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Rated: ASR · Fiction · Fantasy · #2273203
The First Part
It was a great day in the neighborhood. The snotty brats are watching beloved children's characters have intercourse on their devices, Amber Heard is still the only one who gave a crap across all her relationships thus far, and the Republicans are whining about a carrot being president since fire was still hot and gravity still pulled on everything. A singular man walking home after work and a daily beating of the local school bullies who don't learn anything, named Ryan Michaels, was not well up there. The anger of constantly sitting in that 1x1 Lego all day, the lack of sane people anywhere, how he had to beat sense into high schoolers after a day of drama, and yet another kid smoking on USB sticks. He pulls up his Spotify playlist of mainly Grunge/Rock to distract himself from life in general. Beep Beep, the car goes as it hits everything on Michaels' side of the road, excluding him. But then a streetlamp fell over on top of him. A faint Ouch could be heard.

Soon, Ryan woke up. It wasn't an ambulance, a hospital, or even where the lamp got him. It was a small cottage, not a Krankenhaus, Ospedale, or Bolnica, just a small, simple two-floor cottage. And not a clean one at that, with singular orange and white hairs could be seen all over the floor. The walls had medieval paintings with mostly anthropomorphic animals in place of humans. Michaels decided to look around, maybe grab a snack, maybe arm himself with a spoon, maybe he'll go explore the exterior world of this possible hellscape. Maybe he'll do all the above. He went into the kitchen and the first sign of something being absolutely wrong in these parts was a big yellow elephant, easily rivaling Andre the Giant in sheer size alone. He grabbed the spoon. He went up to the attic. Well...

There was an anthro fox right there, the funbags, cakes, and Luxury Arby's hanging out her body. She was slim, up to temple level with Ryan, and flattered but inviting. Several bags of coins thrown like footballs later, they finally spoke.
"I understand! A complete stranger, 21 years of age, just saw a 17(?) year old changing!"
"20!" The Foxy Fox said.
False Alarm, Michaels thought. She was legal. Apparently, the elephant from earlier heard the ruckus and came up to bash Ryan into his fertilizer. Swing, Miss, Swing, Miss. The only thing connecting with the elephant's morningstar was the walls and images of very fancy and suspiciously soft-looking wolves and mice. Several mice colonies behind the planks were flattened, more spider families lost parents and children alike, and even more gold was going to be needed to fix it. The elephant saw red, except for the bit of orange and white that was the, and we'll be honest, hot fox girl that was his friend. Yep, this was looking more and more like an afterlife limbo for Ryan Michaels. Finally, an upward motion hit Ryan like that semi from Twisted Metal.

Soon, Michaels woke up again. Finally, a hospital bed. He'd been out for almost an hour, but it felt like 5-10 minutes in his 'dream.' His family didn't come to see him, but his idolee, Billy Brown, did. That one kid who always wore the same Eagles hat as he did, always wanted a gray suit like Michaels, always had a broken glass bottle as Ryan did in high school, listened to the same songs he did like Shine and Zero, it was like he was a small clone of him just waltzed in from Alberta and got his fair share of bruises from the Bully families of his current residence. Everyone in the room, including the doctors themselves, was extremely relieved that Michaels survived, even if there were scars up to a foot long all over his torso and up to 4 inches all over his face. He was let off his job at the office filled with 'female dogs' and stoners-for-sure. He couldn't fight the bullies as those scars made him vulnerable, so he gave Billy another broken bottle. So what did Ryan Michaels, the man who was nearly got crushed to death by a street lamp, do? He started writing. But what, exactly? A book about what he saw in his 'dream.' The yellow elephant that definitely not ripped from Beatles artwork, the fox and the details he can make out about her that can bypass nudity rules, and the jaw crushing blow suffered from a morningstar.

It was 10 pm. Ryan Michaels just had yet another bag of pizza rolls for dinner, Holiday in Cambodia was on the radio this late so that it doesn't scare Generations Z through Alpha/Beta, and the bed was looking mighty comfortable. Yep, it was bedtime. Michaels dosed off, as he always did, but instead of dull dreaming and pure black, it was that shed again. Same old garden, same old frenemies, now with a big female wolf almost as tall as that elephant earlier, schlumped on the medieval couch with her stomach out on the town. Must've been a large meal she had. It was nighttime out with all the bright stars a man's eye could see within an opening into a mountain valley. There were so many that if someone were to try to count them all, they'd grow a beard three or four times over. Ryan Michaels, somehow clear of the plastic wounds that took over his torso and face, decided to go explore a little bit and get to know the world surrounding him right now before he continues on with his writing. It was his passion now, despite not passing a single Writing class in high school. This was the boost he needed, not yoga balls with the title of teacher feeding him just simple ideas that didn't appeal to him or extended lessons about plays without the play part of the play.

It was not a long walk but was still worth it. A vibrant, lively village of more upright animals begging for back pain and porn of them didn't bat an eye even for a second as a lone human in a suit walked down and up their streets, writing things down with a funny-looking stick. Why, Ryan didn't know. He was so out of place we're sure Lee Harvey Oswald would've gotten him right after. It just wasn't one kind of animal either, it had all the foxes, wolves, deer, cows, and bears to make THAT part of the internet pass out from lack of blood/oxygen. But then came along a very stupid man.

Bowl cut, half blonde, half black, almost pale white skin, gold shutter shades and chain, purple baggy pants, pure pristine perfect white hitops, and a black metal staff, as well as a bulky metal glove, glowing purple like crazy. He was cackling like a hyena about his name being Maxwell Mathers how he was going to burn down the village and take all the money and use it to build a yacht for his friends across the continent and how he was the best looking man here, even though his face was built like an improper fraction and you can solve a high-level calculus problem on the blonde side of his hair from how big his ego was. Somebody's getting humbled tonight.
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