Third cousin, twice removed of Splotchy's Viral Theatre

Yes, it's that time again when The Great and Powerful Tyrant of All Internetual Fictionry splits this island earth with a thunderbolt from on high and bellows, BEHOLD MORTAL VERMIN! THOU SHALT TREMBLE BEFORE MY DIVINE INSPIRATION, AND THOU SHALT WRITETH A CHRONICLE CHRONICLING THESE CHRONICLES! And it was good, I guess. Amen.

The mall was crowded. There were happy people, angry people, people in a hurry, even a few people sleeping on benches. To the security guard, they were a blur of coats, hats and scarves. He was just beginning his second eight hour shift. He yawned, leaning against a pillar in the food court, the aftertaste of terrible mall cookies lingering on his tongue. His eyes abruptly snapped open with the loud sound of glass shattering behind him. (Splotchy)

"BEHOLD MORTAL VERMIN! THOU SHALT TREMBLE BEFORE MY DIVINE ELECTRON STRIP-O-GRAM, AND THOU SHALT STEPPETH UPON THESE SHARDS AS A TEST OF THY FAITH!"

"'twas th'ight 'fore sugarplum, oh shish, Meta Beass...," drooled a drunken Santa as he stumbled his way through an freshly expanding puddle of stale urine.

"Dude, it's the fuckin' Meta Beast," interjected the hipster masquerading as a laptop in the shadow of the Orange Julius, rebelliously not drinking an Orange Julius.

"Meta Beast? Oh, Lord Jesus, save us, Lord Jesus! Jesus," bawled the frumpy, bespectacled frau that ran the Fear God, Filthy Heathen! Christian bookstore.

The sweaty fingers of the exhausted security guard fumbled their way around the holster and the screaming crowd streaming in the opposite direction. He had never fired his gun before.

"YOU HAVE NEVER FIRED YOUR GUN BEFORE BUT KNOW THAT IT SHALT NOT HARMETH ME! BUT ALL THOSE CORN DOGS WILL!"

He pointed his crooked finger at the jungfrau.

"THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU TO SMITE MYSELF FOR HAWKING JOHN TESH! AND SURFING FOR PORN!"

Cowering, she hid behind a column as the dread Meta Beast turned his iron alloy gaze upon the once-typing hipster.

"NO ONE SHALT EVER READ THINE SCREENPLAY BUT THEY SHALT LAUGH AT IT AND I SHALT MOVE BACK IN WITH MOM AND DAD!"

Feigning self-conscious cool, the hipster soon crumpled as the wretched Meta Beast flashed his grinning tooth towards a two-sheets-to-the-wind St. Nick.

"AND YOU, MISRULING LORD, YOU SHALT DIE IN A DITCH BECAUSE, UNLIKE DAN AYKROYD, I SHALT BE UNABLE TO PULL THE FOOD OUT OF MY BEARD!"

The security guard, the hipster and the frau all huddled together, trembling before such a fearsome display of meta but obviously far away from the smelly, passed out Santa, awaiting some kind of fate. (Randal Graves)

Beach, sunshine, America's Foremost Performance Artist®, Freida Bee, David Barber, get cracking.