Conotocaurious the Wicked, the Dreaded, Dark and Cruel Raccoon now led the filmmaker JJ Abrams deep through the darkness of his unholy crypt. The Raccoon had just taken Abrams through the Hall of Batman, a bespoke circle of perdition devoted to punishing those that had disgraced the Dark Knight.
Abrams shook with fear. This was the Raccoon that had emasculated and murdered Damon Lindelof for his perceived authorial shoddiness, particularly when penning the end of the television series Lost. This was the Raccoon that had torn off Joel Schumacher’s nipples and forced Hercules to repeatedly kick Frank Miller in the balls for besmirching the legend of Batman. JJ Abrams now feared he would be kicked into a deeper circle of Hell for impugning Conotocaurious the Cruel’s other great love: Star Wars.
I haven’t even made the film yet, he thought, trembling, I could still do a good job! Oh, Jesus, is he one of those types? Don’t let the Bad Raccoon sentence me to the Star Wars Hell for a movie that isn’t even made yet!
As Abrams attempted to work through his apprehension, he wondered how the Crooked Raccoon found the time to watch all these movies, read all these comics, and torture and kill all these people. He supposed that if what the ghost of DeForest Kelley had told him was true – and that the raccoon did his evil work by divine mandate – he would be given all the time and resources he needed by God Himself. Abrams was pondering the theological and cosmological implications of this when something he didn’t expect at all happened.
His cell phone rang.
He didn’t remember bringing it, wearing only his urine-soaked pajamas; he wasn’t even sure he was actually corporeal, since he’d been time traveling with Dr. McCoy only recently; and he was equally stunned that there was any reception in what was quite probably Hell. Unthinkingly, he pulled the phone out of his pocked and looked at it, as his Miley Cyrus ringtone echoed through the emptiness of the purgatorial ossuary. Conotocarious, who was shuffling ahead of him, stopped in his tracks and gave Abrams a cold glare. Abrams gulped, hoping the Piercing Raccoon wouldn’t think him too rude. No luck: The Raccoon appeared furious that Abrams would have left his phone on for their tour of darkness.
Perhaps his doom was coming even sooner than expected. Abrams prepared to beg for mercy as Conotocaurious growled with the same rage that had turned Shia Labeouf into a fine strawberry mist. Then he saw the name on the screen, and he decided to roll the dice by telling Conotocaurious who it was.
“It’s… Mark Hamill,” said Abrams tentatively. It worked. The Mean Raccoon’s rage abated instantly, his eyes widened with what might even be excitement, and his fur puffed up. When he wasn’t about brutal murder, the raccoon looked quite cute. He stood up on his hind legs and frantically tried to indicate something to Abrams. He was gesticulating to his pointed ears, and waving his manlike paws about.
He quickly unlocked the screen and tapped the “Speaker” button.
“Hello, Mark?” he said. The cheerful, somewhat high-pitched voice of Luke Skywalker now filled the darkness. It was a little garbled, possibly by the poor reception in the hellish ossuary, but it was audible.
“JJ? JJ?” the voice said, “It’s Mark Hamill. Where the hell are you?”
“Funny you should ask,” said Abrams, looking over at Conotocarious, who indicated he should behave normally.
“I’m fine, but where in the name of all things sacred have you been? You’ve been missing for months!”
I have? thought Abrams, Time must pass differently in Hell.
“I… uh, I’ve been away on business,” Abrams said.
“Well, you’re still doing the new Star Wars, right? Because I want to be sure I’m still playing Luke. I don’t exactly get tons of film work these days.”
“Yes! Yes, you’re definitely still playing Luke,” Abrams said.
“I saw your Star Trek Into Darkness movie, and I guess it was okay, but why did you have literally the whitest person possible play Khan? Isn’t he supposed to be a Sikh?”
“Uh… Khan is a terrorist, and we didn’t want a brown terrorist, though…”
“Wow! JJ, that’s a great impression of a terrible, overly PC filmmaker!” Mark said cheerily, “But seriously, is everything okay? You vanished off the face of the planet, which has oddly been happening to a lot of bad writers, directors, artists and actors lately. Lindelof is missing too, feared dead, and Brett Ratner was recently found floating in the River Thames with several Magneto action figures inserted into his anus! Harrison, Carrie and I thought you’d been killed! We feared for our own lives, too, because of everything happening! Some say it’s a nerd conspiracy. Others blame this new terrorist mastermind Jon Hammster, who just declared war on humanity. Still others speak in hushed, fearful whispers of another name: Conotocarious the Wicked! Whoever he is, the FBI calls this killer the Hack Slasher. Am I going to be attacked?”
Conotocaurious shook his head ferociously, looking genuinely horrified at the very thought he’d ever harm Mark Hamill.
“Well, uh, Mark, you don’t have anything to worry about, the… uh, perpetrator of the, uh… is a huge fan of yours, and, uh… whoever this Jon Hammster is, if he harms you, I’m pretty sure that… this, uh… being will destroy him,”
“Whew! That’s a relief,” Mark said, “Although Jon Hammster is very powerful in his own right, so a battle between those two would be pretty interesting. So you do know about these killings then?”
Conotocaurious drew his spindly finger across his fuzzy throat, warning Abrams not to mention him.
“No.. uh, not really, no… but I think you’ll be okay,” Abrams stammered, “I’m sorry I’ve been missing. But you will definitely have a part in the movie…”
Abrams looked down at the Dark Raccoon, “I’m afraid the fans would kill me if you didn’t.”
“Well, I just wanted to make sure this thing was still happening, and see if you were dead. I’m glad you’re not!”
“Not yet,” said JJ sadly.
“Well, uh, I guess I’ll catch you around,” Mark said.
Abrams looked over at Conotocarious, who was excitedly pantomiming something. His lips had split into a terrifying grin, revealing his row of yellowed, pointed teeth. He was shaking strangely.
“Sure!” Mark obliged, and proceeded to fill the air with his signature manic, terrifying cackle. In his beautiful Jerry Lewis/Hannibal Lecter inspired Joker voice he drawled, “Joker here, kids! And how’s my old pal JJ doing?”
Abrams looked down at the Dark Raccoon, who was somewhat poorly trying to conceal the action of his baculum at the moment. He loved Mark Hamill’s Joker. But then Hamill continued in that voice, and the mood changed.
“Well, kids, it’s a tough world for ol’ Joker. Nuclear hamsters! And, kiddies, Ben Affleck is the new Batman! Oh, dear!”
Conotocarious perked his ears up, and suddenly didn’t seem so excited. Abrams felt the blood drain out of his face. “Oh, shit,” he couldn’t help but say.
“Did I say something wrong?” Mark said in his normal voice.
“Uh, no, Mark…” Abrams said, “It wasn’t you. Thank you. Goodbye.” He hung up and looked down at Conotocaurious. The Bad Raccoon’s hackles were now on end; his eyes were blazing; literally glowing with rage. Abrams felt the room actually become colder, and Conotocaurious the Crooked Raccoon began to physically grow in size; then his hair began to fall off, and Abrams could see that his skin was actually blackened stone. The stone cracked, revealing the molten brimstone that was his blood. He looked like he might explode from the very fury that he felt.
Then Conotocaurious shut his glowing eyes and inhaled deeply, sucking much of the oxygen out of the ossuary. Abrams now felt lightheaded, and thought he might pass out as the Dark Raccoon took another deep breath to try to calm himself. Finally, after nearly suffocating Abrams, Conotocaurious was able to relax, and he slowly returned to his original form, though his eyes still glowed. He now appeared determined, as if on a mission. Faster than a speeding bullet, the Bad Raccoon darted onto Abrams’ shoulder and seized his hair.
“What’s happening? Oh, God, don’t kill-”
There was a loud BAMF! and in a cloud of smoke and brimstone, the pair were instantly teleported out of the crypt. Abrams was disoriented by the trip, but when he came to his senses, he saw they were in a large bedroom, not unlike Abrams’ own. In the bed, a figure slept, tossing and turning. Next to the figure, who was rolled up in his 10,000 thread count linens, there lay a young, nubile and nude girl whose golden hair and vajazzling both glittered equally. Abrams recognized her as Courtney Carlisle, a hard working and very expensive call girl that was quite popular among Hollywood’s elite.
“Where are we? This isn’t my house,” whispered Abrams, “I know Courtney the Prostitute, but who is that sleeping there?”
In an instant, Conotocaurious was off of Abrams’ shoulder and sitting on the bed, staring at the man. With his paws, he pulled back the sheet a bit; and Abrams recognized the man sleeping there. It was director Zack Snyder, the man behind Watchmen and Man of Steel. Abrams, knowing how the Bad Raccoon would probably feel about both those films, was frightened for Snyder.
“Are you going to kill him?” he asked Conotocarious. The raccoon slowly shook his head, and Abrams sighed with relief. But then, Conotocarious slowly pointed a spindly finger at Abrams.
“Me?” Abrams said.
The raccoon nodded. Then he held up his paws, equidistant from each other, and violently twisted them around. The horror of what Conotocaurious was asking now filled Abrams.
Conotocaurious nodded his head. Yes.
“I… I can’t, please, Mr. Conotocaurious, I can’t kill anyone,” Abrams pleaded, starting to cry. His sobs were stifled by the Bad Raccoon baring his teeth, an obvious threat. Then he looked over at Courtney and sniffed her sleeping form. And he smiled, wickedly.
“Oh, God, Oh God, no, please, don’t hurt her,” Abrams said. Conotocaurious pointed back at Snyder.
His sobbing was uncontrollable now, and he slowly moved to the sleeping form of Zack Snyder. Fighting every fiber of his own morality, he reached with both hands towards the other director’s head. He seized Snyder along his temples, and could feel the warm blood pulsing about the sleeping man’s cranium. At Abrams’ touch, Snyder’s eyes opened.
“Courtney, I -” he said groggily, then he realized what was happening, “Oh, JESUS! JJ Abrams!”
Abrams was crying openly now. “I am so, so sorry,” he wailed, “But if I don’t do this, Conotocaurious will do something much worse to you. And Courtney. And me.”
“What the hell is going on, Abrams? Let go of me,” Snyder said, terrified. He struggled, but Abrams now leaned on him with all of his weight. The noise and struggling stirred Courtney, who tried to scream. Conotocaurious silenced her by climbing up on her back and clamping his paw over her mouth; she tried to struggle but the Bad Raccoon was far too strong. Abrams looked over at the two and knew that Conotocaurious could kill everyone in the room before anyone could react, and so he had no choice but to continue with his brutal task.
“I’m sorry, Zack,” he said, “Sorry we couldn’t work together. Sorry I have to do this.”
Abrams began to push Snyder’s head sideways, and he felt a familiar warmth leak down his leg as the 300 director pissed himself. Abrams’ stomach was twisted into knots, and his self-loathing only increased as Snyder began to beg. He was fighting with everything he had to get Abrams off of him, but the other director had him pinned.
“Oh, God, no, Abrams, please! Is this because Man of Steel made more than Star Trek into Darkness? Abrams, I’m begging you! Please don’t kill me! Jesus, people can watch both Star Trek and Superman, you don’t have to -”
Instantly, Snyder stopped struggling and went limp. The familiar stench of panic poop slowly crept into the air, mingling with the scents of Courtney’s Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes and Conotocaurious’ boiling sulfurous blood. Abrams exhaled deeply and toppled off of the corpse, and off of the bed, falling to the carpet in a mess of tears and unfathomable remorse.
“WHY? WHY, CONOTOCAURIOUS? WHY?”
The Dark Raccoon smiled. Then he placed a finger to his lips, and when he was satisfied that Courtney understood him, he let her go. She sat quivering, with tears streaming down her face, too scared to move or speak. Abrams wanted to go comfort her, but as he’d just murdered Zack Snyder, he didn’t think that she’d be interested in his comfort. He looked again at the body of Snyder, who had a look of betrayal and horror frozen on his dead face.
Oh, Zack! Why couldn’t you just let Superman act like Superman? Then none of us would have to be here, Abrams thought. Now the Raccoon had produced a thick wad of hundred dollar bills from somewhere; he had either kept it in his fur or taken it from somewhere in Snyder’s house. Either way, he was now handing it to Courtney as compensation for what they’d put her through. He then pointed to the door, and she took the hint, and ran out, clutching the money but still nude, her hair and her vajazzles sparkling in the dim moonlight that peeked through the windows of Zack Snyder’s mansion-tomb.
Now Abrams was trying to collect himself. He was pulling himself up off of the ground when he felt the heavy weight of Conotocaurious sitting on his chest. The creature had ransacked Snyder’s house and was now holding a DVD copy of the movie Daredevil. Holding the DVD case in one paw, Conotocaurious drew his other paw across the image of Ben Affleck clad in the red leather of the Marvel Superhero. He scratched it once, twice, three times, until the DVD cover was a slashed up mess and the picture of Affleck was unrecognizably destroyed. Then he grunted. Abrams knew exactly what he meant by this; and this filled him with dread.
Conotocaurious the Wicked was out of control; he was too dangerous, and he was never going to stop. Though he’d been a gibbering wreck throughout this whole ordeal; though he’d just committed murder on the Raccoon’s orders, Abrams knew he needed to pull himself together. Even though trying to fight Conotocaurious might well mean suicide, and possibly eternal damnation, JJ Abrams felt he had no choice:
He had to save Ben Affleck.
NEXT TIME: Abrams Strikes Back!