A Star Wars Carol, Episode III: Hic Svnt Raccoones

Conotocaurious! Lindelof’s Bane! The Ashen King of All Profane!

 The ring-tailed demon cruel and cute has raised his paw in Death’s Salute!

Heralding your final fate! Behind his mask lies only hate!

Beware the darkness in his gaze! His breath sets Girl Scouts ablaze!

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Conotocaurious! He drinks and drives! Without a care for infant’s lives!

Defiling their Moms and wives! His little hands are sharp as knives!

Beware his malefic, loathsome ways! Harbinger of the end of days!

cuteraccoon

Conotocaurious! He’s Satan’s dad! Quintessence of the cosmic bad!

Objectively the worst raccoon since Witko left to raze the Moon!

The Slayer of the Unskilled Bards! His evil jaws remove their nards!

Let them that scoff at their own fans, fear his grey and blackened bands!

Fear bloodstained teeth in crimson gums; Conotocaurious the Wicked this way comes!

Unknown Author

(From a Graffito Etched Onto the Dumpster That Damon Lindelof’s Body Was Thrown Into)

So it had come to this.

Hundreds of centuries ago, long before the creation of agriculture, clothing or even writing, Man sat in his caves and chiseled Art into his walls, with no fear of losing his Security Deposit since that was a concept also yet to be. Art was the first thing that indicated we were truly human; the first thing to separate us from the savage apes. It made us happy in a cruel world filled with saber-toothed tigers and ruthless mammoths. It spoke to our condition even as we struggled to make sense of the chaos of the world around us. It lifted us from brutes into enlightenment. And when the first Art was chiseled onto the first wall of the first cave, there was born the first Nerd; the first man to study that art repeatedly and needlessly overanalyze it. The first man to pretend he was the aurochs in that painting in lieu of seeking social gratification from the rest of the tribe. And as the Nerd was made in God’s own Geeky image, the Lord smiled upon him.

And yet, even then, some Men did not create Art for the sake of beauty. Some did not care about its exalted purpose; they only scrawled their paintings into the dimly lit cave walls because the less enlightened cavemen would trade them fish for it. They cared not about the search for purpose; they merely wished to impress the cave-ladies and procure luxuries and services for themselves. These Men were the first Hacks; fellows who wasted their talents in the hedonistic quest for material comfort.

This enraged God; and on the same day as the first Artist came into being, as the same Nerd first idolized the first Artist, and as the first Hack emulated the first Artist without understanding him, God sent the first Raccoon into the world. The first Raccoon, whose name was Beshekee, slew the first Hack by gnawing his wiener off in ghastly fashion.

And thus began a tradition that has lasted scores of milennia; the dark raccoon who avenges the scorned Nerds. The Children of Beshekee have been sighted since time immemorial in every corner of the globe, and always shuffling away from a dead and castrated hack. The greatest of all of them was Witko the Grey Death, who for over a thousand years destroyed the talentless imitators from Elizabethean England all the way to the Weimar Republic. But now Witko was gone; he’d last been seen clinging to the engine thrust structure of the Apollo 17 Space Shuttle, but he’d sworn to return when the world needed him most. Some said he’d gone to the Moon to destroy it… for was it not the ultimate hack, in a pale imitation of the Earth? Some said he was bound to destroy God himself, who he felt had been phoning it in for a few centuries. Others, however, said that Witko needed to recruit the Black Rabbit of Inlé; and that the two of them would return together one day to fatally asexualize Richard Linklater after that so called “director” created a work so abominable that it plunged fandom into a thousand years of darkness. Regardless of where Witko was, however, the greatest, deadliest, and meanest raccoon now on the Earth was Conotocaurious the Wicked.

And Conotocaurious had something to prove.

Now, as JJ Abrams stood staring into his eyes, he knew that his punishment was nigh. It had been a long night for old JJ, after all. He had been lately visited by the damned specter of his dead friend Damon Lindelof, killed by Conotocaurious in vengeance for his rushed and lazy scripts for Lost and Prometheus. After that, he had been taken by the ghost of legendary Star Trek actor DeForest Kelley on a time-traveling misadventure to visit his younger self, and now here he stood: in a dark, forgotten cemetery in some ancient and gloomy corner of the globe, gazing into the eyes of the Conotocarious the Wicked, who surely meant him harm. The baleful glare of the Devil-Coon locked with Abrams’ fearful stare, and the fell creature seemed to swell to twice its original size as the hackles on its back rose in its fury. In that moment, JJ Abrams was no longer afraid, for why fear what you cannot stop? The director dropped to his knees, and prepared to expose his manhood, hoping that the cruel beast would at least excise it swiftly. 

But as he fumbled with his belt, a strange thing happened. Conotocaurious the Merciless, who had never in his long existence spared a single soul, raised a spindly paw, as if commanding Abrams to stop. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Abrams cried, “I’m sorry for Star Trek! Sorry for Alias! But the rest of my stuff was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

Conotocaurious the Ringed Rogue cocked his masked head to one side and narrowed his coal-black eyes.

“Please, Mr. Raccoon, if you’re going to kill me, please just get it done!”

Conotocaurious, the Beast of Urban Dumpsters, slowly shook his head from side to side. Then, deliberately, remarkably, the raccoon turned around. Away from JJ Abrams! The shaggy demon began to shuffle back towards the open crypt from which he’d come. Could it be Conotocaurious actually agreed that Abrams’ body of work was mostly good? Could the Wicked indeed be sparing the man who wrote Armageddon? Was it possible? It couldn’t be… Could it?

And yet it seemed that it was, as the raccoon slowly began to disappear into the blackness of the crypt. Abrams felt relief wash over him like a wave, warming him to the very depths of his soul. Exhaling deeply, he whispered, “Thank you.”

The Devil-Coon’s ears perked up. And in the most agonizing moment yet, the beast turned around and once again faced JJ Abrams. Then, slowly, quietly, cruelly, Conotocaurious raised a paw.

And beckoned.

Conotocaurious, the Crooked Raccoon, was commanding Abrams to follow him. And what choice was there? Angering this creature was a conception that could lead only to tears and emasculation. So Abrams did as he was bid, and followed the raccoon into the darkness of the crypt.

To be continued…

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