Don't know what fic it is to yet, wrote it out to get rid of writers block, a small description of the Fenton residence that never stopped expanding until I had a funny little skit and now I want to stick it to something. Its funny. Read it.

~*~*~

In the bustling city of Amity Park within the ever so distraught country of The United States in the early stages of the twenty-first century there sat a large building, simple in its old apartment-like design. A two story constructed of faded red brick with slim rectangular paneled windows on both floors and a soft blue door sunken into the building a good three feet and raised from the street by three high concrete steps. Its bland normalcy stretched from the base of its structure to the rim of its black rooftop out through its lack of front yard towards the grey sidewalk and the black street beyond it. It was, for everyone to see, plain and boring, only standing as an individual due to its washed out red color on a street of basic blue imageless homes.

Which only made the enormous alien spaceship settled ominously atop the home even more outlandish and noticeable then it would be if it lay stationary above, say, a mansion with all the trifles and frivolities a billionaire would have to occupy his time.

In truth it was not a visiting space creature of unknown origins and biology parking his vehicle for a time on the building and taking a much needed rest within the local resident’s spare bedroom, though in the defense of visiting spectators not familiar with the eyesore it was saucer shaped with large protruding fixtures such as lethal looking weapons and satellite dishes and the nine meter tall antenna jutting out of its smooth metallic surface. It did, for all intent and purposes, look like an alien’s spacecraft had landed in the neighborhood.

The only thing that kept the tourists from alerting the FBI, though sometimes they still got a call and even had a separate hotline to transfer over to once the name Amity Park had been uttered, was the large sign, bulky and flamboyant with flashing neon green and flickering yellow lights illuminating a very large F and trailing down a bent arrow pointing at the building like a cheap motel on a cold strip of highway around midnight in the rain and the dark and a creepy lack of other vehicles, even the occasional semi truck lugging a bulk of who knew what. The sign proudly displayed the words Fenton Works, and for those who weren’t just crawling out of a fifty year prison sentence in a third world country, the name Fenton alone would shock them out of their gaping stupor, shake them into a rigid stance, and have them turning right around in a flurry of novelty t-shirts and swinging cameras and military marching back down the street to whatever hotel they had come from.

Because the Fenton’s were renowned for their brilliance and insanity, after all not just anybody could piece together such magnificent mechanical mayhem and get paid doing it like the Fenton’s had done, yet also very few actually uses said recourses to further paranormal study.

Such as ghosts.

Even in college they were acknowledged, and avoided, due to this obsession, as it could only be called because a true profession it was not.

At least, not yet.

A large explosion shook the street a moment, the result of some cataclysmic event transpiring below the ground yet close to the surface. A basement perhaps? Indeed, and that brings us to the exact reason why even the fanatical paranormalists avoid the family.

“Dash!” a sputtering cough as thick green misty clouds of radioactive-looking dust and chemicals hovered in the air of the basement lab, “Dash, the stairs!” and then they were thumping up the narrow passageway and bursting into the kitchen, slamming the door on the fog chasing them and crashing to the floor together and gulping in air with greedy gasps.

“What the heck happened?!” Dash cried, hands going to his throat as if he could pry away the invisible force that held his breath hostage.

“You knocked over a batch of dangerous chemical, that’s what happened!” Danny grabbed his collar, ready to choke what oxygen was left out of the larger teen, but another coughing fit had him bent over the floor hacking. Dash would have replied, in a physically violent way, but he too was a bit busy distributing his lungs on the floor.

“Oh man.” Danny muttered when he could talk again. “We gotta turn on the air vent filters and suck this crap up before my parents get home.”

“Why not just open a window.” Dash suggested.”

“Hello, highly dangerous chemical vapor, you really want to let that stuff outside? And who knows what kind of ectoplasmic junk it could be attaching itself too. If we don’t get rid of it soon it could become it’s own entity.” Okay, so he was going a bit overboard, but after years of his breakfast, dinner, and sack lunch coming to life (or in some cases BACK to life) and attacking him, he learned not to underestimate the power of the contaminated. Green Eggs and Ham was not the name of a Seuss book in his house.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Archive: [link]

Status Update: [link]

~*~*~*~*

Clubs I'm in



~*~*~*~*~*~*

My art account:



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Random Announcement:

“It's tougher than Himalayan yak jerky in January. But, as any creative person will tell you, there are days when there's absolutely nothing sweeter than creating something from nothing. ”