The creator sat up from his slouched position at his computer, blinking in surprise.

Maya and Wobbles were dead. He should have seen this coming, really. He knew it was that crazy goose fucker that had been killing off everyone in the OCT, too. He knew it was coming. Yet, despite thinking he would have been okay with the deaths of his fictional characters, the creator still felt sadness for the loss of his beloved critters.

It was time he took matters into his own hands.

He got up, slipping his sandals on as the comfy living room around him quickly disintegrated into a dark and foreboding forest. The trees were dry and the clouds were threatening rain at any minute. Two figures loomed in the distance. The first was a bear, dead on the ground, sitting in a quickly growing pool of her own blood. The second was none other than Alto Clef Jr, currently preoccupied with caring for his rifle.

The gunman had his back turned to the creator, who watched as the former dropped an emptied clip on to the crunchy leaves below. A few clicks later and his weapon was ready to fire again. Buck sighed and turned around, and the two finally faced one another. He aimed his rifle and cocked an eyebrow.

"You looking to die, friend?"

"Hi there, Mister Grumpypants. I-"

A crack from the rifle replied high caliber lead towards the creator at breakneck speeds. The round made contact and simply bounced off of him without issue. Another crack, and another bounce.

"Goodness, DolphinSlugchuggerDolphinSlugchugger sure made you bloodthirsty, didn't she?"

"Who? So what's the reason I'm shooting blanks here?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Whatever. I've fried bigger fish than you. Cousin Johny and that lunatic are dead. And you'll be even easier." Buck grunted, dropping his rifle and staring at his adversary.

The creator chuckled. "Heh. Fish. Cause you're a goose man. That's funny." Clef Jr didn't move a muscle. "Anyway, it's nice to finally meet you, junior. We were bound to meet eventually, you know. All this OCT nonsense and us being the only spectator entries and whatnot."

"I think I'd remember seeing 'a huge fucking tool' on my hit list."


"You bet." Clef Jr dug around in his pocket and produced a cigarette, popping it between his beak and letting it sit there. Much to the creator's confusion, he did not light it. "Just keep talkin'. I'm sure I'll figure out some way to kill you."

"Unlikely." The creator shrugged. "The truth is, you and I are on two separate playing fields. I'm here to stop you, and also a little miffed you killed my critters. What harm did they do to anyone? What do you have to gain from killing them?"

"So you know who I am? It's flattering to have a fan."

"Yup. We're getting into act two, so we should probably do something. Anyway, this is the end of the line for you, Buck. Or should I say 'duck'? Heh. I'm going to do to you what the wiki does to bad coldposts."

"I'm not Smalls, I know fuck all of what you're going on about."

The creator sighed, waving his hands as a visual aid manifested behind him. Readers of this tale would probably find it narratively interesting to click the collapsible below. It has dialogue, after all.

The two stared each other down, the creator becoming increasingly unsettled by Buck's smirk. What was this deranged psychopath planning? The silence between the two was palpable. Finally, the creator spoke up.

"So anyway, the gig's up, Buck. I was thinking of feeding you to 682, but I think that's cliche and overdone at this point. Hell, I think mentioning that's cliche is a cliche itself too… So instead I think I'm gonna banish you to thread or somewhere worse, if that even exists."

"With all due respect, I don't think I'm going anywhere."

"Why is that?" The creator folded his arms, clearly annoyed at the feathered assassin.

"You're a "real person", apparently, yeah? That makes you mortal, don't it? What's mortality again? You'll die eventually. But, since I'm a "literary construct", more of a "legend" if I do say myself, I can't. I will live, in the back of people's minds, in the back of their hearts, on that site, for as long as time. Longer than you. Longer than your body. Longer than your family, your friends, your lovers, longer than anyone you've ever cared about. Even your creations, all the ones I killed, will live longer than you. How does that make you feel, Mr. Nico?"




crunch. Boots on leaves.

"What's the matter? Are you afraid to die?"

No answer.

A revolver. Shiny. Long barrel. Loaded.


no wait


God what a shitty fucking living room. The computer's super fancy but everything else is like it came from the fucking 90's. And what the fuck was up with all the booze bottles? Whoever the fuck lives… well, lived here, was fucked.
fuck did i die?
The former resident's corpse lay slumped on his desk, blood ruining the expensive keyboard and mouse pad. He kicked the dead idiot off his chair and wrapped up what he was doing for him. The poor goon had been kind enough to supply the rope needed to hang himself, he might as well finish his job for him.
no… i don't think i did. i just can't feel myself… but im still… here?
But I got something to say before hitting 'save.'
ah shit. well, since im still here i guess i gotta figure out a way to get revenge

ill get you, you feathered fucking freak. im gonna break your nico-nico-kneecaps.
That's a promise. that's a fuckin' promise.

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