CONTROVERSIAL JACK AND THE FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION

Part Ten - The Fall Of The House That Jack Built
By Sean Givan

Controversial Jack created by Yves Belanger.

* * *

Above the pastoral hills and farmlands of midwestern America, the
sky radiated its peaceful blue color, sparsely mottled with white,
fluffy clouds that cast gentle shadows upon the lands of hard-working
American farmers.

It was peaceful here.  Even in a country being run by a madman managing
the country with insane laws, draconian enforcement, and an approval
rating of four and a half percent and dropping, Americans could still,
most of the time, live happily in their ordinary, mundane lives.

But that would all be changing *very* soon.

From through the clouds above came a dark shape, blotting out the sun
as it drifted overhead. It was suspended below a fleet of menacing black
helicopters, that strained to carry its massive weight.  It was a stone
building, painted a distinct shade of purple, and it occasionally dropped
bits of grass or dirt that clung to its bottom side, or a sizable chunk of
rock from its foundation.

Upon seeing it, the Midwestern peasants' faces froze in fear, and they
all ran for safety, as though the building might suddenly shoot a
city-destroying energy beam out of its basement or something.  President
Jack Lysias was on the move. 

* * *

High up in the sky, Jack and his intern, the lovely Miss Jane, were
sitting on the Mauve House's perilously drooping front porch,
mixing drinks out of random ingredients from the house
liquor cabinet (which had been dragged outside for this special
occasion), playing Travel Boggle, and enjoying the view.

"It's been a long, crazy ride, hasn't it Jack?" Miss Jane pondered,
stirring his Orange Crush screwdriver.  "You got to be president - 
Mr.Duck arrested the senate - Anne punched out Fidel Castro after
he pinched her butt.. so many memories.  But, you know, Jack.."

Miss Jane stood up, and the wind gently ruffled his long, blonde wig 
in a poetic and romantic fashion - or at least, as poetically and 
romantically as the jet stream altitude winds could manage.  "..this is 
all going to have to come to an end one day.  Nothing lasts forever, 
after all - either you and I will get assasinated, or nuked by another 
country.. and even if that doesn't happen, I'm sure there's no way you're
going to get re-elected.."

Jack knocked back his third whisky/brandy/blood-of-the-oppressed cocktail
and belched.  "Why, Miss Jane, that problem's so easy to solve I'm surprised
you even brought it up!  I'll just take away the people's ability to vote!
I mean, I was just going to get the Armed Forces to coerce everyone
to vote for me anyway in the next election, so why not make
things simple for them?  That's what America is about! Ever-increasing
convenience!"

Miss Jane nodded sagely. "You're right.  That would solve the problem."

"And nothing's going to happen to me personally as long as I've got
the dependable service of people like Agent Rocksteady!  Isn't that
right, Mr. Rocksteady?"

Jack's bodyguard hobbled to the house's front doors. "That's correct,
Mr. President.  By the way, sir, I'd recommend that you get inside - 
I believe that the porch is beginning to sag past the acceptable danger
zone for airlifted buildings."

Jack laughed dismissively, tossing his empty glass over the side where
it would reach 100 mph before impacting with a poor anonymous child's
head.  "Nonsense!  This thing hasn't budged for the last two hou-"

On perfect cue, the stone pillars that held the Mauve House's porch to
its rooftop finally gave way and plummeted, spinning end over end, down
to the streets of a small town below.  There was a mighty groan as the porch,
now forced to carry its own weight, began to crack and crumble under the feet
of the pair outside.

"MR.PRESIDENT!"  Agent Rocksteady, heedless of his own safety, let go
of his crutches and leapt with his good foot towards the president,
scooping him up in his arms.  Ignoring the pain as Jack's hair scraped
against his jacket, leaving bloody trails across his chest, he heaved
the small man with all his strength, sending him flying back inside
the doors to safety, just as the porch finally gave up, broke apart,
and fell.

Slowly getting up to his feet, Jack looked outside and watched in
surprise as Agent Rocksteady, surrounded by stone pieces, tumbled
though the sky and disappeared into a passing cloud, screaming wildly
all the while.  The sight of his loyal security officer coming to
such a horrible end, all for the sake of his protection.. it got to 
Jack, just a little, tiny bit, through all the random chaos that 
substituted for his brain, and he felt the urge to.. at least say
a few words.

"Poor Agent Rocksteady!" Jack began, orating beautifully as he pressed
a hand to his heart.  "I'll never forget all that you've done for me.
I'll remember the times you stood up for me when journalists shot their
hurtful words, and their Glock .45s, at me.. I'll remember the times
you taught me how to speak that Mexican language, or Canadian English..
I'll remember the secret, tender, forbidden moments we shared late
at night.. I'll remember this final sacrifice that you made for me.."

"And *maybe* you'll remember to bring a few extra bungees for anyone
else who comes to the front doors!" shouted Miss Jane from fifty
feet below, trying his best to clamber up the rubber cord hitched about
the waist of his flower-print dress.

"Yeah, that too.  GERONIMO!" Jack shouted, leaping out the house and
into the wild blue yonder, before bouncing back with a jerk and spending
the next half-hour trying, like Jane, to climb back into the Mauve House.

"I lost my Boggle set." Miss Jane muttered.

* * *

The pillars of the Mauve House laid strewn about in the middle
of a dusty parking lot somewhere in Arizona.  Some were cracked
in half, and lay in broken pieces on top of other whole ones;
the random arrangement had an eerie form to them, somehow evocative
of a purplish Stonehenge, or the ruins of Ozymandius minus a statue
of the fabled king himself (though the Colonel Sanders ad doll outside
the KFC restaurant one lot over almost filled the bill.)

In the midst of these newly-created ruins, the air shimmered and
wavered.  Out of this shimmer stepped Imelda Marcos, who panned the
scene in a perfect 360 as the dimensional gate closed behind her.

She smiled, and it was an evil smile, cold and knowing.

"Everything has come to this.." she intoned.  "Now is the time.
For Jack to face his [DESTINY]."

And this time, it seemed as though she might actually do more
than just talk about it.

She examined her surroundings one more time.  Upon one pillar lay
the broken body of Agent Rocksteady, a jagged edge of marble
piercing his torso in a grisly fashion.  She smiled again; everything
was happening as it should, and this sacrifice was just what was
needed to start the ritual.

Imelda's head started to spin, as she stood in the center of the
broken pillars and chanted arcane, unknowable verses.  Slow at first,
the rotation began to pick up speed, becoming faster as faster as the
pent-up demonic energy that had built up within her began to release itself.

When Imelda's head hit 666 RPM, strange influences made themselves
known around the world.

* * *

Anne slowly trudged back to the Mauve House (or, as she would soon
find out, its former location), Mr. Duck neatly balanced on her
left shoulder.

What a day.  The trial of the Senate for conspiracy had finally
wrapped up in a grueling seven hour session.  As much as she had
tried to find an excuse to let the senators free, acting as she
was as the translator for the inanimate vice-president, the NSA
were essentially running the show; and in the face of the tapes
that the NSA had kept of the attempted impeachment of President Jack,
there was nothing she could say.  The defendants had just been
herded off to a camp in North Dakota to be gassed. 

Anne, being a normal and rather sweet girl, was quite naturally
haunted by this turn of events as she continued down the street.
Sometimes, her brother just went entirely too far; sure, he'd gone
and killed people before he became president, and she had gotten
used to that over time, but he had never caused the death of so
many, um, *government officials* before..

Well, wait, he *had* gone and guillotined the French government right
after he occupied the country..

..and it wasn't as though the Senate were the most *innocent*
people on the planet..

Um..

Well, she had never felt so *involved* in Jack's activities before!

She at least felt good about what being a semi-First Lady brung. 
She had been able to negotiate new economic treaties with poor, impovershed
countries in the Third World, and try and bring a little prosperity
to their bleak lives. She'd also been able to tour high schools 
across America and teach kids about proper motorcycle safety, and
what could happen to them if they didn't wear helmets (having had
personal experience in the matter; she was always careful not to name
names, of course, lest some students think that getting in a motorcycle
accident was the first step on the path to presidency.)

But being associated with her brother also gave her a bit of
a bad reputation, even though she wasn't in the limelight nearly
as often as he ended up being.  People would look at her funny
as we walked down the street, as though they believed that *she*
was just as crazy as her brother, as though talking to *her*
would somehow bring the curses that Jack's madness brought
down upon their heads..

Anne slowly came back to attention as she observed the people
around her.  Somehow, they were acting a little extra-weird
today; they were avoiding her, as usual, but they never before
did things like running away from her while crossing themselves,
or getting down on their knees and praying fervently for salvation
as she walked by.

"You know, Mr.Duck, " Anne said, "everyone seems to be acting
a little str-" she stopped, and mentally slapped herself.  (Stop
talking to the duck..) she thought.

Still though.. as she walked down the street, it was as though
the passerbys were reacting to some invisible unholy aura that she
was projecting.

What could it be?

"BEHOLD!  THERE IS THE WHORE, AND REGARD AS SHE CONSORTS
WITH THE BEAST!"

Anne stopped short, a massive sweatdrop occupying most of the back
of her head.  It was soon replaced by a fiercely pulsing vein
(Mr. Duck looked rather irritated himself), as she spun around and
unloaded at whoever it was who shouted at her.

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!  Yes, I maybe the sister of the worst president
in the history of the universe, and YES, it may be Tuesday and I'm
stuck in this *stupid* leather outfit, BUT THERE IS NO WAY I'M 
GOING TO STAND FOR BEING- called.."

Anne trailed off as she clued in on who it was she was shouting at.

Or more specifically, who they were.  The thirty-nine members of
the Washington branch of the Church of Cthulu - greenish-brown robes,
cool spiked whips - were patrolling the streets, and they were 
currently very angry with themselves.  They *were* all set out
to storm the Mauve House and slay the President in cold blood, but
Shoggoth had set his alarm clock wrong, and they all gathered together
at eight in the morning instead of six like they had planned, and
El Obscura had forgotten his hood and had to go back home and get it,
and it turned out Neros Necros hadn't polished and sharpened the
whips in about six months, and all in all by the time they finally
arrived at the Mauve house it was four in the afternoon and there was
nothing there but a big patch of brown dirt in the middle of the 
presidential lawn.

So they had spent the last hour or so wandering the streets, looking
for someone Presidential-ish to beat on so that their day wouldn't
be a *total* waste.

Like Anne, for instance.

The thrice thirteen members of the Cult growled in an animal-like
fashion and began to close in on the young, scantily-clad woman.

"N-Now hold on, here!  I don't quite know what's going on here,
but you've got it all wrong!"

They slowly advanced, circling around Anne and enclosing her on
all sides.

"But I'm *innocent*!" Anne backed up, and found herself up against
a high brick wall next to the sidewalk, leaving her no route of
escape.  She cringed involuntarily as the horde continued to 
advance, raising their whips, which dangled and glinted in front
of them.

"It's not my *fault*!  I know Jack's done horrible things.."
Anne pleaded, "but I'm not responsible for them!  I can't be!
Have you tried even keeping up with him?  He's impossible to take
care of!  *Anyone* would have given up on him years ago!  Please
don't take it out on me.."

Necos Necros checked his wristwatch.  "News is on in an hour. 
Come on, enough with the silent stalking schtick and let's get on with
it already."

Anne squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting what looked like would be
a horrible and painful death.

It was kind of unfortunate that she did close her eyes, since 
she missed out on what happened next.  She was, however, able to
hear what sounded like a very big, muffler-less engine roaring
onto the scene, followed by several *whomp* noises of what sounded
like a large gun being fired, followed by multiple strangled cries and
some sickening crunching noises as the engine noise got closer.

Silence followed for a few moments, and she dared to peek with one 
eye.

A giant vehicle, that looked cross-breeded from an ordinary 1985
Magic Wagon, some construction equipment, and a chicken cannon, was
resting on top of a pile of what was probably mangled cultist bodies,
judging by the random arm or leg that was poking out from under
the homemade tank's treads.  The corpses of the rest of the Cult of
Cthulu lay thrown about the tank, dead by repeated blows from the
chicken cannon, which was apparently using candlepin bowling balls
for ammunition.

The manhole on the top of the monstrosity slid open, and Mr. T poked
his head out to survey the damage. "Damn!  Looks lik' we missed a 
cupla them suckas the first time 'round."

Anne was somewhat confused. "Mister.. T?  Why am I being rescued by
Mr. T?" she mumbled to herself, in a dazed sort of fashion.

The voice of another person, a young boy, echoed from deep inside
the tank.  "That's cool, Mr. T!  Now let's keep going to the White
House!"

Anne recognized the voice instantly.  "Schmit-Bob?!"

Schmit-Bob's head, topped with the baseball cap he always wore, popped
up next to Mister T's.  "Hey, Anne!  What are you doing dressed like
a prostitute?"

Schmit-Bob is a bright and considerate twelve-year old boy, and you'd
probably like him if you ever got to know him.  Only thing is, he's been
spending the last several months of his life acquiring and utilizing
military weaponry in an attempt to kill off Controversial Jack - all for
the sake of retrieving his beloved Mr. Duck, which Jack had stolen 
long, long ago, at the very beginning of the recorded saga of the 
Controversial One.  Anne had always wondered where Schmit-Bob had managed
to get his hardware from - she had assumed that his father was an army
general, or perhaps he got his weapons from the same place that all
modern juvenile deliquents get the armaments necessary to outgun our
nation's police forces.  The revelation that Schmit-Bob and Mr. T
seemed to know each other cast some new light on that mystery for her.

During the above exposition, Anne had gotten into the homemade war-weapon, 
which was now barelling down the streets of Washington, running red lights and
crushing the odd parked car.  Mr. T, who was driving, explained his
and Bob's presence as they went along.

"So when mah l'il buddy comes up and tells Mr. T that som' foo' gone and
took his l'il duckie, that's somethin' Mr. T don't stand fo'.  We's gonna
teach that sucka a thing or two about tryin' to mess wit' Mr. T and his
l'il buddies!"

"Mr. T said that the last time he saw Jack, he was working for him while he
hung out in the White House, so we're going to look there first." Bob added.

"To get your duck back?"

"That's right!"

"You mean this duck?" Anne said, indicating Mr. Duck, who had been sitting in
plain view on her shoulder.

"DUCKIE!!" Bob cried, snatching up the duck and hugging it close to his
cheek. "Oh, I've missed you *so* much!  Are you all right, Mr. Duck?
Jack didn't hurt you too bad, did he?"

Squeak.

"That's right, Mr. Duck, I love *you* best of all too.."  Bob looked up.
"Oh, we're still going to kill Jack, though."

"'Hung out in the White House'.." Anne said to herself.  "Um, you two -
have you been following the news lately?"

"Watchin' the news is fo' suckas!"

"Aw come *on*, Anne, I'm twelve years old.  Twelve-year-olds don't watch
the news on t.v., or read newspapers, or any of that stuff.."

Black crows would have flown by in the background, had there been room
inside the tank.  "You two haven't been following the national political
situation lately - at all - have you?"

Schmit-Bob rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "No, I guess not - buttt, does
it anything to do with the way people have been acting lately?"

"Such as, Bob?"

"Well, I've been noticing today that a lot of people are going around
babbling in tounges, vomiting blood, curling up and dying in the streets - 
that sort of thing.  I just figured that I shouldn't drink the water
here - but you think it might have something to do with Jack?"

Anne was taken aback by Bob's report. "Well - I'm not totally sure.." Though
something told her it was a good suspicion. "Look, the evening news is on now.
Why don't you watch it for yourselves - it'll explain things a lot
better than I can right now."

"Like why you're wearing a leather bikini in public?"

"..."

Anne reached over and turned on the small color television that was 
handily recessed in the rear of the tank's interior.  Sure enough, 
appearing on screen was the news achorwoman responsible for giving
the local news to Washington, in the middle of her opening report.

"..In global news, the Prime Minister of Britain recently released a
publicly delivered message to President Jack Lysias-"

Bob gasped. "No WAY!  Jack's the President?"

"..." Anne said.

The anchorwoman was replaced with taped footage of the prime minister
delivering his message, complete with 'PRIME MINISTER OF BRITAIN'
printed across the bottom of the screen.  This was actually a very
helpful tagline, since the prime minister would have been otherwise
hard to recognize, what with his glowing red eyes, fangy dental
problem, and newly acquired goat horns.

"ThE ScouRGe Of jACk LYSiAs", the prime minister said, "hAS inFECted
THis WOrld for FAr ToO loNg - aNd NoW it iS tImE tO rId tHE WorLd
Of ThE GrEAt SATan JaCk and HIs AmErICa!  I sHaLL sEnD mY ARmIEs tO..
UrGh.. UGh.." the prime minister trailed off to foam at the mouth
for a few minutes, during which the footage cut back to the news
studio.

"The prime minister's message was soon followed a few minutes later
by a similar public message from the President of Russia."

"ThE ScouRGe Of jACk LYSiAs", the red-eyed, horned, and fanged president
of Russia said, "hAS inFECted THis WOrld for FAr ToO loNg - aNd NoW.."

"Oh, dear." Anne said.

* * *

Somewhere over New Mexico, Jack and Miss Jane were intently watching
the Washington news, which was now in the process of showing the taped
footage of about the thirtieth demon-possessed national leader swearing
death and destruction.

"Okay," Miss Jane said, looking over his list. "So, the armies of
Britain, Russia, Germany, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Hungary, Italy, Poland,
Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Isreal, Pakistan, India, China, Thailand, Australia,
Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Peru, Egypt, Algeria, Libya, South Africa, Madagascar,
and the Japanese Self-Defense Force are coming to America to poetically kick our
butts.  More to come in a few minutes.  Any ideas?"

"Any ideas? ANY IDEAS? I'm *always* having ideas, Miss Jane!  And right now
I'm getting the inklings of the greatest idea of all!"

"Really?" Miss Jane asked, supplying Jack's prompt.

Controversial Jack leapt up upon a nearby couch and waved wildly upwards at
the heavens as he spoke.  "This sounds like the set up to the grandest event
that I've ever performed!  It's going to be just like Live Aid!  No! Scratch
that! Live Aid was a pansy liberal beg-fest!  It's going to be just like
Woodstock!  Hold it, hold it, no!  Woodstock was even worse!"  Jack paused
for a moment. "OF COURSE!  It'll be just like all those guys in 'Highlander'
gathering together to cut each others' heads off!  There can be only Jack!
THERE CAN BE ONLY JACK!"

Jack hopped off the couch and ran for the nearest phone.  He picked it up,
realized that the phone connection didn't survive the airlifting of the House,
and grabbed a cell phone instead, furiously dialing the number of his favorite
ad agency. (Jack once sat down and memorized 5,000 phone numbers of various
interesting organizations and services, in order to help him be controversial more 
efficiently.)  He motioned to Miss Jane.  "You!  Get all the world leaders who
declared war on me in a video conference.  If you can get them to go along
with this, it's gonna be so, so *cool*.."

Miss Jane nodded, a bit uncertainly. "Uh, I'll get on it once the list of
nations settles down a bit.." He motioned to the television, where five 
more countries had sworn Jack's destruction.  "But what are you going to
propose.. exactly?"

Jack spun to Miss Jane, the cell phone ringing in his ear.  "Don't you get it?
We're going to have a [RUMBLE]!!"

Hundreds of miles away, Imelda Marcos began to laugh.

* * *

The T-mobile (which, I suppose, is a fairly elegant moniker for the strange
contraption) was just then parked outside the former location of the Mauve
House, much to the consternation of Mr. T and Schmit-Bob.

"But- but-- where'd it go?  It couldn't just up and disappear!" Bob said.
"Well, at least, not without a good explanation."

"The foo' musta heard we was comin' and airlift'd the White House somewhere
else! Damn!"

"Gee, do you think?  Let's see, if the White House weighs 30,000 tons 
(scribble scribble) and say one of them U.S. secret black helicopters 
has about 2000 horsepower (scribble scribble).. Now, how far would 
they get.."

Squeak.

"Not now, Mr. Duck, I'm doing feasibility calculations (scribble scribble).."

"Guys." Anne said.  Unlike the other two, she remained watching the 
evening news, looking for some clue as to Jack's current whereabouts.
"I think Mr. Duck means.. look at the t.v."

The two slowly turned to the television in back.  On screen was some cheap
stock footage of fireworks going off against a night sky; but dubbed over
the footage was an unmistakable voice, launching himself into full
megaphone-utilizing announcement mode.

"Tomorrow! Tomorrow! TOMORROW!"
"Out in the deserts of America.."
"Out in the wastelands, a [BATTLE] for the [FATE} of the free [WORLD] will
be fought.."
"And it's [LIVE] on [PAY]-[PER]-[VIEW]!!"
"[WATCH] as the armies of over [*60*] nations battle [ONE] on [ONE] in a
[SINGLE ELIMINATION TOURNAMENT] with the ultimate prize of WORLD DOMINATION!"
"Come watch the historical what-if battles you ALWAYS wanted to see!"
"CHINA vs GERMANY!"
"PORTUGAL vs INDIA!"
"And in a special exhibition match.."
"The French (snort) 'army' vs.."
"The KISS Army!"

The fireworks were briefly replaced with a shot of two bamboo cages in the
Roswell desert. One contained a few thousand injured, bandaged French soldiers.
The other contained thousands of howling middle-aged heavy metal dead-heads,
led in the front by a tounge-wagging Gene Simmons.

"Get your tickets now at the Mauve House box office, conveniently located
just outside of Area 51!  Hurry and get them tomorrow, or they'll be
all *gone*.."
"And then *we'll* be all gone!  The President commands all American citizens
to attend or order this [PAY]-[PER]-[VIEW] under pain of *death*.. and heck,
maybe we'll even conscript you while we're at it!"

Anne turned back to Bob and Mr. T, completely speechless, while the
advertisement displayed the words 'WORLD WAR III: RUMBLE AT ROSWELL'
onscreen. "He-- I-- That's--" Anne stammered.

"Ohhh, *I* get it!" Bob said, enlightened. "Jack's the Antichrist and
he's bringing about the final battle of mankind!  Everything makes
sense now!  The people in the streets, cultists running around, the
big war- wait a minute, what am I talking about here.."

It's a fact that sometimes, in times of great distress, we forget
ourselves and say things we don't really mean, or we say things
we don't realize that we're saying and in fact we *do* mean.  
Realizing that the battle of Armageddon is going to be happening in the
next few days is certainly a stressful situation, and perhaps
Anne could be forgiven, then, for suddenly blurting out:

"We've got to go save Jack!"

"Save?" Bob said, indignantly.  "If he wants to hang around in the
middle of sixty armies out for his blood, let him!  It'd save us
some trouble.."

"You wanna go to Roswell 'n pluck that foo' outta combat hell?
Damn, that's crazy, sucka!  That too crazy even fo' Mr. T!"

What happened in Anne's head in the next few seconds after that 
would be difficult to describe.  Suffice it to say that a sudden
desire to protect Jack from the greatest danger he had faced to
date made her very, very assertive.

"I SAID.." Anne growled, her voice and eyes turning baleful, and
starting to glow a blue aura that easily exceeded the reddish ones
in the eyes of the demon world leaders, "WE are going to ROSWELL to
go SAVE my BROTHER.  DO you have ANY objections to that? BOB? MR.
*T*?!"  Anne folded her arms and towered over the two, an intimidating
position accentuated by the dominatrix outfit that she was wearing
(and wearing very well, I might add) at the time.

"Well, okay." Bob said.
"Looks like we gonna be goin' to Roswell." Mr. T agreed.

The makeshift vehicle turned on its back treads, aimed west, and
roared down the streets, on towards its meeting with fate.

"She's hella tough." Mr. T mumbled over the engine noise.

* * *

In Florida, Debatable Joe reached over and turned off the portable
TV set.  He sat in his hammock, gazed up at the hot sun beating
down upon him, and sipped at his pina colada, thinking about the
advertisement he had just seen.

He remained in deep thought for a minute.

"I believe.. that my carefully orchestrated scheme has gone
awry for some reason."

He continued to think, then bolted upright and snapped his fingers.

"No, wait!  My brilliant mind may have concocted a contingency
plan!"

His fingers poised in mid-snap as he continued to think for
a minute more.

"Nope," he sighed, and sank back in his hammock.  "I screwed up."

* * *

WILL MR. T AND THE NEW A*TEAM (A for Anne, of course)
SURVIVE THE KILLING FIELDS OF ROSWELL?
WILL JACK EVER GET MR. DUCK BACK, OR WILL HE DIE FIRST?
WILL THE NATION OF FRANCE BE DESTROYED BY ROCK AND ROLL?
DOES DEBATABLE JOE HAVE A FINAL ACE HE CAN PLAY?
OR HECK, WILL HE DIE TOO?
OR WILL EVERYONE ON THE PLANET EARTH DIE, EVEN?
OR WILL THIS IMPROFANFIC DIE, FORCING STEFAN GAGNE TO CONCLUDE IT
IN CHAPTER ELEVEN?

Well, it's not in my hands..

-Sean Givan