The Bad Idea

Jeff The Killer cannot die, and so he shows no trepidation, Looking out through neither eye and acting without hesitation.

Sometimes he will be the hero, kind and graced with kindly pith. Sometimes he will be the villain, killing someone's kin and kith. In the latter case, the main will overtake him or will try it, and no matter how they rake him, he will never quite go quiet.

But in rarer cases, in deliberate misunderstanding Of his role - self-insert sinner - truth will overcome his branding. He will be the broken face, a shooter who would love a vamp. Or, in this specific case, the blinded, maggot-ridden tramp.

In the dull reality which means to walk the first one's paces, Jeff has kept an urban leafage, blending into filthy places. He has sat in every gutter, blind and barefoot, quite uncouth. Everyone can see a nutter with some clothes that fit a youth. But, besides the point, he has become a waste of space and breath. He can never say he's bad because he's not a sign of death.

Jeff is "sit"ting, waiting for a total of two thousand words, his meta-mind going quite galore. He wonders now how long his term is. Why does this abysmal writer keep attempting something witty? Jeff imagines throwing a lighter at him, saying his work is shitty. Stupid youth - he wants to be like Slimebeast or like DoctorBleed, though Banningk's, he seems to see, through length and depth defies his league. Yet Slimebeast has his acid wit, his slimy grit, his practice writing. Doctorbleed, through magic, gets his Jeff to work like vengeful lightning. All of them are wizened mages to a scholar writing rotely. They'd but putter through his pages, scoff at even his stronger noting.

Still the story totters on with gutless words like "agonizing" in a reference to the morning pangs of hunger - "(patronizing anyone who's lived without three meals a day and eating messy)." Jeff can feel the writer's pout. His commentary shows him testy.

Now the writer's moment ends. His mind is beat like stretched-out cotton. Jeff The Killer tenses then, for he is sure to be forgotten. Then "a smell assaults his nostrils". Gratefully, The Killer "shrieks", and though his lines are hostile to his character, he "loudly speaks.

'Why would someone put this crap into a sack, all fresh and rotten? How could someone dump this pap and leave it here to be forgotten? Who would want our consternation? Why would someone want to rile us? We're enjoying our recreation, now there's someone who reviles us?' Jeff The Killer smells his find; his face is cut, his teeth were yellow. Both his eyes are glazed and blind and maggots run throughout the fellow."

Now the writer, satisfied, will put his work upon the site. Jeff The Killer cannot hide. His meta-mind is spilled with spite.

Now, surprising all, he slips into the room from through the screen. Also, his appearance flips, reverting to the creepy teen. Jeff The Killer wears a mask of hatred, and with such conviction that the writer needs to ask if what he's seeing is merely fiction.

"Jeff the Killer!" He expects that he will leave this with his life.

"Now go to sleep." The death corrects him, taking out his handy knife.

Now the writer, cowering, attempts to reason with the monster. "This one's not done flowering! What should you be? A jerk? A songster? Something greater than the gods, or something lesser than a taunt? Threaten me, but I can't help unless you tell me what you want!"

"Stupid kid!" the killer laughs. "I'm here exactly due to that! You don't want to make a story! You just want to wear the hat!" "'Look at me!'" The killer mocks him. "'What I've made is fake and strange!' Cut your act!" The killer socks him. "If you don't, you'll never change! Look again at where you've gone. Your poem sucks, your prose is flat, and tell me what is going on with your 'The Crap inside the Sack'!"

"Certainly!" He says it like a windup toy which lacks all diction. From his literary pica, Jeff expects it's just fanfiction hateful towards the terrible classic, but with neither plot nor wit. But at the truth turned too dramatic, Jeffrey cannot help but spit.

"'Crap inside the Sack' was made by Slimebeast, put upon this site when he was great, for that would prime the admins to all treat him right. But soon their peace went up in smoke, so I though I could help a little-" Then the author has to choke, as he's partaken of the spittle.

"Fool, there was a redlink there!" the boy continues without shame.

"So they would want you meddling there, inserting stories in that name? What crap is that? Perhaps the act is something you should dial back. 'Cause after all, your greedy fall makes you the crap inside the sack."

The author's lip is trembling and his face belies a realization. Who else had such raging candor, changed things without hesitation?

"What if, one fine morning, you create a rushed and worthless epic? Would you read your boring stories, rushed out like the type for Tepig? Watching people edit will be all you'll live for, all you'll see. You have tried and failed to kill me. Wallow in your misery."

Jeff retreated to the screen. The author cried and vowed to stop. With every soft but tortured scream, he purged his awful gutless flop. But he decided he was better than a single subpar story. He would try to write unfettered. Something strange or even gory.

And perhaps his tales would fry, his story threads a stillborn start. But nevermore would he deny that they were bad inside his heart. He would leave them be and focus on another better track. And like an act of hocus-pocus, he would never want them back.