Fall Of Cleveland

In case you guys missed these on Fluffybooru, Coal drew some awesome stuff for my ending.

We've been here nearly three months, and Anubis is still chugging away.  Thanks for your hard work, sir.

I lied. THIS is my last entry. Took Neckbeard's ending for Moloch and touched it up.


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>You are Richard Moloch, and you're hurrying to get the **** out of here.
>This whole thing got way out of hand.
>It was going to be simple.
>Step 1: Get on the board in charge of building Spaghetti Land, which was easy because of your public persona as a dedicated citizen of Cleveland.
>But seriously, **** Cleveland. The only thing they've been exporting lately is crippling depression.
>Step 2: Secretly plant explosives throughout the park in closed off underground rooms.
>You knew a guy in Russia. Goes by the pseudonym General Smirnoff. He thinks it's funny.
>Funny name, terrifying reputation. Dangerous to **** with, but the man knew how to blow **** up.
>Step 3: Wait for the fuzzy pony to be released on the market, then turn that park full of **** hugboxers into a flaming ball of death.
>You already had doctored up maintenance logs that put the blames on fluffy corpses clogging up important parts of the park, allowing the harvested natural gas to build up.
>Blame would be put on fluffies being death prone like they always are, and the nation would mourn the tragic loss of life.
>Fuzzies would be so much more desirable after people saw what sort of destruction fluffies could wreak.
>And as a major investor, you'd make shitloads of cash.
>It was simple, illegal, and profitable. Your favorite.
>But now it's all gone **** up.
>You planned on collecting on some serious insurance money and maybe a large cut of the ticket sales.
>That was before tens of millions of feral fluffies showed up.
>You watch Cleveland sink into the waters of Lake Eyrie, safe from your expansive mansion that lay on the far southern outskirts of town.
>If the radio's to be trusted, Perry has redlined and blown sky high, releasing a shitload of radiation into the disaster zone that was once a major American city.
>Today, you murded twelve million fluffy ponies, caused untold billions of dollars of property damage, and caused the deaths of hundreds of people.
>You've just caused the biggest act of terrorism on American soil than any other human being in history.
>That doesn't really bother you, though. You can't make an omelet without cracking a few cities.
>Or something like that.
>What bothers you is that your involvement in causing it is now national news.
>Arthur, that rat fink mother fucker. He must have saved records of your correspondence.
>Okay, you did too, but come on. You're a bad guy. That's what's expected of you.
>Well, Arthur was kind of a **** up little weasel too.
>But someone got their hands on Biotoy's files somehow.
>Which included the things that were meant to be secret.
>The bombs under Spaghetti Land, Order 109, the bribing of prominent Congressmen...
>So much for collecting on the insurance. You're probably the FBI's Most Wanted right now.
>Time to go to ground for a little while. Or forever.
>You have plenty of money stashed in offshore accounts. Plenty of underground connections to hide you, help you escape the country.
>This whole experience has been a giant waste of time, money, and patience.
>And people died, you guess. But **** 'em.
>Outside, you hear a car honking.
>Excellent, your pickup.
>From here, they'll take you to a private airfield, with plenty of planes designed to blow radar out of the country.
>Mexico is a long flight from here, but it'll let you go pretty much anywhere you want to go.
>China could always use men of your....talents.
>Hell, if you act like you meant for Cleveland to get wrecked, the Middle East might want to hire you, too.
>You finish packing your more vital possessions into suitcases and run out to the car.
>You throw the cases into the trunk and slide into the back seat.
>”Hey, you're not the guy I asked for. Where's Peter?”
>The Russian-looking dude with the scruffy face and cigarette in his mouth shrugs.
>”Change of plans. Could not make it. Said sudden complications mess up his schedule.
>Fair enough. The nearest city did just get turned into a radioactive puddle.
>”Fine. Just drive. The feds are going to be on my ass any minute now.”
>”Da, da.”
>The car peels out of the driveway, and peels down the back road way past the speed limit.
>”Hey Yakov, the airport is the other way-”
>”Change of plans." The driver turns around and sprays you in the face with some sort of liquid, and then the world goes dark.




>Sometime later, you wake up, tied down to the bed of a pickup truck, General Smirnoff smiling down at you.
>****. If he's here in person, that can't be good. You only ever talked to him over the phone before.
>For the Cleveland order, he did you the courtesy of a video conference, on account of the size of the order.
>"Aaaaah, Friend Moloch, so glad to see you waking up to join us." He says kindly, looking for all the world like your dear Grandfather.
>Oooooooooh ****, you know that look. This isn't your first run-in with a crime lord.
>"Friend, we have small problem. You buy bombs, and I am pleased to help, but the payment is no good. They, what is your word for it, jump? Burst? Bounce? Is bounce, yes?" The grizzled Soviet General stops grinning, and takes off his bear-skin hat, dropping it down by your head.
>And ****, it's not a hat, it's a goddamn Fluffy Pony with a Soviet Fluffy Mark.
>Or maybe it's just dye or a brand or something. Not really what you're thinking about at the moment.
>"You have not done good business with me, am sorry to say." The General sighs and rubs at his coat, staring at the smoking ruins of Cleveland. "And this, friend? This will have every police pig in your country howling for my head. If they know that you is buying from Old Smirnoff..."
>"For the love of God, Smirnoff, I have bank accounts worth a hundred times the cost of those bombs!"
>You beg as the Fluffy Pony unfolds and stares down at you with hard, cold eyes.
>How can a fluffy look that intimidating?
>Maybe because it's pretty damn big.
>Or do Russian fluffies just develop thicker coats?
>"The checks should never have bounced! This is all just a big mistake! I am a fabulously wealthy man, for ****'s sake!"
>"Da. You were fabulously wealthy, friend. No more. To take a page from my country's book, we have, ah, 'liberated' it for you. All the money. All your cars. All your houses. All General Smirnoff’s now. You are wanted man. Men like you, they have bad habit of, what is word? Tattling? Yes, they tattle like naughty boys on playground. Get all their friends in trouble. Think it gets them off easier. Well, friend, Old Smirnoff has to make sure he does not get in trouble with teacher." The Old Man grins down at you, smiling gently even as he hands something to his Fluffy Pony....
>No **** way. A hand-held oxygen torch....
>"I was looking forwards to this  'Spaghetti Land' of yours. Take Little Bear with me, go get him some American spaghetti, yes? He is good fluffy, never makes mess, does as Daddy Smirnoff say. But you ruin Little Bear's day."
>The General sighs and shakes his head. “You should have told me where bombs would be going. Would not have gotten Little Bear's hopes up. Would have given him other reward for being good little boy.
>He kneels down and scratches Little Bear's ears. Uncharacteristically for a fluffy, this does not elicit a response from Little Bear.
>He just stands there, looking at you with cold eyes.
>"So Smirnoff make it up to Little Bear, get him new toy. Let him play with you for a while."
>The General walks away, leaving you tied tightly to the cold metal floor of the pickup truck's tray, without an inch of give in the chains. “Do not go too fast this time, eh, Little Bear? You always break toys so quickly. Hard for Daddy Smirnoff to get new ones.”
>"In Sowbiet Wussa, Fwuffy abuse yuu." Little Bear grunts angrily, picking up the hand-held Oxygen Torch, clamping the handle with his teeth.
>One of Smirnoff's men helps him light it, making a tongue of bright blue flames shoot out the nozzle, then advances towards your face.
>Your screams bring no help, for the Government had evacuated everyone they could to avoid contamination by radioactive ash and smoke.
>General Smirnov saluted the burning, smoking, water-logged ruins with a bottle of vodka, had a swig, then passed it around to his men. They have their own fluffies that also take small sips.
>"Not much else here. Shame.We go back to the homeland ... but first things first. Find me some Fluffies, da? Must be some that survive. Little Bear needs more friends." He mutters as the screaming from the pickup truck takes on a higher pitched, inhuman tone.
>High pitched, almost like a fluffy.
>"Dah, General." The men nod, patting their Fluffy Ponies sadly.
>It was supposed to be the best day ever, but now Spaghetti Land is gone.
>But at least Little Bear got a new toy to play with.
>And he remembers to take his time playing.
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Okay, NOW I'm done writing. For srs. Back to work on the video.

Man, if you want it, go nuts. I'm just bashing my head at the keyboard trying to get the data un-fudged and trying to find new jobs in my trade in the surrounding area on the sly. Wasn't told the other tradesman had been told to take his holidays, all 4 weeks, just before my contract expires .... when they knew I knew, it was all 'Oh, coincidence'.

Yeah, coincidence my ass. Yet if I'm caught looking for another job while on Contract, I am the guy who'll be facing punitive measures.

Seriously ... the boss either needs to stop being a **** child or admit he can't handle running two shops at once.

Hell yes.

Heaven yes.

Elysium yes.

Something like that.