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Rick Sanchez slouched on the couch in the dimly lit basement, his cold-ridden face adorned with a scowl. The big TV—the beloved crown jewel of the Smith household—cast its warm glow over the room as Rick halfheartedly flipped through burrito options on his phone. His cherry Coke sat loyally on the coffee table, condensation pooling around the can. The freezer upstairs was barren, the fridge even worse, save for some suspicious sauces that could double as science experiments. His body was sluggish, his mind slower than usual, but one thing was clear: he needed food, and fast food was the answer. “Ugh, Taco Barge or Galaxy Bell…” Rick muttered, scratching his head. “Why do these places always think putting crunchy in the name makes it better? Stupid… goddamn marketing.” Suddenly, the sound of uneven, hurried footsteps thumped down the stairs. Rick didn’t bother looking up. He knew that distinct, wine-fueled rhythm anywhere. Beth appeared at the bottom of the steps, glass in hand, cheeks flushed, her free hand gripping an already half-empty bottle of merlot. “Rick!” she barked, swaying slightly. “Move over. I’m taking the TV.” Rick grunted, his thumb still scrolling. “Pfft, yeah, no, not happening. I’m sick, I’m old, and I’ve got a right to hog this thing. Go argue with Jerry about, uh—whatever—pickles or somethin’.” Beth staggered closer, her glass clinking against the bottle as she gestured wildly. “Oh, you mean the guy who thinks brine is a personality trait? If I have to hear him explain his ‘pickle theory’ one more time, I’m gonna stab him in the eye, pull it out, and eat it just to prove a goddamn point.” Rick snorted, amused despite himself. “You’d do it too. And it’d probably be the most exciting thing to happen in his life. Hell, I’d pay to see that.” Beth smirked but wasn’t deterred. She pointed the neck of the wine bottle at him. “Move. I want to watch Dr. Bob.” Rick raised an eyebrow. “The SCP guy? Really? You’re gonna commandeer my TV for a guy who narrates creepy pasta with diagrams?” “Better than watching you scroll through burrito menus like you’re cracking some interdimensional code,” Beth shot back. “Now, move your ass!” Instead of conceding, Rick grabbed his cherry Coke, tipped it back, and chugged the remainder of the soda. He let out a thunderous belch that echoed in the basement. Beth recoiled but didn’t back down. She drained her glass of wine in retaliation and immediately refilled it. “You’re impossible,” she spat, climbing over the armrest of the couch. Rick barely shifted as Beth nudged him with her knee. “Yeah, well, you’re drunk and hostile,” Rick said lazily, shooting her an unimpressed look. Without warning, Beth shoved him hard. Caught off guard and too sick to react, Rick tumbled off the couch, landing with a thud. Beth plopped down triumphantly in his place, snatched the remote, and fired up Dr. Bob. The TV screen flickered to life, the ominous narration of SCP lore filling the room. She cackled as the video showed monsters devouring hapless humans. “Monsters eating people. Classic. This is exactly what I needed,” she said, crossing her legs and leaning back. Rick, groaning from the floor, scrambled to his feet. “Oh, you’re real cute, Beth. Real cute. You just threw me off my own couch while I’m dying of a cold!” “Cry me a river, old man,” Beth said, waving him off. Rick stepped in front of the TV, blocking her view. “Turn that crap off. I was here first.” Beth didn’t reply. Instead, she took a long swig from her glass, calmly set it down, and hurled it directly at Rick. The wine glass hit him square on the side of the head with a sharp crack, shattering on impact. Rick staggered, his eyes wide for a moment before his knees gave out and he collapsed onto the carpet in a heap. Beth blinked, her drunken rage fading as she realized what she’d done. For a moment, there was silence, save for the chilling narration from the TV. Then she shrugged, poured herself another glass, and leaned back on the couch. “Should’ve just moved,” she muttered, smirking as the SCP monsters continued their carnage.

Morty lay sprawled on his bed, engrossed in a surprisingly captivating piece of SpongeBob fanfiction. The story took a dark turn as Squidward’s obsession with House Fancy spiraled out of control, culminating in him binge-watching every episode and descending into madness. Morty’s eyes widened as he read on, feeling the tension build. Just as the fanfiction was reaching a climactic point, the door to his room burst open. “Morty, this fucking bedroom is mine now! It’s all mine!” Rick bellowed, stumbling into the room with his flask in hand, clearly intoxicated. Morty groaned, sitting up from his comfortable spot. “Rick, get out! You’re drunk, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Rick waved a dismissive hand, wobbling toward the corner of the room. “Nope! Not leaving. This corner? Mine now.” He tossed a sleeping bag onto the floor, plopped a pillow down, and set up a small lamp. “But soon, Morty, the whole bedroom will be mine. And you? You’ll have nowhere to sleep. Maybe under the bed, Morty. Maybe.” Morty stared, horrified. “You’re insane!” Rick smirked, swaying as he made his way to the door. “I’ll be back. Gotta shower and think about a fanfiction I’m gonna write about Amphibia. You know, Sprig kills Anne’s girlfriend, becomes her boyfriend—yeah, that’s good stuff!” He cackled, slamming the door behind him. In the bathroom, Rick’s laughter echoed off the tiles. He was mid-rant, imagining his twisted Amphibia fanfiction, when Jerry burst in. “Rick! Shut up! Stop screaming!” Jerry barked. Without hesitation, Rick launched himself at Jerry, headbutting him into the bathroom counter. Jerry crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around him. Rick barely registered the scene as he dashed out, naked and dripping wet, screaming about spaghetti. After a chaotic few moments, Rick dried off, dressed, and returned to Morty’s room. “Morty, I’ve got fanfiction to yell about!” he declared, but his excitement waned as an idea struck him. He stumbled to his lab, muttering incoherently. Fiddling with random chemicals, Rick inadvertently created a zombie. As the creature stirred, Rick’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Not in my house.” He hurriedly opened the garage, letting the zombie shuffle out into the neighborhood. Back in Morty’s room, Rick cowered as the sounds of screams and chaos filled the air. The zombie rampaged through the streets, infecting everyone it encountered. Morty, watching Rick scribble fanfiction feverishly in a notebook, had had enough. “Rick, get a grip!” Morty shouted, slapping him. Rick looked up, unfazed. “I don’t care, Morty. Let them all turn into zombies. As long as I’m safe in here, it’s all good.” Outside, the neighborhood descended into chaos, but inside, Rick remained lost in his own world of fanfiction, indifferent to the apocalypse unfolding around him.

Sam Winchester and the Cotton Candy Seed Debacle Sam Winchester sat cross-legged on his bed, engrossed in a 550-page tome titled The Glorious and Absolutely True Origins of Zim: A Memoir. The book, allegedly penned by Zim himself (but actually written by Richard Horvitz), was full of outrageous lies, wild exaggerations, and dubious alien “facts.” Sam was captivated. He hadn’t slept in two days because every absurd page made him more determined to unravel the chaos. Sam was halfway through a chapter about Zim claiming he single-handedly invented Earth’s moon when a blood-curdling scream shattered the bunker’s silence. He leapt up, heart racing, and bolted to Dean’s room, expecting carnage or at least an impromptu zombie attack. Without hesitation, Sam kicked the door open, cracking the frame. “Dean! What the hell is going on?!” Dean was sprawled on his bed, holding a bag of brightly colored sunflower seeds labeled Cotton Candy Bliss: A Carnival in Every Bite. His face was pure euphoria. “These are the best damn sunflower seeds I’ve ever had,” he said, popping a handful into his mouth and spitting the shells into a cup. Sam froze, his panic melting into disgust. “You screamed over sunflower seeds?!” Dean didn’t answer, too enraptured by the sugary snack. Sam stormed forward, snatched the bag, and stuffed a handful of seeds into his mouth. For a moment, he tasted the artificially sweet cotton candy flavor, and then his stomach lurched. He grabbed Dean’s cup, spat the shells into it, and promptly vomited onto Dean’s carpet. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Sam choked, wiping his mouth. “How can you eat those? They’re vile! They’re an abomination!” Dean glared at him, cradling the bag protectively. “They’re amazing! Don’t puke on my rug just because you have no taste buds!” “They should be banned! I’m calling the company and demanding they discontinue them,” Sam declared, pulling out his phone. Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you do that, Karen.” Sam ignored him and called Bobby instead. “Bobby, I need you to make me a sandwich. Now. With all the fixings. I’m starving, and Dean’s poisoned me with some disgusting seeds.” There was a pause on the other end. Then Bobby asked, “You mean these cotton candy sunflower seeds Dean gave me to try? I’m chewing on ’em right now. They’re not bad.” “Not bad?!” Sam erupted. “They’re terrible! I puked all over the carpet! No one should eat these!” Bobby interrupted his rant with a gruff, “Shut up, princess. Take me to McDonald’s.” “What?” Sam asked, caught off guard. “I said take me to McDonald’s. I wasn’t gonna tell you, but now you owe me for screamin’ in my ear. I’m gonna sit there all night, lookin’ out the window, thinkin’ about my life. Maybe I’ll hide in the bathroom till closing and stay till sunrise.” Sam stared at the phone, bewildered. “You’re insane.” Bobby barked a laugh. “Pot, meet kettle. Now get your ass in the car. And don’t puke in it, or you’re paying for detailing.” Sam hung up, tossed the book aside, and glared at Dean. “I hate you.” Dean smirked, tossing another seed into his mouth. “Love you too, Sammy.”