before returning to his master: none other than

a subordinate of Honourable Chairman George Bush CXXVIII, who had been subversively gathering GETs in preparation for a nefarious plot involving

the Big Book Of DQN Mad-Libs, half a ton of rancid yak butter, and a very depraved

Quake player.

I cannot make sense of this story anymore.

- interrupted Grandpa, "You, kids, got youself quite a vivid fantasy. When I was a young lad like you... and trust me I was..."

Without a word, the author stopped typing. He took the last two chapters, crumpled them up and threw them in the bin. Casually, with a practised motion, he then took out a lighter, poured a healthy dose of lighter fluid over it and set them on fire.

Chapter 3 Version II:

Nobody Cares About Venice

After the invasion of the Penis People of the planet Uranus,

was defeated by the One-Eyed, One-Horned Flying Purple People Eaters,

the last remaining

big fat butt.

"frrrrrrrrrp."

Shrouded in silent twilight, the Danube river took on an ethereal gleam, its silver surface reflecting the

her lost cat. The feline in question had died long ago,

in a tragic teleporter accident that Prof. Kleiner still refuses to admit happened, but the great loli in the sky was OK with the idea of recovering her pet in a gaseous state, just as long as she got it back at all.

Little did she know that light years away, her cat had just been farted out the last remaining big fat butt. This cat, whose name was

Alistair Xavier Chang-Mortensen III

, had been an integral part of the

East Prague Underground Democratic Movement

; a group aiming to eradicate

democracy, which everyone thought was kind of odd except for

Prof. Kleiner, who was rather sober about the dichotomous shift.

Without the guidance of Alistair Xavier Chang-Mortensen III, the EPUDM

stooped as low as accepting the application of one big fat butt, despite the clearly visible Snidely Whiplash moustache whenever you squinted at its shadow from just the right angle. This could not possibly end well, and few were surprised when, exactly seventeen days and one hour later,

devilish acts of sodomy transpired in the catacombs.

After all, the EPUDM was well-known for its fondness of devilish acts of sodomy.

What did surprise everybody was that during the sodomistic confusion, the moustached big fat butt had managed to infiltrate the depths of EPUDM headquarters.

You see, the teleportation incident had been no accident. The BFB had carefully engineered Alistair's transfer into his body, in order to orchestrate this very infiltration. The accidental flatulence of said leader had not been part of the plan, but the BFB wasn't too worried - he had already stolen Alistair's DNA and passwords, which was enough to make it through EPUDM security. He hardly imagined that a gaseous cat floating through space would be able to stop him now.

Now at the center of EPUDM and armed with full administrative power over their systems, the BFB rubbed his cheeks together with joy and prepared to finally enact his dastardly plan:

swapping all their coffee with decaf, leaving their milk unrefridgerated, and, when nobody was expecting it, detonating the on-site emergency nuclear warhead.

His plan

was surely flawless. Unfortunately for BFB, the great sky loli

loved drinking lukewarm milk (if you know what I mean), and in fact had stored several small milk containers hidden underneath the detonation button. Thus, when it was pressed, the only thing to detonate was the console containing the button, with a pungent sour smell that would surely end up getting blamed on BFB.

Without warning, a squadron of armed soldiers wearing the Second Prussian Alliance Natural Killers insignia burst through the doors. In a rugged manly voice, the squadron leader shouted "You

VIOLATED THE LAW! STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!"

But then BFB ran into a dark alley and removed his Gray Fox mask, and everyone was cool again.

Chapter 4: A gaseous cat in the knee

Three nights ago, before the whole incident with the Great Sky Loli (whom everyone, might it be said, believed to have exited the story forever), a man by the name of Polymer Pete had completed his greatest invention. It was

rather unimpressive, to be honest. It didn't even

permanently eliminate world hunger, or make peace between warring nations. Still, as Polymer Pete's inventions went, it was the best he was likely to come up with in a long time. Maybe this one would make his mother acknowledge his existence once more, and Polymer Pete had never desired any better outcome.

His invention had been perfected - however,

the most unfortunate event would transpire precisely three days later, shortly after Polymer Pete's invention was unveiled. You see, he was never much of an engineer to begin with. But the EPUDM needed him, for he was in fact the only capable engineer supportive of their cause. Thus when they contracted him to invent the console which would control the launch of their nuclear warhead, they had no idea how faulty it would turn out to be.

Hence, when the BFB pushed the button, an

entire squadron of Imperial Guardsmen swarmed out of the portal that had appeared instead of the expected launched nuke.
They looked around and saw all of this heresy and were disgusted. "Hail the Emprah!", they shouted, and immediately began to

glance at each other nervously, unsure of exactly what to do. You see, this particular squadron

had a habit of going into battle completely unarmed. As a consequence, they went through new recruits like a chainsword through warm butter, but that's no reason to break with a perfectly fine regimental tradition.

"Does the 750th post even count as a GET these days?" inquired

Tharsh, who had recently been born of an interesting captcha but already posessed the mental and physical traits of a fully-grown adult. He then proceeded to

butter his toast with a chainsword.

"WHARRRGARBL! Toast for breakfast!" screamed Tharsh. Tharsh was cranky because he had toast crumbs inside his power armor.

The GSL effortlessly lifted Tharsh from the room and told him

that breakfast was long since over, and it was better to think about tea-time instead.

Upon alighting, Tharsh did his very best to restrain his barbarian toastly urges and engage in the tea party in a civilised manner, as was expected of him. Nonetheless, he couldn't

seem to find the sugar bowl. This misfortunate absence of a dish convenient for hiding small things like sugar or microphones caused Tharsh to

make impromptu use of his nostrils for the job, which aside from looking very silly was also terribly inefficient.

Marie Antoinette and her sister, who were also attending the tea party, were not amused. They

found that they were much more efficient at disposing bodies than giving birth to them. One of them gave birth to a body of water and created a planet similar to earth. The other stopped in her tracks and

was run over by a freight train.

Regrettably, a certain large obtuse backside was

not also killed in the accident... or was it an accident? In fact,

nobody had their eyes open during the concert, it was the coincidence of the century: everybody blinked at the same time. Newspapers

were outdated by several centuries - therefore no longer existed - and so instead,

people held large rectangular sheets of low-quality paper covered entirely in adverts. This meant that the

new planet's creation was utterly missed by the entire population of the solar system, who were too busy looking for a good bargain on shoes.

Tharsh gazed at his surroundings, as though seeing them for the first time, and saw his world for what it truly was:

an incredibly complex roguelike game made of political intrigues rather than monster slaying.

It was anal leakage in a downright horrid way.

Speaking of anal leakage, the gaseous cat was busy

being completely inconsequential, although he was sure he fit in this whole fiasco some way or another.

"What a gas!" he said as he

drifted through the window of an adult entertainment store.

Meanwhile, in the Oort cloud,

a sinister swarm of nanobots was approaching the solar system,

intent on restructuring the Earth into the shape of

a giant rodent - which their extraterrestrial employers would assuredly find very humorous.

As it approached Earth, the massive swarm resembled a

sinister swarm of nanobots.

"Stop!" said

Beady Eyes. "I'm really happy for you, I'm-a let you finish, but we have to acknowledge I'm the greatest thread hijacker of all time."

But nobody would hear him, and he then asphyxiated due to an inability to breathe interstellar plasma.

"Arf," said

the queen of

Catland. The entire population was shocked to hear such canine response from their feline ruler.

"...is what I would say if I were a wretched dog, like our sworn enemy!" she continued, flustered and desperate to recover the situation, lest her true canine identity be discovered. Fortunately, the residents of Catland were stupid enough to buy it. Actually, most of them had already completely forgotten about the whole affair and were more occupied by basking in a sunbeam.

"Anyway, I have an important announcement to make," said the queen. "It's about King Alistair Xavier Chang-Mortensen III...

--Nyaaagh!" With that undignified screech, the queen was dead. She had been assassinated by none other than

Niccolo Machiavelli, brought back to life by

the Edinburgh Cult of Undead Moé. Naturally, the citizens of Catland

were completely indifferent to the whole affair, being notoriously difficult to lead at the best of times. Most of them had never even realized there had ever been a queen of Catland, and wouldn't have cared even if they had known.

Yet this was par for the golf course of feline monarchy, perhaps even a birdie or an eagle, but then nobody was keeping score, especially not the caddy, for Catland royalty specialized in being completely inconsequential. Thus, Niccolo Machiavelli

had to concede that his political theories only really work on humans.

Disappointed and sexy, Niccolo slunk off into space to forget his problems. But his problems were just beginning.

That very second, the nanobots landed and promptly deployed their specialised

protein regurgitating apparati. Niccolo has no choice but to

throw raw bacon at them in the hopes of delaying them long enough for him to make his getaway. He silently thanked fate that he had thought to fill his pockets with raw bacon that morning in case of

breakfast. Breakfast without bacon would be uncivilized, after all.

Nanobots momentarily pacified, he ran to the only place he could think of:

Venice.

Part 4: Clandestine Cat Culture and the Carnivorous Calico Cormorant
In which Mr. Gray discovers that he made more tea than he bargained for; Barcelona encounters an unnatural wind; nanobots introduce the novel concept of marriage; a fleshy traitor witnesses an underground bowel movement; a former chairman organizes an assassin's conference; a celestial flat-chested female demonstrates the folly of flirting with fashion; felines gather swiftly in a secret salt mine; a panda and a formerly fictional nurse elope to Tijuana; internet characters interrupt the narrative with unrelated concepts; other things probably happen too but who the hell knows what is even going on anymore

"My, my. This will not do."

An old maxim once said, or at least to the best of Mr. Gray's memory went something alone the lines of, "Too much tea turns the gentlest men bitter." A profusion of whipping steam rose from his mug. Between ponderous sips he glanced to the pot, now to the tea before him, wondering whether such a statement could possibly hold true. After all, one may simply invite a guest or two to partake in the excess.

"But what, then, if it has cooled upon arrival?"

No - that would be terrible. He sipped with caution. Though the tea had come in large amounts, he steadfastly refused its unceremonious declination. Good tea is the impetus of an excellent day. Perhaps he would leave it to sit, pouring yet another serving should his thirst be so inclined.

"Indeed, I am fond of the stuff. Yet would that I took too much, and too soon, might I eventually be repulsed by its mere aroma?"

Not good. Not good at all.

Interrupting his thoughts,

more thoughts thoughtlessly thought their way into Mr. Gray's thought thoroughfare. Those thoughts were in turn interrupted by a third set of thoughts remotely related to the first thoughts. But these third thoughts were thoughtlessly interwoven with yet a fourth thought process. The fourth thoughts were thoroughly thoughtful, though Mr. Gray thought that that thought ought to have been thought through on Thursday.

Then a fifth thought interrupted all the rest: the tea was already growing lukewarm. A shiver shot through Mr. Gray's spine. This tea was going to

become cold, and that wouldn't do at all. He picked up the teapot and began gulping down the cooling tea directly from the spout.

The tea dripped down his throat like an overturned bucket of paint pouring down the side of a building. The spout smelled metallic. Mr. Gray