As the sun sets, Maxwell sits in his cabin, a humble creation of his. Sipping a cold whiskey, he gently wiggles the glass, clicking the massive sphere-shaped ice cube against its glass walls. His notebook, one of unimaginable magical power, sits in his lap, open to another empty page. His whiskey slowly finds its way into his bloodstream, a warmth traveling down his throat and through his veins, forking its way through each of his fingers, his toes, and eventually, his brain. An idea begins to form.
Maxwell sets the glass down and picks up his pencil. He presses the graphite into the page, and pauses. I shouldn’t. This feels wrong. It is not the first time he has had this conversation with himself, with his warm fingers and cold glass of whiskey. But today is different. Perhaps his glass had one too many seconds of pour this time, or the loneliness of time had finally begun to creep under his mental. He continues to write. “L” he carves, and stops once more, doubting himself. “O”. Madness, desperation, or a combination of both takes over his calligraphic expression. “V”. “E”. Maxwell sets down the pencil.
There is a knock at the door, followed by the slow, dramatic opening of the wooden entrance. A woman of his imagination’s deepest creation stands in the frame, clad in a beautiful crystal gown draped to her flowering ankles. Her eyes are constellations, attempting to unravel Maxwell’s heart and wrap it around her own. She is his delivery, as requested.
Maxwell knows what he wants. He grabs the book, flips towards his most recent creation, and crosses out his request. As he strikes through the last letter, the word slowly evaporates off the page, leaving it anew once again. In its place, he quickly scribbles “dirty little cumslut”. The woman loses her dress, and the layer under that, too. She also spontaneously becomes a brunette, which is probably interesting to think about. But, think about it he does not. Instead, he proceeds to do things with the woman that wouldn’t even make it through Pornhub’s Terms of Service. The unholy noises from the cabin for the 48 hours after the last letter was written on the page emulated that of a zoo, a zoo that a teenager had released fireworks above, instigating the animals. They’re not actually going to publish this shit lol. I should start putting personal attacks at the bottom of my articles. Fuck you, Will. I’m the captain now. I can air whatever Scribblenauts smut I want now.
