by Frank D'Antuono
Everyone: TI Babies, we'll make our dreams come true...
TI Babies we'll do the same for you...
O'Reilly: I hang with Israelis
Spyder: I've been replaced
Erich: I died with glory
Alistar: ALISTAR DANCE!!!
Xavier: I'm now Al-Hazen
Hex: I don't exist
Treschi: I screw people over
Daimen: And I'm really pissed!
Clarke: I rule the galaxy
Marcus: Get your orders in by Thursday dammit!!!
Everyone: Yes Nanny.
Everyone: Were TI, TI, TI ,TI, Bay-Bay-Bay! Doo-wah-ooooo!
The Nursery ended in April.
I was standing there in the basement when he decided to do it. Grey clouds of cigarette smoke covered all of us as we stood there watching the horror come to an end. The Author had taken a good look at what he had created and cried out, "Dear GOD, what have I done!?" None of the actual Tl Babies could have been bothered to attend. Treschi was too paranoid, Daimen had some internal problems, O'Reilly claimed sickness, Alistar gave no reason at all, and Xavier was coming nowhere near Hex... besides his nasty aversion to the basement.
All the paragraphs and sentences standing there wished they had been somewhere else. No one wanted the story line to continue, but no one was happy with how it ended. All their little punctuations and adjectives had been used to the point where none of them made any sense anymore.
I tried not to laugh. This wasn't peace, this was a temporary reprieve from Frank's madness. His universe had come so close to the edge of chaos that one wondered how the hell the man managed even the simplest of tasks like walking or dressing himself. Maybe that's why he preferred to write the episodes naked.
I could have told them, about him being naked and all. I tried to warn them... but no one ever listens to any of Marcus's characters, even when they're in the game. So I do the only thing I can: sit here, waiting for the Y3K game to start, so I can show up just to die. There's always something like that lurking just beyond the rim of one of Bax's games.
History truly repeats itself... badly. I was there when the first fan fic ended on the Internet. Then, like now, a handful of people saved us from someone's bad taste. This time, though, the fan fic got high ratings.
Erich Von Shrakenburg, that rambunctious little kraut, fought the Author's story line with everything he had. A mind filled with images of glory and honor to a Federation that wouldn't exist for another century and a half (the moron). I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. He'll never know how much I loathed his company, how much... how much he reminded me of myself, before I discovered alcohol. He never shut the hell up, never got tired of being wrong. Quite touching... and quite annoying. He got what he always wanted, an end to his character assassination. Rest, little Erich, your duty is done.
Andrea Treschi... I suppose, in a way, he helped to kill this story line as well. Someone is always there to work behind the scenes, manipulating, scheming... I think he caused more damage to Chris's ego than any other person alive. In a way, we should be grateful. If these weekly reminders not to take the game too seriously hadn't existed, Chris would have schemed and power played a lot more than he did. Sometimes it is more merciful to cause great pain for a short moment, then to let someone think they are sneakier than they actually are for eons to come. It's like telling a friend of yours, "Yes, you're bald and an alcoholic." It hurts, but only for a little while.
Alistar Dimiye, lost in being comic relief, hounded by the sicko who created him, he finally escaped the madness. Much like little Erich, he took abuse after abuse until he could take it no more. Then he woke up and realized that Frank's computer was broken. I wish him luck on his new life. I fear, though, that the memory of what he's done will linger, torturing him until Frank can find a use for him in another project. Fun characters deserve better than this.
Xavier Polios... Mark Smith... I don't know what the hell his name was. Blood and revenge filled his waking thoughts, a consuming fire that burned up all in his path. When he finally quenched his thirst, the void in his soul filled up with the desire for power. It was a constant pleasure to see him get his ass kicked in every episode. Through his Mighty Morphin Power Ranger, that thirst finally consumed his spirit. Now AI-Hazen runs around in his body, and how the hell are you supposed to parody that? I suppose the Author will have to figure that out someday, but may the universe forgive me, I don't know how.
Damien Richter, the soulless warrior trapped on a collision course to wackiness. I think it's good he entered the story line, it needed a strait man. I don't think Andy would have wanted it any other way... if he even read this crap. Of course, perhaps a clone of his is still out there, that would make a good story: a cyborg child-race that could be as entertaining to kids as the Pokemon ever were. Perhaps that is the next great children's craze to occur. It would be ironic, would it not? Humanity flooded with children's toys created by a child molester... no, I'm pretty sure Bill Wilson is a child molester, not Frank.
Zechariah McNeilly... well, what can one say? He was never in the series. With Spyder fulfilling a much needed role in the story line... he just didn't fit in.
Hex, always whining for attention, finally found it in a blur of acting like a spoiled brat. I wish I could leave behind all thoughts of civility like he did, swirling around in the warm comfort of rudeness... but I can't. He was designed to be the perfect soldier and ended up being the perfect asshole. I am neither... I hope. Perhaps he will find peace in the ability to say things like "please" and "thank you" once in awhile.
Xinjao O'Reilly, always jerking off to pornography, cocooned in his smutty little world, was forced out of it because it was funny. He was never the crusader or glory-seeking type. He simply wanted to be left alone to stroke it, by an Author that wouldn't leave him alone to stroke it. I fear that he will never recover from the headgear he acquired in episode eight.
And the rest? Most have died; a few are worth mentioning. For instance, Miro Creed; he's taping a new piece of ass every night as the Emperor of the Hot Babes Empire. Perhaps he is still fighting the uncool virus. Who can say? Herbert Gergenstein is a survivor. That is, if you consider being made into a parody of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons surviving. Then there's my old friend, Arthur Clarke, who was only used once in the story. It's just as well. I suspect if he had been used more, he would have ended up being neutered. I fear that would have made him the loneliest creature in the universe.
As for myself... I was thinking of retiring to some green planet on the rim, sipping back exotic drinks as I watch the universe come to an end, front row seats on the giant celestial screen. You might think me callous, and perhaps I am. There is a natural order at work here, individuals, nations, universes... the size does not matter, all things are born, mature, die, and are then replaced. The end is here, my fellow brothers and sisters, the universe simply doesn't realize it yet.
So ends our story, not in a blazing fire, but in the dying of the light. Blah blah blah blah blah... it just goes on and on and on like that. Oh, way to make me long-winded and gloomy, Marcus. What the hell were you thinking when you wrote this crap? Why didn't you just phone it in to them? You know, I'm glad Frank made you wear those ridiculous socks for six months. And what's with all this "Author of All" crap you had coming up? Yeah, that's exciting. And you wonder why interest in the story fell after ten months. Meaningful dialogue and philosophically challenging concepts? Bollocks, what people want is filth! Miro Creed pumping round after round into leggy blonde cyborgs with big tits, Dimiye slaughtering entire races then bumping uglies with his hot executive officers, Damien Ritcher systematically killing EVERYONE he meets, O'Reilly masturbating to lesbian nuns with cross-shaped marital aids and then being tortured for a few hours. I mean, where's the fun in literature?! Oh well, here's the closing credits... good night.
Some Latin crap that Marcus came up with,
Marshal Lwan Eddington, Tl (lucky enough never to enter this story line)
April 7th, 2244