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04/18/11(Mon)14:25 No.25224534It had surprised everyone when it’d come to popularity, it seemed harmless at first, but grew in a surprisingly short time, before we knew it, we were here. None of us more than seven months old, based on a cartoon. Everything was pony based, mixed in with the often warped, strange ideas of The Fandom. Even the cab in which I now rode was pink with large curly hair.
I myself was the idea, the facsimile, of a fan. A rather small idea, just an image here, a mention there. But an idea nonetheless. I don’t know who from, none of us did, but almost every person with a name has the same story. One day poof, you’re here, in The OC, no warning, not a lick of sense, just the whim of some writer, artist or random person. But you learn quick, you have to. Apparently Semi hadn’t learned enough. I had a few suspects in the case, a few leads I needed to check. But first I needed to head back to the office
The building I was housed in was themed after Doctor Whoof, a large hourglass for a door, and a spiky hairdo for a roof. I payed the cabbie. I didn’t have pockets, but the money always just seemed to be there, in my hoof when I needed it, exact change. That’s just how things worked.
Inside it was a bit run down, but it was home. My office was on the ground floor, behind the door with my name on it, “Squeak” it proclaimed in large boldface type, Arial by the looks of it. Below that the word “Writer” had been hastily crossed out, and replaced with Private Eye, spelled in Comic Sans. I hated Comic Sans. The words had simply popped up after the ‘incident’ and I had followed them. I wasn’t a writer anymore. I thought as I walked past the door into my office. The only stories I needed now were real stories, stories from the streets. |
