In Defense of Our Reality
Episode One – Deployment

It was late in the afternoon, and President Jarmon Kell of the U.S.A. was in a meeting with representatives from several different home security organizations, including, but not limited to, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Extra Terrestrial Defense Network, and the Fluffy Bunny Response Team. These organizations were called to the White House to discuss a threat to national security the likes of which the world had never seen before.

Admidst the rabble before the meeting, President Kell walked in with his head held high and confident. No one really noticed because they were busy discussing the lottery and/or fine looking ladies. The President of the most stuck u—erm, most powerful nation in the earth took his seat at the head of the table.

It was a very nice table, made from some form of wood that was very much liked by Jarmon Kell. It reminded him of home. He also liked the room, because it was a very nice place to hold a meeting. On the fourth wall, the one straight across from the president, was a clock. It stuck two o’clock, and President Kell grinned. It was time to start the meeting.

He cleared his throat, but the general rabble of everyone else continued. Kell frowned, and cleared his throat again. Then, realizing this wasn’t working, cleared it louder. Still no result. Decided that a greater action was needed, he began to cough. Then he began to cough wildly, when that didn’t work. And when that didn’t work, he began to fake a choke. A very long one.

This succeeded in getting everyone’s attention. However, President Kell didn’t seem to notice that it did, for he continued on with his fake choking for about twenty seconds in which everyone else in the room stared at him like he was a complete moron, which, in some regards, he totally was.

Jarmon Kell cleared his throat one last time. “Gentleman,” he finally said, straightening his tie. “I’m glad you all could make it, though you really had no choice. I mean, after all, what kind of leaders would you be if you didn’t respond to a Code Fergalicious response? Anyway, we must move onto the reason I have called you all here today.” He took a drink of the coffee that was set conveniently on the table in front of him. “You see, Director Reeds of the CIA has alerted me to a strange development in a small town in Nebraska. Reeds, the photo, if you will.”

The CIA director, who was a rather stern looking man with a really sweet mustache nodded, and put a pile of folders on the table. They were passed around until all of the seven men in attendance had a folder. “In this folder,” he began in a scratchy voice that was a result of having such an awesome mustache, “you will find photographs of a house located in Nebraska.”

“Reeds, these are just pictures of the president in the shower,” the FBI director said.

There was a slight silence. “Mine are pictures of the house…” another attendee who was in charge of some branch of the military.

“So are mine,” Fredreck Roland of the Fluffy Bunny Response team

The FBI man was silent for a second. “Yeah, I just wanted to see what the response would be when I said that…”

Reeds coughed. “Yes, well, anyway, this house is a very nice one. Owned by one Nicholas Alexander Best. However, what Mr. Best may or may not realize is that one of the walls in the house is very weak. And, sadly enough, it is the fourth wall in a series of four walls.”

The whole room grew dim.

“Hey, who turned the lights down?” President Kell asked.

The room once more was lit up.

“Much better. Thank you, Reeds,” the president wiped a small amount of sweat from his forhead. “As you can see, gentlemen, it is imparative that we keep this wall from being destroyed so that the American people do not realize they are in nothing more than a story written by a bored sixteen year old with aspirations to become a professional author some day. Preferably known for his comedy which avoids breaking the fourth wall in most places.”

There was a table full of odd stares directed at the president, the likes of which he ignored because he was too busy drinking his coffee.

“So, yes, I want round the clock servaliance on the house and two of our sneakiest secret agents positioned inside the building with orders to keep the wall up. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” the room said in unison.

“Alright, meetings over. Now (BLEEP) off.”


Meanwhile, at a secret cultist meeting somewhere in Ohio.

Admist the dark, dust filled halls of a secret cave that was actually just an illegal extension on some random person's basement, walked the self-important Thomas A. Snodderfeld, who was the leader of a cult. This cult, known only as The Brotherhood of the Wall was largely unknown and largely unactive. It was also unknown what, exactly, they worshipped.

Well, actually, they believed that God was just a bored sixteen year old kid who had a horrible habit of destroying all the writing he ever did. They didn't exactly WORSHIP, this kid, but they were intent on keeping the fact that their world wasn't real a secret.

Thomas Snodderfeld was going to a meeting on this particular day. The leaders of the cult were all around to talk about a development in Nebraska that could cause panic and chaos for their world. Some guy's house had a weak fourth wall.

He entered into the room where there were ten other cultists chanting in unison. “Chantinginunison. Chantinginunison. Chantinginunison,” they chanted. Thomas sighed, it was going to be a long day.


Later, at some dude's house in Nebraska...

“Hey, can you guys move? I'm trying to watch the television!” Nicholas shouted. There were, currently, in his house, two heavily armed men in very snazzy suits standing in front of his television. Upon this television, two equally muslce bound teams of men were chasing after balls and tackling each other in a strange attempt to... score. It was all very homo-erotic and made wrestling look straight. It was, in fact, a special that was going on before something called the super bowl, which was apparantly some great orgy of no small renown, was going to take place.

One of the suited men, from behind his sun glasses, squinted. He leaned over to his fellow and whispered into his ear. “Do you think he can see us?”

The other one frowned and said no.

The first one grunted, then went back to standing.

“No, seriously guys, get out of the way! My friends will be here soon to watch the game!”

The first one once more leaned over. “No, really, I think he can see us.”

“Stop acting so conspicious, then!”

Meanwhile, outside the house, two sniper teams surveyed the house, watching for any suspicious movements. And one Patrick S. Plankrabs, who was in charge of the whole operation, sat at a laptop in what was thought to be a deserted house, getting a live feed from every operative on the case. It was going to be a long stake-out for Mr. Plankrabs. A very long stake-out indeed.