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Fan Fiction 2

Recently, I wrote a piece of fan fiction for this blog. I did this because A) It’s a guaranteed path to riches, B) I am an amazing fan fiction writer, and 3) I couldn’t think of anything else to write. For a recap on what fan fiction is, please see the old post, because I really don’t have time to explain it all over again. I’m busy cashing checks.

One thing I have learned is that while cross referencing different characters and genres is encouraged in some fan fiction circles, my first piece was a little too “all over the map” for most people’s liking. But that’s what they said about Santa Claus when he was writing the Bible. Just saying.

Anyway, here’s my latest piece of fan fiction.

“We’d like to thank you all for coming to Chewbacca’s wedding,” said Hillary Clinton. “Please exit through the back of this enormous Space Hotel Ballroom we are in.”

I started making my way to the back of the ballroom. I noticed there were a lot of shady looking characters in attendance. “Chewy definitely didn’t invite everyone,” I thought. “These must be the bride’s guests.”

I made it through the doors, and noticed I was standing in the middle of an empty field. “Where is everyone?” I thought, just as I heard the giant doors slam behind me. “It’s a trap!” I yelled.

“Who are you talking to?” I heard coming from the distance. Just then, through the fog, I saw a figure moving towards me. It was Chewbacca. Chewbacca with the voice of Martin Sheen.

“You’re an imposter!” I said. “Actually, are you just another Wookie?”

“No, it’s really me, Chewbacca,” he said. “This whole wedding has been a lie. I have never even met the bride.”

“None of this makes any sense,” I said. “This is patently ridiculous. Take off that Chewbacca suit.”

“Ok,” Chewy said, “but you’re not going to like what you see.”

“Then eat lead,” I said. And I shot him in the chest 4 times.

The Dalai Lama showed up. “Right on cue. You’ve been growing out your hair again,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m trying to look like Tom Cruise from Top Gun.

“Maverick,” I said.

“You know too much!” said the Dalai Lama, and he shot me in both knees. I fell to the ground, bleeding profusely on the snow.

“Finish me off, Dalai Lama,” I said. “Or are you afraid of what I might do to you if you do? Do finish you off, I mean.”

“I know what you meant,” he said. “For years, we have listened to the stories of you, John McClane, the renegade New York cop. We’ve heard how you know too much. So let me ask you: how did you come to be here at Chewbacca’s wedding?”

“That wasn’t Chewbacca, pal,” I said. “And neither was he,” I said, motioning to the corpse on the ground. “I actually think that was Martin Sheen. Or should I say the next Dalai Lama?!”

“You win this time, McClane,” he said. Then he turned into a snake with wings and flew away.

A chopper touched down next to me. “Are you coming?” asked Angelina Joie.

“Yippee ki yay.”

The End

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