What is the Point (DC FanFic)

Listen up, folks!

Life, oh boy, it's like a messed up game with levels of fuckery that would make the devil himself cringe. And let me tell you, it starts screwing you over right from the moment you pop out into this crazy world. It doesn't matter if you're a dude or a lady, 'cause both come with their own set of ups and downs. But here's the real kicker: the rich and the poor.

Now, if you're one of those lucky bastards swimming in cash, congrats! You've got a golden ticket to success, and hurdles? Ha! Who cares about those minor inconveniences? Just go find yourself a fancy therapist who'll gladly listen to your endless bullshit in exchange for your moolah!

But let's spare a thought for our poor comrades out there. Oh, dear friend, if you happen to be one of the "lucky" ones among the poor, consider yourself blessed. You might escape some abuse, dodge the title of a slum-dwelling scoundrel, avoid being someone's unfortunate plaything, or worse, get sold off to be a plaything down the road. And hey, if you make it to the ripe old age of five, well, call it a miraculous feat, because you are about to begin your school life!

Ah, the sweet age of school, where the nightmare truly begins. Brace yourselves, my dear readers, for you'll be faced with an insurmountable challenge: socializing with your fellow human specimens. It's here that you start to contort, twist, and deform yourself, all in the pursuit of fitting into this grand social construct. And let me tell you, it's a grueling process that can break you in half, both physically and mentally.

But hey, let's fast forward to the glorious moment when you finally escape the clutches of the education system. That is, if you even had the chance to attend one without getting tangled up in the dark web of unfortunate circumstances. You know, like being preoccupied with the constant threat of getting violated, becoming an unwitting organ donor, or falling prey to any other nefarious fate that could have hindered your innocent school days.

Now, once you're out in the real world, you'll find yourself faced with two delightful outcomes. Outcome number one: congratulations, you've successfully twisted and deformed yourself enough to fit in! You're now a perfect specimen of conformity, ready to blend into the monotonous masses. Or, drumroll please, outcome number two: you've managed to retain some semblance of individuality and, as luck would have it, ended up as an outsider with a charming mental issue or two. Oh, the joys of being unique!

Well, well, well, if you happen to fall into that first group, then please do us all a favor and kindly piss off! Oh, how I despise your kind! You, my friend, are like a mass-produced commodity, a soulless entity that has single-handedly ruined anything and everything that was once labeled as cool!

Oh, gaming, the realm of the nerdy, the sacred internet, the pornography—none escaped from your mainstream claws! Everything you touch, you dismantle and rebrand, turning it into a steaming pile of fecal matter! Yes, you heard me right, actual shit! You've managed to take the very essence of what made those things special and transform them into unrecognizable abominations. Bravo, my dear conformist, bravo!

Your existence provides me with ample material for my dark twisted sense of humor. So keep being that mainstream monstrosity, because, in the end, some of us will always find a way to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Cheers to you, Oh' harbinger of banality and unwitting muse of our twisted chuckles!

Oh, how the tides have turned! Once upon a time, gaming was a realm of captivating stories, immersive experiences, and a celebration of emotions. But lo and behold, thanks to you delightful mainstream humans, being a gamer became the latest trend. Suddenly, every game was drenched in the same steaming pile of generic nonsense, just with a different label slapped on. Pay-to-win mechanics infested the gaming landscape, and toxicity thrived, where gamers were reduced to nothing more than walking money bags.

Ah, comics, graphic novels, and mangas! They used to be the vessels of storytelling, capturing the essence of reality and transforming it into extraordinary narratives. But alas, the mainstream wave crashed upon them, and now everyone claims to be a fan of Deadpool, pledges allegiance to either Marvel or DC, and demands series after series about every hero under the sun. Forget about following the true narrative, let's just create content for the masses' instant gratification.

Oh, dear mainstream group, you're like cultural locusts, devouring everything in your path and churning it out as mass-produced, easily accessible mediocrity. You've taken pop culture, true culture, and individuality itself, and transformed them into mere shadows of their former glory. How ironic that in your quest for popularity, you've killed the very essence that made these things unique and meaningful.

So, let us raise a toast to you, oh mighty mainstream conquerors, for your unintended accomplishment of turning vibrant creativity into a bland, factory-made facade. Your legacy shall be remembered as the epitome of irony in our ever-evolving cultural landscape. Cheers, my dear conformists, cheers!

Oh, the tangled web we weave! So anyway, there I was, a good-looking, charming, sexy specimen of a hunk trolling and flaming away like a mischievous imp, directing my razor-sharp wit towards none other than Belle Delphine, the infamous internet personality. And what was she up to, you ask? Selling her very own bathing water. Yes, you heard it right—water that had been graced by the presence of her, uh, lovely derriere. And wouldn't you know it, people were actually buying it! Oh, the depths of human fascination never cease to amaze me.

Now, let us not mince words here. Belle Delphine, with her fine piece of ass, certainly knows how to capture attention. But let's face it, it's not the posterior that's the issue here; it's the collective mindset of these curious creatures we call humans. The lengths they'll go to acquire such bizarre mementos truly boggle the mind.

But alas, let's not get too distracted by the bewitching waters of Belle Delphine's bathtub. Back to the story at hand! Yes, I met my untimely demise, technically at my own hands, but let's not quibble over the details. The bottom line is, I am dead, dear readers, no two ways about it.

Oh, the irony! To be swallowed by the very darkness I often jest about. And here I thought my dark humor would shield me from such a fate. But life—or rather, death—has a funny way of reminding us that even the most twisted souls are not immune to their own demise. So, as I bid farewell to my mortal coil, I raised a glass and toasted myself to the twisted, the ironic, and the hilariously tragic nature of my existence. Cheers, to me my friends, cheers!

Ah, the failed god himself speaks! "Are you done yet?" he dryly asks me, unamused by my antics, I am but a mere insignificant mortal soul in front of him. He is no longer willing to indulge in the meanderings of a mere mortal, the failed god cuts through the veil of irony and dark humor, dismissing it all with a wave of apathetic indifference.

For what interest could a deity, even a failed one, have in the trivialities of my human existence? The fickle nature of my wit and banter holds no sway over the divine, leaving them to ponder the mysteries of their own eternal shortcomings. And so, the failed god stands above, looking down upon me with weary eyes, indifferent to my folly.

"Ah, yes, I am done now," I reply, acknowledging the failed god's weariness. The brief interplay of words and irony has run its course, and it is time to move on from this mortal exchange. The failed god's disinterest prompts me to accept the end of our banter, recognizing that even the most entertaining conversations must come to a close.

*Sigh* Bailed sighed audibly loud.

Standing before me is a figure that can only be described as a nightmarish concoction straight from the depths of hell itself. Is it the Devil? A demon, perhaps? Or could it be The Author, the twisted puppeteer behind this chaotic existence? With short black hair, an unkempt beard resembling a tangled web, and a face etched with the unmistakable marks of insomnia, this poor soul appears as though he's been on the receiving end of one too many punches.

"You do know that you are an insolent piece of shit, right?": Bailed declares, his words dripping with contempt.

Oh, how the tides have turned! The master of misfortune, Bailed himself, finds his luck in shambles. All he wanted was to send a soul into a wretched reality, make him kill and reap souls, and revel in their misery, but fate has bestowed upon him nothing but a parade of dimwitted idiots and annoying little shits like this one. Truly, the cosmic comedy of it all!

With a sigh of exasperation, Bailed's thoughts swirl in his mind. "Fuck, why is my luck so rotten lately?" he ponders, lamenting his misfortunes. All he wanted was a bit of amusement, a glimpse into the wretchedness of human existence, but it seems the universe has conspired against him.

Oh, the irony of it! The bringer of chaos and despair now faced with an insolent mortal who dares to defy him. The cosmic joke continues, and Bailed, battered and beaten, contemplates his next move.

"So, what's your deal, mate?" I inquire, unable to resist the temptation of engaging with this self-proclaimed god of evil. "Are you some sort of reject deity that the others kicked to the curb, left to play with me a mere mortal? Sending poor souls into various realities for your twisted entertainment, like that poor bloke Spawn who got royally screwed over?"

Bailed, true to his arsehole nature forgets that he is a deity and bombards my weary mind. "First of all, stop narrating!" he exclaims, oblivious to the throbbing headache he's inflicting upon me. "I'm getting a bloody headache from your relentless stream of consciousness! And second of all...".

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Attention, my dear audience!

I have a confession to make. Deep within the recesses of my twisted mind, there has always been a burning desire to craft a magnificent FanFiction chef-d'oeuvre intertwining the worlds of DC and the enigmatic Freakazoid. Alas, time has proven to be my greatest nemesis, forever eluding my creative pursuits. But fear not, for the tides are turning!

If you, like me, find joy in the realms of imagination and humor, I invite you to embark on this journey with me.

I have set up a Patreon page, lovingly adorned with the link https://www.patr((e))on.com/ikaru5, where you can support my deranged endeavors and gain exclusive access to behind-the-scenes madness.

Now, as I bid you adieu, I leave you with a wish for a day as delightful as a cat riding a unicycle while juggling flaming marshmallows. May laughter be your constant companion, and may your path be paved with absurdity and mirth. And remember, my friends, the world may be chaotic, but with a dash of humor, we can conquer anything!

Stay weird, stay wonderful, and keep your minds swirling with imagination.

Yours mirthfully,

[Ikaru5]

P.S. In case you're wondering, no, I don't have a girlfriend, I have not yet figured out how to clone myself yet. But rest assured, your support on Patreon will undoubtedly hasten the development of my cloning technology and my endeavor to find love. Just a little bonus incentive!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------