|IF YOU READ ONE THING, READ THIS I DEMAND IT
||[Oct. 30th, 2008|11:45 pm]
The Chronicles of Crack!Fans
HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON|
possibly my most ridiculous piece of shit ever (okay no that would be At Last) WAS FINISHED before I came back from England. AND I NEVER POSTED IT WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.
Anyway here it is, please enjoy it, I finished it because although our fandom is kind of dead I STILL LOVE IT AND ALL OF YOU.
PS: I AM AN AUTHOR SO PROFOUND I HAD TO USE PICTURES TO TRULY DEMONSTRATE THE DEPTH OF MY WRITING. ALSO, I HOTLINKED, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANY BITCHING!
OKAY NOW BAI
The Lord of The Gays: The Return of the Queen
William Moseley—handsome, blonde, nineteen, bereft of his dreamboat—found himself staring down a slimy stairway, next to the boy he loathed the most in the world. Granted, said boy had a very nice bottom—but that aside, William was boiling with hatred.
“What are YOU doing here?” He griped, turning to Sir Ian and tugging his skirt down. “Sir Iaannnn,” he whined, “I don’t want him to come.”
“Quit bitching, Moseley,” Sir Ian snapped, returning to his male model and his sandwich. “Do you want Robert back or not?”
“Yes,” William said, at the same time Skandar shook his head furiously.
“Then shut up and get on with it,” Ian griped. “I’ll be back to check in on you later.” He vanished in a cloud of purple glitter.
“I said, where’s my damn ship,” DanRad said, blowing his smoke into William’s face, nodding his head along to the Arctic Monkeys playing on his iPod. Suddenly he noticed Georgie. “Hey, baby.”
“Back off, arsehole,” Georgie snapped, teetering dangerously in her boots. DanRad shrugged.
Liam Neeson pondered for a moment. “I suppose it must be down this hole.”
“Of course!” William exclaimed, and nervously the not-so-merry band of Marys eyed the sinkhole in William’s peach linoleum. “Who goes first?”
“Who’s the bravest?”
“ME!!” Skandar screeched suddenly, leaping to the front of the pack. “I’ll do anything to help Will.”
“Alright,” Liam Neeson nodded. “Let’s go.” The intrepid group set off down the slippery stairs.
“Soo,” sneered William, “DANRAD, exactly why are you familiar with the sewers?”
“I did some method acting,” DanRad replied smoothly, smoking ten cigarettes at once, adjusting his sunglasses.
“Humph,” William retorted, tugging at his tiny skirt.
“Hay, Will,” Skandar cooed. “D’you want to hold my hand? In case, yanno…you get scared?”
“I’m fine,” William said shortly, and Skandar looked depressed.
“I do hope that HACK Ralph Fiennes knew what he was talking about,” Liam Neeson muttered, slapping cobwebs out of his way. He was suddenly wearing a long brown robe made out of what looked like burlap sacking.
Georgie slipped and fell on her scantily-clad ass.
Suddenly they were in a secret garden, and a seedy-looking man clutching a guitar stood before them.
“BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN!!” William exclaimed, squirting his pants. “What are you doing in the sewer?”
“Waiting for you,” Bruce Springsteen crooned, strumming his guitar.
“Stop that, stop that,” said an important voice, grabbing the neck of the guitar. “Get out of here, you silly ass. Can’t you see we have more IMPORTANT things to do?” Bruce Springsteen scurried off into the recesses.
“Who…who are you?” Skandar asked from the lead, trembling. DanRad lit up another clove.
“I’m still here,” Anna said, annoyed. Everyone ignored her.
“Are you the one who will bring sexy back?” The nasal voice half-said, half-sang. An ominous chord was stuck on a piano.
“Um…maybe?” William replied.
“I’VE already done that,” DanRad crowed triumphantly. “Did you see Equus?”
“Not now, you impudent rat,” the voice hissed. “William…come forward.”
William gulped, tugged on his skirt, and stepped forward.
“Hmm…hmmm.” The voice assessed him. William caught the unmistakable sheen of glitter in the gloomy garden. “You are quite as I imagined.”
William squinted. “Step into the light.”
A tall, majestic figure stepped forward, and William gasped before fainting away. Liam Neeson, who had predicted this, caught him gracefully.
“This way to your ship,” Sir Elton John said haughtily. He turned in a cloud of glitter, a piano playing with each step he took. “I will be your guide.”
“I thought the WHOLE POINT was that I KNOW DEES WATERZ,” DanRad said unhappily. Elton John boxed him on the ear and he howled like a little bitch.
“Would you stuff it, already?” Liam Neeson roared, and everyone gasped. Soon they realized why that had been such a bad idea. DanRad gaped; he could not speak.
“Good job, mate,” Elton John scoffed after a moment. “I said I was your guide to the SHIP, not to World’s End.”
“Er,” Liam Neeson said, looking deeply ashamed.
Georgie, long-suffering and starting to chafe, heaved a long sigh. “Can you fix it, Liam?”
“I’ll try, my darling,” but Elton John scoffed in his face.
William, chafing in a way that was mildly arousing, stared hopefully at Liam Neeson.
“Good luck, Neeson,” he said. “Just because you can make something happen doesn’t mean you can UNMAKE it.” He fell quiet. “Only the Queen can do that.”
“The Queen?” Skandar said skeptically.
“Are you deaf?” Elton John asked sweetly. “Now, where did Bruce Springsteen get off to?”
“Heeereee,” he crooned from the shadows, strumming his guitar.
“Fine,” Elton John said, running his hands through his thinning hair. He didn’t get paid enough to tromp through sewers! But ever since that elaborate gay wedding he threw for himself and his partner, he’d been strapped for cash. And every job counted. That, and Sir Ian would bugger the shit out of him (no pun intended) if he went back on a favor. “Are you lot ready?”
“We’ve been waiting ten minutes while you quite fagged yourself out,” Georgie said grimly. Normally Elton John would have slapped her for her impudence, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to. She looked like a woman who could tear him apart.
Bruce Springsteen started playing “Maneater” on his guitar, and Elton John slapped him instead. He whimpered and fell quiet.
“What’s Springsteen for?” Anna inquired, reminded everyone that she hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Your soundtrack,” Elton John said as if talking to someone a bit mentally retarded—which may or may not have been true.
“Oh,” Anna replied, trying to pretend like she got it.
“For God’s sake, let’s get onto the ship!” Skandar cried, frustrated, slapping DanRad’s hand off his ass.
The not-so-merry band of Marys set off, stepping carefully on the slimy stones underfoot. DanRad caught up with the dejected-looking Bruce.
He gestured as if to say, “I can play the guitar too, mate.”
Bruce Springsteen looked at him blankly.
Gaping, DanRad grabbed Bruce Springsteen’s guitar. A fatal mistake. Springsteen reared back, eyes glowing red, and opened his mouth in a hideous roar. Flames shot out above DanRad’s head, who made an ungraceful gulping noise and scurried to safety. Springsteen retrieved his guitar and stroked it lovingly.
They all went on in silence, William nervously tugging his skirt.
No one spoke—except for Bruce Springsteen. He had sidled up next to Georgie and was slovenly talking to her. She looked distinctly displeased.
She looked at him with irritation. “Hello.”
“Could I…could I play you a song?”
“Do you know who I am??” He flailed, nearly hitting the nearby Skandar in the head with his guitar.
“I’m THE BOSS.”
“That’s not your name.”
“No,” Bruce admitted, “but everyone calls me that.”
He looked awkward and then flailed away.
William looked up at Liam Neeson, who was distinctly troubled. “Do you think something bad will happen to us?”
“I don’t know, my darling,” Liam Neeson said grimly. “But sewers always make me nervous.”
“What IS it with you people and sewers?” Skandar exploded. “I don’t GET it!”
“Just because SOME of us are proper actors and have done method acting,” Liam Neeson said sharply. Skandar’s face fell, and he fell back to walk by Georgie, who put a comforting arm around his shoulders. He happily rested his head on her large boobs.
“Anyway, William…you look dashing, my darling,” Liam Neeson confided with a smile. And immediately he did. “Blue is so very your color.”
“You think?” William tugged the skirt.
“Oh, stop it,” he growled. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
“What are you wearing?” William peered at the burlap sacking.
“I’d…I’d rather not talk about it,” he murmured in a low voice. “George Lucas, that HACK. This does nothing for my complexion.”
“No, but you look very rugged.”
Liam Neeson beamed in pride.
And so they all arrived—Georgie resigned, Liam and William whispering like schoolgirls, Skandar sulking, Anna nowhere to be seen, DanRad silent and smoking, Elton John bitching at Bruce Springsteen, my God why did I think that having eight million people in this would be a good idea—at a wharf. A boat floated dimly upon the water.
“I didn’t know that there were ports in sewers,” Skandar remarked.
“Well, yes, but you don’t know much.” Elton John reminded him. Skandar looked at him darkly—the old fool would find out how much Skandar knew very soon. “Your ship, ladies.”
“It’s a ship for you; the ocean is the color of your eyes…” Bruce Springsteen leaned in near Georgie. She ignored him.
“Oh my God!” William exclaimed, as the huge floating motorcycle floated before them. “Um, is this possible?”
DanRad, looking annoyed, moved to the HELM.
“Anything is possible, with love,” Bruce reminded him. He pushed the man and his guitar into the water.
“Here we are,” Elton John announced. “The Black Pearl Necklace.”
“Oh, please,” Skandar scoffed. “Isn’t that copyright infringement?”
“This whole escapade is copyright infringement, my dear boy,” Liam Neeson pointed out. That being said, don’t sue me, James McAvoy, I know you haven’t got any sense of humor. Look at that thing you married!!! JK I love you, come fuck me sometime.
ASIDES ASIDE, the motley crew (not the band, thank God) boarded the strange ship, William looking apprehensive. They weighed anchor and it wasn’t until they were halfway to the World’s End that they realized they had left Anna behind.
“Oh well,” William said, and promptly forgot about her. Fourteen years later, an escaped convict would find her skeleton washed up in some slimy tunnel, her femur being gnawed upon by baby white alligators.
Georgie sat boredly, watching the waves. Skandar was somewhere off. Elton John had recessed, leaving Bruce for their soundtrack. Liam and William stood at the HELM, while Captain Mad (DanRad) swiveled their boat around, presumably going somewhere but you never can tell.
“I’m bored,” Georgie announced. “Sing me a song, Bruce Springsteen.”
“Of course, my heart,” he gushed, settling down on the floor.
“Sooooomheeeday ouuut of the blooooouueeeeee”
“No, no, isn’t this supposed to be a soundtrack? Don’t steal from Elton John’s gay DreamWorks adventure. Make me a song.” Her green eyes, the same color as the sewer ocean, were hard. Bruce Springsteen gulped and looked at her. “Make a song about William and Robert. Every good film needs a love song.”
“Is this a film? I thought this was life.” She kicked him with her spike heel.
“Do as I say if you want to live,” she demanded, wrapping a large white boa constrictor around her shoulders. Bruce Springsteen got to work.
William leaned on the railing, staring glumly out to sea. Georgie came next to him, patting him gently on the head. William looked up at her.
“I feel totally hopeless,” he whimpered.
“Don’t,” she said supportively. “We’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Sometimes…faith is all we have to go on,” Georgie’s voice was soft.
“Um, no offense, but this is getting a little too much about FEELINGS for my taste,” Skandar announced, butting in. “Georgie, why don’t you go practice blowing someone, there’s a good lass.”
Suddenly William found himself quite alone with Skandar.
“Do you think we’ll find him?”
“Do you care?” Skandar was scowling.
“Of course I care,” William was flustered. “He’s my PROM DATE.”
“Well I don’t even have a prom date,” Skandar sulked.
“I was going to ask but DanRad swooped in on his bike, playing The Darkness.”
They fell silent, and Skandar opened his mouth to say something, but DanRad’s frantic waving from the HELM distracted them.
“Oh, what a twat,” Skandar rebuffed. “Guess we’d better go see what he’s flailing about.”
They gasped, as DanRad—a twisted, frightening, strangely sexy smile on his face—pointed over the HELM and whipped out his cock.
“I’m a girl,” Georgie said crossly, but soon she was too busy holding on for dear life and DanRad, his crew, and the Black Pearl Necklace approached the precipice of—what was it?
Warily, William gathered the last scraps of his dignity and courage and peered over the side of the ship. A huge, swirling purple vortex faced them. “Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “We aren’t really going in there, are we?”
“We are,” Liam Neeson said grimly, and thus it was that William Moseley, handsome, blonde, nineteen, found himself going over the Ends of the Earth, screaming his pretty head off.
When William came to, they rested in calm water, the motorcycle bobbing gently in the little waves. Bruce Springsteen was still composing, mumbling over his guitar. Georgie and Skandar were holding each other, and Liam Neeson was still looking grim. Bravely, William whimpered, “We should go on”.
They stepped onto a white sand beach, William at the lead. He tugged at his skirt.
“I am really not feeling this outfit,” he whined. Liam Neeson looked disapprovingly at him.
“Proper actors don’t whine,” he rebuked.
“What if I don’t want to be a proper actor?” William screamed, crying. “What if I don’t want to be an actor at all? What if I don’t even want to be GAY??” He was out of his mind, hysterical. Everyone stared at him in horror and shock. “What if this whole fucking thing is just the sick, twisted fantasy of some bored 20 year old sitting in England thinking to herself man, I should really finish that story I started back in 2006, and I wonder how it will all end?”
“That’s impossible,” Liam Neeson dismissed him immediately, and somewhere in England I got off my laptop and had sex with my boyfriend, and what happens from here on out is entirely out of my control (or is it??).
Suddenly, Georgie spoke up. “Look!”
In front of them the sand glittered, and out of the low line of jungle stepped a small figure in a kilt. In his grasps, he held a young man by the hair.
“Robert! William cried, and Robert lifted his tan, handsome, tear-streaked face to see his lady love, William.
“Will!” He said, overjoyed. “I can’t believe you came!”
William remained silent; he hadn’t come yet but he didn’t want to disappoint Robert. James McAvoy threw Robert down on the sand and kicked the young man in the back when he tried to crawl forward.
“The Irn-Bru,” he said coldly.
Skandar lugged it forward and presented it to him. He smiled.
“And now Georgie,” he said with a smug smile. Georgie stepped forward too, but she held out her hand.
“This is madness,” she said simply. “James, you should have just told me you loved me. I was only a little girl, but clearly we were meant to be together. The Internet says so. If this adventure with fags in the sewer has taught me one thing, it’s that you aren’t as crazy as the rest of these people. I will be with you. But give Robert back unharmed, and come back with us. This is no place for us.”
“Okay,” James said happily, untying Robert and letting him go, walking towards Georgie. She took his hand.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?” An angry screech made them turn. Skandar was heaving in anger, eyes bloodshot. “GOD! I tried so hard to get you back, you stupid cow!” he turned on William. “I PAID fucking STUPID James McAvoy to kidnap your ~Robbie~ so you’d GIVE UP, not so that you’d follow him to the corners of the earth! And NOW—well, NOW I have no CHOICE!” And, in a furious set of stomps, he walked over to Bruce Springsteen and ripped the guitar from his hands.
With the howl of a thousand furious shrew-things, Bruce Springsteen freaked out and flames shot out of his ears and eyes. DanRad was so surprised his voice came back, and Liam Neeson himself shrunk in terror. Before their eyes, Bruce Springsteen transformed into the most horrible apparition.
“Oh no,” James and Georgie stood aghast, pale beneath their freckles. Liam Neeson looked grim.
“Strong William, strong William,” William whispered, throat dry. He had never been more afraid in his life. He tugged at his skirt and Liam Neeson didn’t reprimand him. Even Skandar looked horrified, unsure of his own power. Robert fainted dead away.
“I see we have had some…minor difficulties,” said a smooth voice with a retarded accent. He straightened his pinstriped suit, and he grinned his characteristic, smug, painfully gay smile.
“It can’t be,” DanRad mouthed.
“Now,” he smiled easily, sending shivers down everyones’ spines (especially mine, holy God). “I am going to end that which must be ended.” Smoothing back his hair, John Barrowman strode forward on his long legs, looking menacing.
Everyone was speechless. Liam Neeson, frantic, clapped DanRad on the back. “For God’s sake, say something, lad!”
DanRad coughed and choked. “Finally, you fucking maniac.”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” William Moseley said, as the not-so-merry band of Marys backed slowly away from the advancing stage actor. “Why are you going to end us? We’re just the same as you!”
“Oh really,” he sneered, adjusting himself. “You are successful, handsome, and have sex with men on a regular basis? Are you all GUEST JUDGES on a show where you BOW TO ANDREW LLOYD WEBER as he shakes in pleasure? Do you host your VERY OWN game show with lovable children? Does BBC One worship the ground you walk on?”
“Well, no,” William Moseley admitted. George and James clung to one another.
“I see,” Barrowman looked smug. “And do you have a show that is complete rubbish, but which would not function without you on it? And have you had sex with a ton of men? And are you unbearably good-looking?” He eyed them critically, wielding a menacing microphone which, I assure you, dear reader, that he should never have been given.
Lustily, he approached. William swallowed, but he knew what he had to do.
“No,” he said quietly, stepping in front of his friends. “No, we don’t have a crappy show set in Wales. No, we don’t regularly fuck men 20 years younger than us.” William tried to look honest since he obviously would if he had the chance. “No, we don’t worship a quivering Ander Lloyd Weber. And even James McAvoy can’t rock a kilt like you do.”
John Barrowman rippled in delight.
“But no, John Barrowman, we do not turn the BBC into a place of nightmares every Saturday night. We don’t keep children locked in cages to perform like monkeys on your quiz show. And none of us are saddled by marriage!” John Barrowman bristled, used to having his asshole licked by everyone within a 50 mile radius and thrown off by this hostility.
“What did you say?” Barrowman’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t know what it means, to have a true group of friends. Your days are a pissing contest between yourself and David Tennant, a life-long debate of who loves themselves more. Well, loving yourself is no good if no one else loves you. And my friends love me and will stand behind me, stand and fight!” William’s eyes were bright. “And no, John Barrowman, we all can’t sing in Broadway plays. But we are proper actors, something YOU can never say! We are in a successful film enterprise, and all you can say for yourself is you’ve fucked a couple of dudes. Well, Barrowman, hear this: I’ve fucked a couple of dudes, too. And I’ll say this: when you lose distinction between fucking dudes, and dudes fucking you: it means that you are no longer a proper actor, and never have been.”
“ENOUGH!” Barrowman roared.
“Now you shall die.”
“Not so fast,” William said, slyly grinning. “I still have a power you don’t.”
“O rly,” Barrowman sneered (again). “And what might that be, you mutton in lambs’ clothing?”
“What kind of insult is that, really,” Liam Neeson admonished, and suddenly it was no kind of insult at all. Barrowman was taken aback.
“Well, Skandar has told me all about your pathetic life, Moseley,” Barrowman spat. “There’s nothing you can do. You’ll never know the love of a true prom date.”
Barrowman laughed. It was a horrible sound. Georgie started to cry.
“There is something I can do,” William smiled. He clicked his heels together three times.
“Causing trouble again, then, Barrowman?” Asked Sir Ian McKellen, lazily sipping a martini while being blown by a male model. “I can’t have you harassing my fairy godson.” He tutted. “What shall we do with you.”
Barrowman was afraid, but he stood his ground bravely. “I have come to end these faux-fags. They are unacceptable and not even proper actors.”
“On the contrary,” Sir Ian smiled. “These are the most proper actors I know.”
The ground around them moved, a lurch at first, and then a smooth rippling. They were falling. Even John Barrowman was falling, slipping down, down. The ground was like the pillow, William thought, unsure of why he was glowing a soft purple. “Remember who you are, William.” A voice came to him from far away.
A hazy face swam before his vision. Who could it be? His friends were falling away, he was alone now.
Ralph Fiennes was kind, a smile on his lips. “Remember…who you are. You are my son, and the one true queen. You must remember…”
“Son?” William Moseley whispered. “…Father?” Suddenly his childhood, which I can’t be bothered to go into, all made sense. “Father! Don’t leave me!”
“Remember…” His voice was fading. William was running. Believe me, it was really epic.
“Father!!” William was alone. He sat down and began to sob. “What power? What am I queen of? How can I save my friends?”
Suddenly, he remembered his potion. He reached up his butt and, like Richard Gere tenderly removing a gerbil, popped out the SexyBack bottle that he had been gifted. “I will make you proud, father,” he said softly, the bottle faintly glowing. “I will claim my throne, whatever it may be.” He tipped back his head and downed the bottle.
He was floating, tingling. His cock throbbed lightly. He had lost the schoolgirl outfit and now was clad in a shimmering silver cat-suit, something suiting for a queen of whatever. He was clenching a silver wand. Barrowman faced him, in a matching outfit. William saw red, thinking that this unbearable man had stolen his look.
“Let’s end this,” Barrowman growled. He lifted the wand over his head. William noticed dully that they were in a cage of gold.
“It ends tonight,” William agreed.
“Avada---” Barrowman started, but William felt something ripping from his throat, words he’d never heard before in his life.
“Torchwoodia cacelledus!” He screamed, not knowing now what he was doing. This was his destiny now, he knew that. This was what he was born to do—slay John Barrowman, liberate the BBC from his iron fist. He could not lose. He could not conceive of a world in which he lost.
Barrowman was turning into ash before his very eyes. William was serene, his gayness keeping him in the air. Barrowman screamed as a black vortex opened beneath him, the hands of girls voted off on his reality TV show beckoning him to a fate worse than cancellation.
“It is done,” William sighed, and everything went black.
William Moseley, handsome, blonde, nineteen, woke up in a hospital bed. A blurry face loomed above him as he opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” He mumbled, and a squeal and strong arms were around him in an instant.
“Oh, William! We were so worried!” Georgie said, her face beaming at the woozy young man. William looked around and saw other smiling faces. His friends.
“Hi,” he managed weakly. Georgie helped him sit up. She was positively grinning.
“Hi,” she said back happily. “Oh, Will, you’ve just got to come with us—the most amazing thing has happened!”
Before Will could protest, he was hustled into a dressing gown and pushed out into the light.
He could hardly believe his eyes. He stood atop a beautiful castle, hugged by a jewel-blue ocean. Thousands of people fringed a rich red carpet upon which he stood. William heard someone call his name and Robert Pattinson burst from the crowd, flinging his arms around the sore William. Georgie helped hold him up, smiling softly. And from behind Robert, a sheepish-looking Skandar offered his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, straight to the point. “I should never have thought you would hurt me on purpose. I love you so much, Will, but I will always be your friend, even if we never go to prom. And Robert…I’m sorry for having you kidnapped.”
Will and Robert, always forgiving, accepted Skandar’s apology with a hug.
“Come, William Moseley,” a deep voice commanded, and William turned to look up the carpet.
Standing at the edge of the court, miles above the sea, Sir Ian McKellen was robed in rich purple. “Come,” he repeated. “And I will give to you your destiny.”
William, with Skandar and Georgie on one side, Robert on his other, approached Sir Ian. On one side of him, DanRad stood smoking four cigarettes at once, grinning smugly. On the other, Liam Neeson was bursting with pride.
“What do you mean, my destiny?”
“This castle,” Sir Ian began, extending his arm, “this kingdom, and everything the light touches—is your kingdom. This is yours. This is your Narnia, your gay club, your home. For as long as you live, you and yours shall reign as does the sun in the sky. This is your home. This is your destiny.”
Somewhere, Ralph Fiennes smiled.
“I can’t accept this,” William said. “I’m no king.”
“No,” Liam Neeson said suddenly, with a benevolent smile. “You are a Queen.”
William dropped to his knees, the other three bowing as well. Sternly, DanRad helped him up.
“No,” Sir Ian said firmly. “You bow for no man.”
And around him, William saw with awe, that the entire world—the production team, and everyone he had ever loved—sunk to one knee to honor this, their Queen.
“Queen of what?” William whispered, unmanned by his new status. “Queen of what, Sir Ian?”
The cheers and adorations of his subjects nearly drowned out Sir Ian’s soft response. Robert kissed him fully on the mouth, which was distracting in its own way.
“Why, the Queen of your own heart,” Sir Ian smiled. “The Lord of the Gays.”
William smiled. He had found his prom date, he had saved his friends and his love—and most important of all, he had found himself AT LAST.
Epilogue: William Moseley was a fair and just Queen, and he became the first Prime Minister that was a homo. He and Robert had lots of little MPreg babies. James and Georgie both debated tragically killing themselves several times, before James finally just got a divorce. They also had lots of children, but not of the MPreg variety. DanRad and Skandar are still together, spinning vinyl and smoking cloves. And Sir Ian? Well, some say that on very dark nights you can hear him chuckling, whenever you are in a place you truly love. He brings nothing but good luck. I know—Liam Neeson told me so.
THE END (for real real, not for play play)
(Your humble author suggests “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen as the closing credits song. I love you all and I thank you all for all the love and support and gayness this crack has received. I finally finished something, and I did it for all of you. SIR IAN BLESS YOU!!1111)