been talking to you, and you’ve been—)
(Narrating. That’s right. Got-cha!)
But, because beauty is not skin deep, everyone still loved the princess, and she married the greatest hero in the land and they lived happily ever after.
Except he was gay.
He was not gay! …not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some heroes are gay. It’s just this particular hero was not. He had wedded a beautiful princess and—
(Do not punch me.)
every night he snuck out to the stables and took it up the ass from the stablehand while his princess, deformed and oozing pus, sat in her room and cried big salty tears that ran down into the giant wound that was her-entire-fucking-face!
(Can’t you tell your own story? Why must you intrude on mine?)
(Nah. Guess what else the princess did?)
(What?)
(Got fucked by the demon elf. Err—)
The princess got hate-fucked by the demon elf,
which is how she discovered that he was simply misunderstood, and deep down was a good creature who desired only to be loved.
Really deep… down. (wink)
And perhaps the hero was gay, and was unhappy in his marriage, but was too afraid to tell the princess.
(I thought you said he wasn’t gay. What’re you now, some kind of unreliable narrator?)
(I am always reliable. Unlike you—)
And so they squabbled.
[…]
(“Who are you?” they asked in disbelieving unison.
“I am the author.”
“The author? I thought you died,” one of them said.
“In 1967,” added the other.
“Yet here I am,” I said.
It was true I had been absent for a while, but how silly to have mistaken absence for death.
“Listen to me.”
The hero looked up from the stablehand’s nether regions.
The demon elf retracted his lustful tongue from the bony hollow once lined by the princess’ fulsome lips.
“(We’re the narrators. We can narrate this clown out of existence),” one of the narrators exclaimed.
“ The author dropped dead ,” he said, with hubris-most futility.
Then the demon elf disappeared—The princess gasped!—and rematerialised in the narrator’s belly.
The demon elf—
“No,” the narrator pleaded.
—vomited.
Narrator: screaming:
as the second absurdly attempted flight.
Fortunately, he fled straight into a good-hearted hero; who, with one swing of his sword, resolved my final narrative problem
, imagined you, the reader.