[EPISODE 2] Cannibalism: The Hot New Teen Craze

Interesting fact: pom-pons were invented in either 803 AD or 1932 depending on the universe in question. Originally used to intimidate opposing sports teams, cheerleaders would often use the fluttery texture to conceal weapons such as knives, maces, and small battle axes. During the game, cheerleaders would rustle their pom-poms, warning the opposition of what was to come. At the start of halftime, they would rush the stands while chanting war cries and swinging their weapons. After the Dolphin/Packers massacre of 2003, this traditional practice fell out of favor, as stadiums began selling team-branded spears.

After Mito, Dolly, and Rob land in a penitentiary, they soon realize the situation is much, much worse than they initially expected. Zombies, basketballs, and witchcraft. Oh my!

Welcome to the Crack- the wound between worlds, the rift amongst the stars, the only news network that brings you every story from every reality. You're watching, the CBW Channel.

Dolly: Welcome back to the CBW Channel. My name is Dolly, and this is my partner Mito and the newest addition to our staff, Rob Skythrust. If you don't have your psychic transmitters tuned in for the broadcast, take a moment to adjust those now. We try to describe everything as best we can for those unable to receive our psychically transmitted images, but language can't adequately describe the sharpness of Rob's cheekbones. The average human adult may know 42,000 words, but none of them can concisely explain the things I'd like to do to that face.

Rob: Please stop.

Mito: Before we begin our show, my producers have instructed me to read this notice. If you have a story worthy of our ace reporters-

Dolly: Ace? Oh, bless his heart. That's the kind of word I love seeing on my employee review.

Mito: Dolly, that word will never appear on either of our reviews. Mr. Stanton just returned from a leadership conference, and he's trying to butter us up.

Rob: He can't do that. I just got here. I haven't had a chance to prove myself. Isn't there an intern we could sacrifice instead?

Mito: First off, it is incredibly prejudiced to assume corporate is planning to eat us. Many dragons don't even like the taste of human flesh, and they never eat their own employees. Yes, firing is taken literally around here, but butter is not involved. Second, Mr. Stanton is just trying to keep us from going on strike like the shadow people. Third, I was using late 1900's earth slang, as our current crisis takes place there. Didn't you read the cultural handbook I sent over?

Dolly: Now sweetie, it was a thousand pages, and most of them were oddly focused on pudding. Cut our favorite eye candy a little slag.

Mito: Slack. The phrase is cut him a little slack, not slag. Uggh. Never mind. If you think you have a story worthy of our ace reporters, drop us a note. You can do this by writing, chiseling, or painting your name and address onto a stick, burning said stick, and then feeding the ashes to the nearest pigeon. We apologize for the inconvenience, but the previous method is no longer available. I repeat, do not stand in a dark corner chanting your name and address. The shadow people will not come. Apparently, they think they're too good to drink the bone marrow of our concerned viewers. They want to be paid so they can buy real food. I blame necromancers. As soon as they started showing up in the Crack, the shadow people forgot the meaning of hard work.

Dolly: Mito! Don't you go bad-mouthing our favorite shadowy monsters.

Mito: I was just reading Mr. Stanton's note! No one deserves to strike more than our dark darlings, and those stupid birds are ruining everything.

Dolly: Those damn pigeons. You know I never liked that glint in their beady little eyes, but I never saw them as strikebreakers.

Mito: Scabs. Blacklegs. Ratfinks.

Rob: Um, what?

Mito. It's 1900's earth slang. Stars and sun, read the slang dictionary. If I see one of those strikebreaking pigeons flittering about, I'm going to bake it into a pie. Just you watch me.

Rob: Shh. Are you really going to say that where Mr. Stanton can hear?

Mito: What is he going to do? Fire me? I've survived longer on this channel than anyone else.

Rob: Uh, survive?

Dolly: Don't worry about it, sweetie. [Louder] I don't want our viewers to get the wrong idea. Our favorite Princess Mitochondria-

Mito: Mito'ca'hondria

Dolly: Our dear Mito is just kidding around. She'd never eat a coworker, even a grimy, no-good strikebreaker. She's just eager to try my recipe for pigeon pie, which calls for two pigeons unaffiliated with our network. It's such a shame they look so much like the strikebreakers.

Mito: For those unfortunate souls without psychic receptors, Mr. Stanton is currently twirling his spiny tail. I've yet to master the intricacies of dragon body language, so I can't be quite certain what he means. Dolly?

Dolly: Huh. You know my pretty eyes aren't what they used to be. It would be easier if he was bigger. I know, I know. They say size doesn't matter. [snort] In most areas of life. Funnily enough, I don't think the folks that say that kind of thing were talking about a palm-sized dragon and the itty-bitty spectacles perched on the tip of his snout.

Mito: For those poor viewers with underdeveloped psychic abilities, I will note that the studio is now on fire. I'm going to assume Mr. Stanton is urging us to hurry up and go to the story of the hour. Either that, or he's decided the CBW Channel could do with a few less reporters.

Rob: Yes! Replace me- I mean us. I just want to go home.

Mito: We all want to go home. Do you think you're special? Nobody asked to fall into a crack between worlds. I'm a princess, not a reporter. Dolly had acolytes before she came here. Stop whining and pull yourself together. The only way to get out is to stumble into a story that takes place on your home world.

Rob: You told me that's never happened.

Dolly: Now, honey, there's a first time for everything. Don't frown like that. A rugged, manly face like yours shouldn't get watery eyes. It's like watching a gator try to climb a cactus. Some things just ain't right.

Mito: As Rob inches away from Dolly in obvious discomfort, I notice my 19th Century Earth-1 cultural handbook is on fire. As I smother the flames with my shiny, silver lead reporter hat, I decide it might be time to move onto our story.

Mito: I wave my hand vaguely in the direction of where the sky should exist. If my middle finger happens to linger in Mr. Stanton's direction, I'm sure nobody noticed.

Mito: We land in a late 19th Century Universe 3, school in an infamous country called 'Florida.' Unlike citizens in the neighboring countries of New York, California, and Texas, Florida Man -the self-proclaimed name for the inhabitants of this place- is considered dangerous and deranged.

Rob: Did you just flip off the pink dragon?

Mito: Mr. Stanton is a fuchsia dragon, and that was a gesture of respect on my home world. Can we focus? I'm giving viewers the necessary background. Historical research shows that the most common pastimes of Florida Man are ingesting bath salts and fist-fighting anthropomorphized giant mice. It's worth noting several discredited historians have objected to this summation. Professor Greg Walker has been quoted saying "What? Florida was not a country, and far more people abused bath salts in New York. Those so-called researchers are just jealous of our great weather and massive theme park." End quote. In this reporter's opinion, Professor Walker has definitely been hitting the bath salts. [pause, considering] Is it hitting or smoking? Or is it a patch you stick between your toes? In Cellaria, my home world, addiction didn't exist. We were too evolved for such things.

Dolly: Mito, dear, I think you overshot us. We were supposed to land in a school, but this is clearly a prison. It feels just like that one on Sigawa 6.

Mito: I re-examine our surroundings, dread building with every scuffmark I see on the speckled white tiles. Beige walls. Insipid motivational posters. Harsh, fluorescent lighting. Heavy steel doors that lock automatically. The stench of sweat, anxiety, and too much perfumed body spray. Shit. This is definitely a penitentiary.

Dolly: You'll do better next time, moon-pie. It takes time to grow into a proper lead reporter, and you're shooting up like a weed. Your 19th Century Earth-1 Cultural handbook was really, uh thorough.

Mito: Back home, I excelled at everything. There was no skill I couldn't master. In the Crack Between Worlds, I am just another failure. I'm no better than Rob.

Rob: You make it really hard to be sympathetic.

Mito: Dr. Ravenwood, the previous lead reporter, never brought us to the wrong world. I don't deserve to wear this top hat.

Dolly: Let's send the pity parade home, Mito. Pop that sparkly hat back on. I'm sure we can find a story worth covering. There's always a scuffle worth watching. Perhaps we'll get lucky, and it'll turn into a riot.

Mito: Reluctantly, this reporter returns the silver lead reporter hat to her head. Mito'ca'handria, Powerhoose of Cellaria does not accept mediocrity. There is no story she can't find, no-

Rob: I think I hear something down the hallway.

Dolly: After it! Don't let our story get away!

Mito: Our shoes squeak on the grubby tiles as three reporters race down the hallway. We stumble into a large room packed with screaming juvenile humanoids. It appears to be an arena where inmates can duel to the death over petty slights and control of the few luxuries prisons provide. Everglade High Gymnasium is painted across the far wall. I'm unfamiliar with that terminology. If not an arena, then this must in fact be the place where convicted criminals exercise. [scoff] Barbaric.

Rob: Let me guess. On Cellaria, there are no criminals. Everyone is always perfect.

Mito: Don't be ridiculous. Our prison is a labyrinth with plenty of natural sunlight. We'd never force people to exercise under artificial light. No citizen would ever break the law, but the labyrinth is packed with outsiders jealous of our perfection.

Rob: Sure they are.

Mito: The humanoids flee the bleachers, some bypassing the stairs entirely and jumping down like gangly rats fleeing a burning ship. The arena itself is painted with a series of rounded and rectangular lines. Two hoops sit on outstretched poles at either side. Is this a new execution method, or an arcane ritual? A bumpy, orangey-red orb rolls to my feet, perhaps a sacred symbol of-

Dolly: Mito, dear, I don't think that basketball is the star of the show.

Rob: A slender girl with a perky blond ponytail and pristine white shoes lunges at one of the fleeing inmates. She waves a shiny ball of confetti in his face as-

Mito: Hell no! I'm the narrator. The blond teenager waves the sacred confetti-

Dolly: Pom-pom. The cheerleader is holding a pom-pom.

Mito: For viewers unfamiliar with this esoteric terminology, the 'cheerleader' and her fellow teenagers in bright red uniforms appear to be the executioner team of this prison. They cartwheel after the screeching inmates.

Cheerleaders chanting in unison: That's alright! That's okay! We're gonna eat you anyway!

Dolly: My goodness, look at those flips.

Mito: The cheerleaders growl as the last of the inmates slam the heavy steel door shut. As if possessed by a hive mind, their heads whip around to stare at us. Their pom-poms rustle like a rattlesnake warning off a predator.

Rob: They do not think we're predators!

Dolly: The three reporters sprint for the exit. Bright, white sneakers become a squeaky blur as the cheerleaders chase after us. I narrowly slip through the exit before Rob slams the door shut. The cheerleaders yank on the door, but are unable to defeat the automatic locks.

Cheerleaders in unison: Y-E-L-L Everybody yell, yell!

Mito: Whoo!

Dolly: Mito!

Mito: Sorry, Dolly. Muscle reflex. I hear chanting and I feel this unbearable urge to start hitting outsiders.

Rob: I'm the one you hit.

Dolly: While we look for someone to interview, I'd like to tell all y'all viewers about our sponsor, Peepers Peanuts.

Mito: Are you struggling to lose that last five pounds? Try Peepers Peanuts, the only snack that judges you while you eat.

Dolly: With their patented, eyeball transplant technology, Peepers Peanuts can give you The Look the moment you open the pantry. They come in a range of delicious flavors like Spicy Stink Eye, Leering Cinnamon Swirl, and Evil Eye and Vinegar.

Mito: If you can't stick to a diet, try Peepers Peanuts. Not suitable for people without a sense of shame. Ask your therapist if Peepers Peanuts is right for you.

Dolly: As we hurry down the hall, Rob's keen hunting eyes catch sight of movement behind the door. We knock.

Rob: Open up!

Jess: It's the police!

Brad: Finally!

Jess: You aren't the police.

Mito: I am Princess Mito'ca'hondria, lead reporter for the CBW Channel.

Brad: Where are the police? We need the police. We need the national guard. We need SWAT Teams and navy seals and crazy dads with baseball bats. This is an emergency!

Dolly: It's common courtesy to introduce yourself, sugar.

Brad: I'm Brad. Look, we need help. Real help, from real professionals. Dangerous professionals, not some prissy chick, a dotty old woman, and a male model.

Mito: As a professional, I try hard not to let my anger show. Brad wouldn't know dangerous if it stared him in the face, as evidence by his dismissal of our skills. I've been training with a laser sword since I could walk, and Rob's ruggedly calloused hands tell me he definitely knows his way around a sword.

Jess: Hi, Rob. I'm Jess. I mean, you can call me Jess, but my name is totally Jessica.

Mito: Viewers should note, Jess is twirling her golden hair around her finger as she flutters her eyelashes at Rob. I strongly suspect she is the main character, as no normal person has golden hair.

Jess: So you do a lot of swordfighting? That's so cool.

Rob: Thanks. I'm in a relationship. It's a bit long distance right now because she's in a different universe, but I'm not really comfortable with you rubbing my bicep like that.

Dolly: As Rob edges away from Jess and her glowering love interest, it falls to me to continue the interview.

Mito: I'm the lead reporter! So, Jess, what led to your incarceration in this dreadful prison? Murder? Espionage? If the answer is something boring like embezzlement, consider jazzing up your answer so our viewers aren't disappointed.

Jess: What? Prison? We're high school students.

Mito: Oh my stars! I landed us in the right story. I haven't tarnished the legacy of Dr. Ravenwood!

Dolly: I just said that to mess with you, dear. Your 19th Century Earth-1 handbook was so large, I didn't think you could've possibly remembered it all.

Rob: Dolly, I forgive you for all the weird compliments you make about my cheekbones.

Mito: This reporter ignores the hurtful comments from her coworkers and resumes the interview. Brad, can you tell me about the events that led to you hiding in this room like a scared rabbit?

Brad: I'm not- you know what? I will tell you. I was in the middle of the best basketball game of my life. That net was going swish, swish, swish every time I looked at it. At half-time, I looked for my girlfriend in the bleachers, but Jess was too busy picking a fight with the cheer squad to wave back.

Jess: Have you seen the way Brittany looks at you? That man-stealing skank needs to back off.

Brad: The whistle blows. I'm dribbling better than LeBron. Next thing I know, everyone is screaming. I look over, and the cheerleaders are eating the referee. People start running for their lives, the nerds shriek about zombies, and where is Jess? Staring. Just staring. She didn't even flinch when they surrounded her. Like the awesome boyfriend I am, I shove the calculus teacher at the cheer squad, grab Jess, and run.

Dolly: You sacrificed your instructor?

Brad: It's fine. She was awful.

Jess: She gave detention for literally everything.

Brad: We hide in the first classroom we find. I call 911, and the dumbass operator hangs up. Like any reasonable person, I start panicking a little. How are we supposed to get help if all the people in charge think I'm prank calling them? I look at Jess, hoping the love of my life has a plan. Do you know what I see?

Mito: I can't wait to find out.

Brad: She has a literal spellbook.

Dolly: A witch? My oh my. I thought I saw a glimmer in your eye.

Jess: Yes. Fine. I'm a witch.

Rob: You're the one who turned the cheerleaders into cannibals! You enchanted them with your evil powers.

Mito: Stars, Rob. You can't just assume witches are evil. As soon as we get back to the station, I'm signing you up for HR's sensitivity training. You are not going to run around the multiverse spreading bias. Viewers, I am truly sorry you had to hear that.

Brad: Really? You think it's a coincidence she argued with the cheer captain right before the squad started eating people? Tell them the truth, Jess.

Jess: I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to kill anyone. I just wanted everyone to see the cheer squad for the brainless, vicious backstabbers they are.

Brad: So you turned them into zombies?!

Jess: They are the worst! I doubt anyone even noticed the difference.

Brad: Brittany is my cousin!

Jess: She's your cousin?

Brad: I took you to the family barbecue! Didn't you see her? Brittany a good person. She reads to dying children! When's the last time you read to dying children?

Jess: She's a poser! I collect sweaters for the homeless!

Brad: They don't need sweaters in Florida! You're the poser!

Mito: As the reporters watch the lover's spat unfold, we hear a rhythmic clapping approaching. I grab the doorknob, eager to snag an interview. Dolly shakes her head before I can pull it open. I press my ear to the door and hear a strange rustling.

Rob: Pom-pons

Jess: I can fix this. I just need to find the right spell. Um, um, this one should work.

Dolly: Oh, bless your heart. That one will never spark outside of a full moon.

Jess: You know magic? You can fix this!

Cheerleaders chanting: Y-E-L-L Everybody yell, yell!

Dolly: We're a news network, dearie. We never take sides.

Rob: Tell me you aren't suggesting we interview the zombies?

Mito: I wouldn't want to interrupt. They seem quite intent on devouring humanoid flesh, and anyway I think our time slot is nearly over. Let's try to contact them later. By phone. Or pigeon.

Cheerleaders chanting: That's alright, that's okay. We're gonna eat you anyway!

Dolly: Excellent suggestion, dear. Why don't you put that sparkly top hat to use and return us to the station.

Brad: Wait! You can't leave us!

Jess: Please, if you know anything about magic, help us!

Mito: I raise my hand. In the blink of an eye, we return to the studio.

Dolly: We'd better wrap this up. I don't like the way those pigeons are watching us.

Mito: Thank you for watching the CBW Channel. Extra thanks to all the kind souls who donated to Dr. Ravenwood's memorial fund. We now have enough for a lovely onyx gravestone. I'm sure he'd be touched by the loyalty of our viewers. Or incensed by the meaninglessness of burial traditions. One or the other.

Dolly: Ta-ta for now my lovelies.

Dolly: Up next, is Love Chasm, the only dating show where you can watch lonely singles stumble through the dark.

Mito: Rob, that's your cue.

Rob: Remember, the only thing scarier than starving to death in a fathomless crevice is dying alone. Love Chasm. In sickness. In health. In darkness. [fade out] Really? That's my line? What kind of monster actually watches…