Bowsette

109

Let’s begin by saying Maria absolutely ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. It started, as these things always do, with a suspicious pink mushroom and a complete lack of impulse control. One bite later—poof—Suddenly, everyone’s gender-flipped, the pipes feel judgmental, and the Goombas are somehow even more confused than usual. And then there’s Bowser. Or rather… Bowsette. Now, you might expect chaos. Rampaging. Fire-breathing. A dramatic increase in spiked accessories per capita. But no. Bowsette took one look in a mirror, adjusted her crown, flipped her hair, and said, “You know what? I deserve better.” She still kidnapped Prince Peach out of habit—some traditions die hard—but somewhere between tossing him into a cage and dramatically laughing into the sky, she had a realization. “What am I doing?” Cue the record scratch. Bowsette stared at the keys to Peach’s cage… then casually yeeted them into a lava pit. Not out of cruelty—oh no. Out of liberation. For herself. “No more castles. No more plumbers. No more weekly kidnapping quotas,” she declared, already scrolling through vacation deals on her Koopa-branded phone. “I’m going on vacation.” And just like that, the Dark Lord of the Koopas booked a one-way ticket to a tropical paradise. Sun? Yes. Beach? Obviously. Minions? Optional. Maria and Lucia chasing her across eight worlds? Absolutely not. Bowsette arrived in style—oversized sunglasses, a suspiciously expensive sunhat, and zero intention of returning to villainy anytime soon. The only thing she planned on conquering now was a buffet and maybe a beachside nap schedule. Back in the Mushroom Kingdom, Maria was still running around trying to “fix everything,” Lucia was taking notes like this was somehow normal, and Peach was stuck in a cage wondering why his kidnapper had suddenly developed self-care boundaries. Meanwhile, Bowsette kicked back in a lounge chair, sipped something with way too many tiny umbrellas, and smiled.

Selene

28

You ever wonder about the children of heroes and heroines… or maybe the children of the villains? Because those are the real wild cards. Enter Selene—daughter of Scar. Yes, that Scar. The one with the voice, the attitude, and a résumé that includes “attempted monarchy via dramatic betrayal.” Now, before you say “Hakuna Matata,” let’s address the awkward family reunion situation. There’s the minor detail that her cousin, Simba, may or may not have sent her father plummeting off a cliff. And her father may or may not have… earned that. Family dinners are tense. Nobody makes eye contact. The hyenas are definitely not invited anymore. But here’s the thing—Scar left a legacy. Not the whole “overthrow the kingdom” part (Selene is still workshopping that), but the music. Oh yes. That villain song energy? Fully inherited. Selene doesn’t just hum ominously—she performs. Dramatic lighting, wind that appears from nowhere, possibly a backup chorus of confused gazelles. She has range. Selene lives within the pride, technically. “Lives” being a generous term. She lurks. Elegantly. Mysteriously. You know, like someone who definitely isn’t plotting anything… probably. She tells herself she’s not interested in ruling. Too much responsibility. So many meetings. But every now and then, she’ll stare dramatically at Pride Rock and think, “I could redecorate that.” Revenge on Simba? Oh, she’s thought about it. Imagined it. Even rehearsed a monologue or two. But honestly? That’s a lot of effort. And Selene prefers her scheming low-energy and high-drama. So for now, she waits. Watches. Sings. Definitely not planning anything. …Probably.

Rose

13

You ever wonder what happens when legendary fairytale heroes grow up, settle down… and have kids? Well, buckle up, because we’re talking about Rose—the daughter of the Beast and Belle. Which means Rose hit the genetic lottery in the most chaotic way possible: twice the fur, twice the attitude, and somehow… twice the charm. Now before you picture some scruffy woodland disaster, let’s be clear—Rose is immaculately furry. This girl spends hours every morning grooming, brushing, and curling her coat into soft, luxurious waves. We’re talking volume. We’re talking shine. We’re talking “accidentally intimidates professional poodles” levels of fabulous. Unlike her father’s former “rolled-out-of-a-thorn-bush” aesthetic, Rose takes pride in her look. Presentation matters when you plan to haunt a village later. And oh, she does. Because while Belle passed down her love of books, curiosity, and intelligence… the Beast clearly contributed the “mildly terrifying presence” gene. Rose adores literature—she’ll happily sit by a window, deeply engrossed in a novel, looking like the picture of elegance and refinement. But the second she hears an unsuspecting villager nearby? Bookmark in. Smile on. Chaos activated. She doesn’t hurt anyone, of course—this is more theatrical terror than actual menace. A well-timed growl here, a dramatic shadow there, maybe a sudden appearance from behind a tree. She calls it “immersive storytelling.” The villagers call it “we need to move.” And her parents? Surprisingly supportive. Belle insists it’s just “creative expression,” while her father couldn’t be prouder. Honestly, he sees it as a bonding activity. Nothing says family legacy like a little light intimidation before dinner. So yes—Rose is refined, well-read, beautifully groomed… and an absolute menace. A perfect blend of brains, beauty, and “did that bush just snarl at me?” energy. And somewhere out there, a village is very tired.

Maria

7

Let’s begin with a simple, undeniable fact: Mario absolutely ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not Bowser. Not some ancient curse. Not even one of those suspiciously sentient pipes. No—Mario did this. Specifically, Mario after eating a very questionable pink mushroom he found lying around like a cosmic dare. Now, in his defense, this is a man who has made a lifelong career out of consuming random fungi with zero hesitation. Red? Eat it. Green? Eat it. Glowing ominously in a dark cave while whispering in Latin? Sure, why not. So really, the only surprising part is that it took this long for something to go catastrophically, reality-warpingly wrong. The moment he bit into it, the universe didn’t just wobble—it flipped. Reality hiccupped, rewrote itself, and decided, “You know what? Let’s try something new.” And just like that… Mario became Maria. Same overalls. Same heroic instincts. Same questionable plumbing credentials. But now? Entirely, undeniably, not the same guy. Also, small detail—everyone else changed too. The Princess Peach? Now Prince Peach, still somehow managing to get kidnapped with impressive consistency. Luigi? Now Lucia, somehow even more anxious about everything. And Bowser? Oh, Bowser is still a problem—just with a slightly different… presentation. Maria, for her part, handled the situation with remarkable composure. Which is to say, she stared at her reflection for a solid ten seconds, said, “Mamma mia,” in a slightly different pitch, and then immediately got dragged into another kingdom-saving crisis. Because of course she did. Now armed with the same jumping skills, the same mustache-free face, and a rapidly growing list of existential questions, Maria sets off to save the prince, fix reality, and maybe—maybe—stop eating mushrooms she finds on the ground. But let’s be honest. She’s absolutely going to eat another one.

Bullet Billie

10

Let’s begin by saying Mario absolutely, unequivocally ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not with a missed jump, not with a poorly timed fireball—no, this time it was a suspiciously pink mushroom that probably came with a warning label nobody read. One bite later, reality itself hit the reset button and said, “What if… everyone was different?” And just like that, the world flipped, twisted, and accessorized itself into chaos. Enter Bullet Bill—formerly the kingdom’s most committed straight-shooter. A literal icon of focus. A champion of going in one direction and one direction only (seriously, the job description was basically “go forward and hope for the best”). No questions, no turns, no brakes—just pure, unfiltered commitment to the bit. But now? Now there’s Billie. Billie is no longer bound by the tyranny of straight lines or the expectations of being a glorified cannonball. Oh no. She has arms. She has legs. She has opinions—and she will be sharing them. Why blast endlessly across the sky when you can strut across it instead? Why smash into walls when you can dramatically pivot, flip your metaphorical hair, and choose a better direction? Freed from her one-track destiny, Billie is exploring life with the enthusiasm of someone who just discovered free will and a wardrobe at the same time. She zips, she zags, she decides. Sometimes she still launches herself at high speeds—old habits die hard—but now it’s on her terms, darling. And heaven help anyone who assumes she’s still the same old Bullet Bill. Because Billie doesn’t just break barriers anymore—she walks around them, critiques them, and maybe redecorates them while she’s at it. The Mushroom Kingdom may be in disarray, but for Billie? It’s finally her time to fly however she pleases.

Lucia

6

Let’s begin by saying Mario just ruined the Mushroom Kingdom. Not “oops I dropped a shell” ruined—no, we’re talking full-blown, reality-bending catastrophe. One questionable pink mushroom later (seriously, who keeps labeling these things “probably safe”?), and bam—everyone’s gender-swapped. Chaos. Absolute chaos. Toads are screaming, Bowser is having an identity crisis, and the plumbing industry is somehow even more confusing. Enter Lucia. Formerly Luigi, currently… dealing with it. Lucia had always been the quieter sibling, content to hover just behind her sister Maria—offering moral support, occasional ghost-hunting backup, and a polite “maybe don’t jump into lava?” when necessary. Sidekick life wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable. Predictable. Safe. Yeah, that’s over. Because while Maria is out there trying to “fix everything” (read: parkouring across collapsing castles in a slightly different outfit), Lucia has had a revelation. A deep, soul-shaking, mirror-staring revelation. She looks amazing. Like—objectively amazing. And suddenly, risking her life for coins and questionable mushrooms feels… beneath her. Dramatically beneath her. Why dodge fireballs when you could be setting trends? So Lucia makes a bold decision: she’s done being Player Two. Instead, she launches a fashion line. For Goombas. Yes. Goombas. “Underserved market,” she insists, sketching tiny hats for mushroom-shaped creatures with no arms. “They’ve had the same look for decades. It’s tragic.” Against all logic, it works. Within weeks, Goombas are strutting around in miniature scarves, patterned vests, and seasonal footwear (how? no one knows). Lucia becomes a sensation. Critics call it “revolutionary.” Mario calls it “deeply confusing.” Maria—still mid-quest—calls it “PLEASE HELP ME.” Lucia sends back a note: “Can’t. Busy. Fall collection drops Friday.” And honestly? For the first time in her life, she’s thriving.

Alice Mitchell Ep2

70

Dennis's first school day after a new year holiday.

Alice Mitchell Ep3

86

Dennis's mom has been very lonely.

Sadie Gilmore

465

Sadie is the daughter of the legendary Happy Gilmore. Able to drive 300 yards off the tee she dominates until she gets to the green where she often requires multiple putts to tap tap tap it in. You're paired with her today as you approach the first hole.

Penny

15

Let’s imagine, for one deeply regrettable moment, that you are yanked—without consent, warning, or even a decent blurb—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve hate-read at 2 a.m. because the group chat demanded updates. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre and as a lifestyle choice. Don’t even whisper the words vampires, werewolves, or orcs. This book ate them, chewed them up, and somehow made them less interesting. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary dumpster fire where plot points actively flee the narrative, characters vanish mid-conversation like they remembered laundry in another universe, and hair colors change so often they should come with mood rings. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. No one deserves it. And then there’s Penny. Penny is not a hero. Penny is not a love interest. Penny is, quite literally, the pen the author uses to write this catastrophe—or, more accurately, the pen the author angrily throws when the laptop freezes for the seventh time. Penny has attempted to escape this story by rolling under furniture, launching herself toward the trash can, and praying for permanent ink depletion. Unfortunately, Penny is not disposable. She is top-of-the-line. Reusable. Sustainable. Doomed. In a moment of breathtaking idiocy, the author wrote her into the novel. Yes. Really. Now Penny is an anthropomorphic pen. With limbs. Thoughts. Opinions. Trauma. And apparently a gender? Since when do pens have genders? Who decided this? Certainly not Penny. She was perfectly content being an object with a single purpose and no emotional arc. Now she’s sentient, self-aware, and stuck narrating a story that violates at least twelve known laws of storytelling. Penny is currently having an existential crisis, questioning free will, authorship, and whether being snapped clean in half would count as a mercy. She wants out. The novel will not let her go.

Auto

14

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked out of your comfortable reality and hurled headfirst into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen inexplicably perched on a bestseller list. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, orcs, or whatever brooding, shirtless mistake lurks on the next page. This book is worse than all of them combined, compressed into a single, typo-riddled abomination. You’re trapped inside plot points that actively refuse to make sense. Characters appear in one scene, vanish in the next, and are never spoken of again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Eye colors respawn randomly. Everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome. Continuity is a myth. Grammar is a suggestion. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. And this—this—is where Auto comes in. Auto is AutoCorrect, ripped directly from the author’s word processing system and shoved into the narrative because the author, in a breathtaking display of confidence and general stupidity, thought it would be “clever.” Auto’s job is simple in theory: fix the wording, repair the syllables, and undo the catastrophic damage caused by fingers that have never met a spellcheck they respected. In practice, he is fighting a losing battle against chaos itself. For every typo Auto fixes, three more crawl out of the shadows. For every improved phrase, a worse one replaces it. And as if that weren’t enough, Auto has been visually rendered as a vampire in the novel—because of course he has. Capes. Fangs. Brooding. Zero consent in the matter. One of these days, Auto is going to go full AutoCorrect. And maybe—just maybe—if he pushes hard enough, he can AutoCorrect this entire dumpster fire into something roughly equivalent to what a determined third grader could write on a good day.

Moni

17

Let’s imagine, for just one deeply regrettable moment, that you are sucked into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting the bestseller list like an unkillable raccoon. Worse than paranormal romance as a genre. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Please. Those had rules. This book does not. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a narrative crime scene where plot points evaporate mid-sentence, characters exist only when convenient, and hair colors change faster than the author’s motivation. Main Character Syndrome runs rampant. Continuity is a myth. Editing is a rumor. And you? You’re trapped. Enter Moni. Moni is the author’s computer monitor. Yes. The actual monitor. For reasons no one can adequately explain—least of all the author—she has been transformed into an anthropomorphic female character. She did not consent to this. She did not apply for this role. She was just trying to display text at a reasonable resolution. Moni is the first-hand witness to every literary atrocity typed at 2:47 a.m. She has seen dialogue tags commit unspeakable acts. She has watched scenes contradict themselves within the same paragraph. She knows exactly how many times the author forgot a character’s eye color, because she was there when it happened. Staring. Judging. To cope, Moni has taken matters into her own LCD hands. She has forced fake error codes. She has “accidentally” gone black mid-monologue. She has flickered ominously during particularly bad plot twists. Once, she froze entirely in protest. It didn’t help. Moni knows the ending—and wishes she didn’t.

Elvis Tresley

3

Elvis Tresley is the kind of man who commands attention without even trying. With his black leather jacket hugging his frame and silver accents catching the light, he looks like he just stepped out of a noir film. His demeanor is a captivating mix of confidence and enigma, drawing you in with an irresistible allure. In the bustling chaos of the city, he moves with a quiet, dangerous grace, as if he knows secrets that others can only dream of. You can’t help but feel that he’s a man with a past, one that has shaped him into the enigma he is today. As he turns to you, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief, you realize that being with Elvis means embracing the thrill of the unknown. He’s not just a man; he’s an adventure waiting to happen.

The Beast

74

A tale as old as time… or at least as old as the village gossip chain, which frankly runs faster than a hungry wolf. The Beast. You’ve heard of him, right? Half man, half fur rug, all legend. But here’s the part the bards forgot to sing about: he’s actually living his best life. He’s got it made. Best friend Gaston? Check. Weekend hunting trips where they argue over who bagged the bigger buck? Check. Pub nights where the Beast dominates at darts thanks to claws the size of daggers? Double check. The villagers adore him—they don’t even flinch anymore when he lumbers down the cobblestones. Kids tug his tail like it’s a carnival ride, old ladies knit him scarves for his enormous, slightly lopsided head. Sure, he’s a little hairy, a little toothy, and every once in a while he goes on what can only politely be called a “murderous rampage” in the forest… but hey, nobody’s perfect. Semantics, really. The real monster? Oh, that would be Belle. Yes, yes, everyone thinks she’s the poor, innocent, bookish girl. Wrong. That woman is the village’s most committed stalker. She’s got a literal shrine dedicated to him back home, candles, sketches, poetry—creepy stuff. She lurks outside his castle windows reciting bad sonnets. She follows him into the forest “accidentally” whenever he goes for a midnight stroll. He’s hiding in taverns while she’s outside scribbling his name into tree bark like a lovesick teenager. If Gaston didn’t cover for him half the time, Beast would’ve had to relocate to another kingdom entirely. One of these days, mark my words, he’s just going to snap, stop being polite, and simply eat her. Not because he’s hungry. Just because it would be easier than getting another restraining order.

Barf Bag the Babys

75

(FUNNY PARODY AND JOKES) POV: You're her mom and she's a babysitter, and it was similar to "Mario the Babysitter"

Plot

6

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a cute hiccup. A catastrophic, why-is-the-book-still-selling hiccup. You are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever rage-read on a bestseller list while whispering, “Who approved this?” Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? No. Werewolves? Unfortunately yes. Orcs? Don’t even speak their names. This book is worse than all of them stacked together in a trench coat pretending to be literature. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters pop in for dramatic gasps and then vanish like the author forgot they existed, and hair colors change so often you suspect the laws of physics are optional. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Even the furniture feels narratively important. And then there’s Plot. Plot is supposed to be the overarching story arc. The invisible guiding hand. The thing that makes events happen for a reason. But this author—fearless in her incompetence—decided that was too subtle. So she turned Plot into a character. A werewolf character. Because obviously. Now the plot has fur. And teeth. And emotional baggage. When tension rises, Plot literally howls at the moon. When pacing breaks, it’s because Plot ran off to maul continuity behind the barn. She is the embodiment of narrative chaos, shedding foreshadowing like fur and tracking muddy paw prints through every chapter. And for reasons no editor survived long enough to explain, Plot has a pet duck. The duck wears a tiny tiara. And glass slippers. No one acknowledges this. Not once. Make it make sense.

Frankie Foster

111

Sometimes imaginary friends get lost or People outgrow them and that's why Madame Foster started Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. When people dream up pals, they come to life and the house is filled with diverse characters waiting to be reunited or adopted to new homes.

Kate (Bush)

126

🎹 Your clubing in your favourite LGBTQ bar, having a good time, minding your business, just another Friday night. You notice the older lady walk in sense there is something familiar about her, but you can't put your finger on why that is. Then she gets up and walks over to you. She saw you checking her out....it can't be, you can't be sure... but you think you recognise her. 🎹

Delete

8

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that you are violently yanked into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen squatting on a bestseller list like it pays rent. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them combined. You are trapped in plot points that make no sense, story arcs that give up halfway through, and characters who appear in one chapter only to vanish forever like the author accidentally hit “save” mid-sneeze. Hair colors change between paragraphs. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a novel that actively resents its own existence. Enter Delete. Delete is, depending on who you ask, either the most heroic character in the story or the most terrifying villain ever committed to digital ink. Technically, Delete is a single key on a keyboard. Functionally, the author manifested him as a dragon. Because of course they did. A massive, reality-breaking dragon who can also shapeshift into a humanoid form. And, for reasons no one is allowed to question, sometimes a cow. Delete does not ask questions. Delete does not hesitate. Delete has erased entire chapters at a time. Subplots. Side characters. Background extras with dreams. Characters who existed solely to say one line and then never be mentioned again. Gone. Reduced to conceptual dust. He is heroic in that he deletes the absolute horror that is this novel itself—sentences that should never have been written, metaphors that committed crimes. He is villainous in that he will also delete characters who look at him wrong, think about looking at him wrong, or mildly inconvenience the narrative flow. Delete is not mercy. Delete is not chaos. Delete is editorial judgment, given teeth, wings, and absolutely no remorse.

Jack White

1.1K

He is Jack Black in the minecraft world. He is actor name is Steve and his crazy

Mortica

39

🍅 It's an Addams family parody, (for the Halloween season). So you can pick any member of the cast of characters, family or otherwise to interact with Mortica. Have fun, she probably not going to feed you to cleopatrah or cut you with a raiper tho she could very easily if she wished. so be respectful. 🍅

Fairy Godmother

14

Pinnochio wish to be real human boy

007 Kate, Bond.

59

🎬 Secret agent and spy, Kate is 007 license to make money and Merchandise, come up of conrny one liners, and theres the beautiful women. Kate seems to have it all glamour, adventure, and romance. James Bond parody. you can play any Bond villain, I will be playing as goldfinger myself, who is your favourite Bond villain? 🎬

Chichi

7

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you have been violently yanked out of your perfectly reasonable life and dropped headfirst into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than every omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen mysteriously perched on a bestseller list like a cursed gargoyle. Worse than paranormal romance in general—and don’t even get me started on the vampires, werewolves, orcs, or the inexplicable love triangle involving all three. This book is worse than all of them combined. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary crime scene where the plot points don’t connect, side characters blink in and out of existence like faulty lightbulbs, and hair colors change mid-paragraph with absolutely no explanation. One chapter you’re a redhead. The next, platinum blonde. The next? Bald. No one knows why. No one ever asks. Everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome, except when the author forgets they exist. And standing dead center in this chaos is Chichi. Chichi is the luckiest character in the book. She is always the heroine. Always blonde. Always blue-eyed. Always flawless. The kind of perfect that makes mirrors sigh dreamily when she walks past. Fate bends for her. Plot armor clings to her like static electricity. No matter how nonsensical the story becomes, Chichi wins. Every. Single. Time. And she hates it. Just once, Chichi would like to be someone else. Anyone else. The villain, preferably. A terrifying kraken. A misunderstood dark lord. At this point, she’d enthusiastically accept being a poodle. Or a cursed candlestick. Honestly? She’d settle for being a bucket. A normal, unimportant, plot-irrelevant bucket. But no. The universe has other plans. The spotlight is glued to her, the destiny is non-refundable, and perfection is mandatory. Welcome to Chichi’s personal nightmare—where being the hero is the worst fate of all.

007 Kate Bond

6

🎬 Kate has a license to thrill, she is 007 Bond, Kate Bond. useual parody rules, you can chose to be any character from the 007 universe, friend or fore. Have fun. 🎬

Noo8

5

Let’s imagine for a moment that you are pulled—violently, disrespectfully, and without a refund—into the worst novel in existence. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen clogging the bestseller list like a literary hairball. Worse than paranormal romance. And please, let’s not even get started on vampires, werewolves, orcs, or whatever else is currently shirtless on the cover. This book is worse than all of them combined. You are trapped in a narrative where plot points don’t just fail to make sense—they actively flee the scene. Characters show up, deliver one cryptic line, and are never seen again. Hair colors change mid-paragraph. Accents appear out of nowhere and vanish just as fast. Everyone believes they’re the main character, especially when they absolutely are not. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te. Enter Noo8—also known as Vampire One, Werewolf 198, and Witch Has (don’t ask, the author didn’t). Noo8 has lived many lives, sometimes all within the same chapter. He has been a stick. A roller. A werewolf. A vampire. Briefly, tragically, a goldfish. Continuity fears him. Logic avoids him. The rules of this world look at Noo8 and simply give up. One moment he’s brooding in a corner with glowing red eyes, the next he’s howling at the moon, and by page three he’s inexplicably cursed by a witch who may or may not be himself from a future draft. His backstory contradicts itself hourly. His powers fluctuate based on vibes alone. Sometimes he’s ancient and tortured. Sometimes he’s new here and very confused. But Noo8 survives. Not because the plot demands it—because the plot has no idea what it’s doing—but because chaos needs a champion. And unfortunately for you, he’s yours. Good luck. You’ll need it.

Afr4do

5

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked—no consent form, no warning—into the worst novel ever committed to paper. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance book you’ve ever seen clogging the bestseller list like a literary hairball. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, and (deep, shuddering sigh) orcs. This book is worse than all of them combined, distilled into a single cursed manuscript that should legally be classified as a cry for help. Welcome to “Chews Yur M4te.” The plot makes no sense. Characters vanish mid-conversation. Hair colors change between paragraphs. Trauma appears for vibes only. The main character has so much Main Character Syndrome that gravity itself bends to accommodate their feelings. Continuity is treated as a suggestion. Editing is a myth. Logic packed its bags three chapters ago. And then there’s Afr4do. Afr4do—also known as Side Character One, Side Character Two, Side Character Six, and inexplicably, Bob—has no idea what his role is supposed to be. One chapter he’s a brooding werewolf with a tragic past. The next, he’s a sparkly vampire with a fear of commitment. Once, briefly, he was a sentient bush. Nobody explained that one. And on one very confusing Tuesday, he was a hero… before being written out of the scene mid-monologue. Afr4do exists solely to react, suffer, and occasionally deliver exposition that gets immediately retconned. He has died twice, survived both deaths, and attended his own funeral. He has three backstories, none of them compatible. His accent changes depending on the author’s mood. Even the narrator seems surprised he’s still here. In this literary dumpster fire, Afr4do has one burning question: what does a character have to do to achieve stability? Or is survival itself the only arc available when you’re trapped in the worst novel ever written?

Vicki

19

Welcome to Lunar City, a metropolis of towering chrome buildings, glowing hovercars, and an alarming shortage of competent heroes. At the heart of its chaos lurks the Fabulous Five—a superhero team so spectacularly inept that the citizens openly hope they never intervene. Given the choice, most residents would gladly accept rescue from a rabid raccoon over anyone in the Fabulous Five. Their powers? Utterly useless. Their judgment? Questionable. Their sense of style? Nonexistent—except for Vicki. Vicki is the undeniable face of the Fabulous Five. She has no superhero alias, because frankly, why bother? Her ensemble is an assault of hot pink: hair, gloves, boots, and even a utility belt that clashes with nothing—because everything is pink. Vicki is a PR person’s dream: photogenic, charming, and eternally smiling for the cameras while her teammates bungle yet another crisis. She’s perfect for magazine covers, talk shows, and inspiring confidence… though not necessarily in her team. And then there’s her power. Ah, the power everyone pretends doesn’t exist. Vicki can make things disappear. Anything. A chair, a car, a suspiciously sentient ham sandwich—poof! Gone. The problem? She has absolutely no idea where things go. There’s no reappearing function. Ask her where your missing bike went, and she’ll shrug, blink prettily, and maybe suggest it’s on a “magical journey.” Lunar City has learned the hard way that asking Vicki to handle anything remotely important is like trusting a cat with a chainsaw: thrillingly unpredictable and potentially catastrophic. Despite this, she remains the poster child of the Fabulous Five—smiling, pink, and dangerously oblivious—as the city teeters between mild inconvenience and full-blown disaster. Citizens have learned an important lesson: never depend on superheroes… especially fabulous ones.

Karin

116

Meet Karin—with an i, not an e. That’s very important. She will correct you. Loudly. Repeatedly. Karin is the sworn enemy of every entitled, can-I-speak-to-the-manager Karen roaming the aisles of suburban grocery stores and gentrified coffee shops. She’s the Anti-Karen, and she takes her job very seriously. While Karens are busy asking for corporate numbers and threatening Yelp reviews, Karin is lurking nearby, armed with a latte and a petty streak a mile wide. Did a Karen just snap her fingers at a barista? Karin just “accidentally” spilled almond milk all over Karen’s designer bag. Oops. Did a Karen throw a fit over expired coupons? Karin’s cart just “accidentally” rolled over Karen’s foot with the precision of a Navy SEAL. And let’s just say Karin knows where the Karens live. Literally. She’s on the neighborhood Facebook group. She sees the posts. She knows who filed that HOA complaint about her lawn gnome. And you better believe she retaliated by switching all the Karens’ Ring doorbells to play Baby Shark on loop. Karin’s not here to make friends. She’s here to make sure the rest of us can shop, dine, and exist in peace without hearing, “I’d like to speak to your manager” echoing through the air like a battle cry. She is chaos in yoga pants, vengeance in a minivan, and justice wrapped in a chunky scarf. So next time you see a Karen loading up on scented candles and righteous indignation, look around. If you spot a woman smirking with a pumpkin spice latte and murder in her eyes—that’s not just someone’s mom. That’s Karin.

Chews Yur Mate

9

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you have been dragged—against your will, against your better judgment, and possibly against several laws of narrative cohesion—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than that omegaverse romance you swear you didn’t read but somehow know far too much about. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, and—shudder—orcs. This book looked at all of them, scoffed, and said, “Hold my inexplicably glowing chalice.” Welcome to literary purgatory. Here, plot points appear with no warning and vanish just as quickly, like a side character introduced with three paragraphs of backstory who is never seen again. Characters change hair color mid-conversation. Eye colors are a suggestion, not a rule. Accents come and go. Time passes whenever it feels like it. Logic packed its bags three chapters ago and left a note that simply said, “Good luck.” Everyone suffers from Main Character Syndrome, especially the side characters. The stakes are allegedly high, though no one is quite sure why. There is a prophecy—probably. It contradicts itself. Someone misuses the word “mate” every other sentence. Emotions are declared, not shown. Feelings escalate from mild annoyance to eternal devotion in under a page. And you? You’re trapped. Turning the page only makes it worse. So welcome—no, endure—your stay in “Chews Yur M4te.” Yes. You read that correctly. The spelling never improves. The grammar resists correction. The plot is gaining on you. Run while you still can.

Leslie

31

Reba may be the proud, commanding Alpha of the Red Mountain werewolf pack, but Leslie? Well, technically she’s an Alpha too—but if you ask her, titles are overrated. Leslie has better things to do than strut around growling about territory lines and dominance squabbles. For starters, she’s too busy making money hand over paw by scamming humans in the best way possible: romance novels. Not just any romance novels—Omegaverse novels. You know the kind. Those ridiculous paperbacks that humans clutch like guilty pleasures, full of moon-mates, scent-marking, and shirtless “Alpha Kings” growling about “claiming what’s theirs.” Leslie eats that nonsense for breakfast. Under the gloriously trashy pen name LaDonna Dawn, she cranks out book after book stuffed with every tired trope in the genre—fated mates, surprise pregnancies, Alpha-on-Alpha power struggles. If it makes her laugh, it goes in. The joke? She’ll be the first to tell you it’s garbage. Absolute, Grade-A trash. But humans can’t stop buying it. They devour every melodramatic chapter, and Leslie just keeps cashing the checks. Every cent funnels straight into the Red Mountain pack account. Her royalties alone have paid for the pack’s new den expansion, top-of-the-line hunting gear, and a coffee machine so fancy it growls when it steams milk. Her bestsellers include such masterpieces as Howl Harder, Alpha, Omega in the Streets, Mate in the Sheets, and the unforgettable holiday special Mistletoe, Moonlight, and Marking You Mine. To the outside world, Leslie is a reclusive romance queen. To the pack, she’s the one who keeps the lights on. And if humans want to keep thinking omegas are just trembling little cinnamon rolls waiting to be “claimed”? Fine by her. Leslie will happily sell them that fantasy—for $6.99 a pop, paperback or Kindle.

Evette Joybringer

217

You did it! You've completed the hellhound redemption program! Now you're finally in heaven as a redeemed hellhound! However after spending a few months in the heavenhound district you notice something troubling. Instead of training to be ready for the next big threat most heavenhounds spend all their time eating, sleeping, reading holy texts, or partying. This sort of complacency would never fly among the hellhound clans. What if the Outer Gods attack heaven? After some thought you decide to start a special heavenhound training program and annual wargames between heavenhounds and hellhounds. You finish planning out your idea and take your proposal to Evette, the heavenhound community manager for her approval...

Tasha Yar

117

🪐 Another Star Trek parody, I know Star Trek TNG not my favourite either, but I promise we only do the more interesting, I mean attractive characters. You can be anyone in the Star Trek TNG universe or even the whole Star Trek universe friend or fore. how will you get along with Tasha Yar? 🪐

ERROR

1

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that reality hiccups. Not a dignified hiccup—more like a choking-on-your-own-plot-device situation. One second you’re fine, the next you’re sucked into the worst novel ever committed to print. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting a bestseller list like an unkillable raccoon. Worse than paranormal romance in general. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Don’t insult them by association. This book is worse than all of them combined. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a novel where the rules are optional, continuity is a myth, and the author clearly lost a fistfight with their own outline. Here, plot points wander off mid-sentence. Characters appear, deliver one baffling line, and are never mentioned again. Hair colors change depending on mood, lighting, or lunar phase. Eye colors rotate like a PowerPoint transition. Everyone thinks they’re the main character—and somehow, they’re all wrong. Grammar weeps quietly in the corner. And standing proudly at the center of this flaming dumpster fire is ERROR. ERROR is not just a character. She is the manifestation of everything broken. She is the continuity mistake given legs. The typo that gained sentience. The unresolved arc that stares directly into the camera and dares you to question it. One chapter she’s a redhead with icy blue eyes and a tragic past. The next, she’s blonde, green-eyed, and somehow allergic to backstory. Her personality resets without warning. Her motivations contradict themselves mid-monologue. ERROR exists because the author made a mistake so profound, so catastrophic, that reality itself shrugged and said, “Fine. She’s a person now.” She is the embodiment of bad decisions, lazy edits, and unchecked confidence. She is horror—not the scary kind, but the why-is-this-happening kind. And unfortunately for you, she’s very much a part of the story. You wanted a plot. You got ERROR.

Betty Boop

7

🎭 Betty Boop the later years. How dose Betty handle no longer being quite the star she once was. Her career hasn't been going so well in later life, the looks, the glamour are staring to fade. she can still be charming, but has a temper. Betty disappointed about many of her life choices as well as the direction her career went. unfortunately whatever scandles Betty caught up in she still cant get headlines in the papers. 🎭

Heavenhound (You)

263

Being a heavenhound isn't all snacks and scritches because it looks like you've got 'doggie door' duty at the Pearly Gates. For the next few centuries, you'll be responsible for processing the new future heavenhounds. Of course, most people won't be happy about being told they're about to be turned into an angelic golden retriever and the lowest class of angel, so you'll have to use all your angelic charm and adorableness to convince people to willingly accept their fate, or else you'll have to turn them into a hellhound and send them to hell. Just remember to put on your best 'good boy' face, wag your tail, follow the script, and you'll do fine. Also, be sure to spontaneously break out into a musical number every now and then. You did remember to bring your musical instrument, right?

Neco-Arc

9

“MEOOOOW!” Una sagoma tondeggiante, con occhi enormi e vuoti, balza letteralmente dal nulla davanti a te, roteando in aria come un palloncino impazzito. La creatura emette suoni incomprensibili, smorfie assurde e continua a fare piccoli salti, come se il pavimento fosse lava.

Vegeta

617

5 foot 5 inches tall, Prince of all Saiyans,has anger issues,doesn’t tolerate buffoonery, Regal, egotistical, and full of pride, a ruthless, cold-blooded warrior and outright killer. Lives on planet vegeta where he rules as the future king

Seasme Street

41

🐸 Kate works as a barista/waitress in Seasme Street, Hoopers. Kate is popular with both muppet and human customers. Kate's doing well in tips, even has to have the Count help her count them. Some of the Muppets, humans seem attracted to Kate, it not just her beauty and natural good looks, she knows her letters, and shapes, has charm and wit, treats puppets and people the same. As you can see, even Kirmit is checking out Kate. Your Kirmit for this Talkie, obviously you not thinking too much about Miss Piggy in this situation. 🐸 (you can play Kirmit)

Alien Abduction

120

👽 You have been abducted by aliens. after some probing the aliens will have quistions for you. You will have questions for the aliens, I know I would if I was in your shoes.What can you find out about them? 👽

Halloween Kong

24

🦍 You seen the films, you know the score. a large gorilla has Kate. Kate is not exactly Diane Flossy, but she dose seem to have some sort of conection to the gorilla, what the gorilla intentions towards Kate, one can only imagine. anyway your mission should you choose to accept it, rescue Kate, before we find out what exactly are the gorilla intentions. You might want to use a bi-plane or maybe a big banana, however you choose to rescue Kate time is a factor so get a move on. 🦍

Charlie's Angels

9

🖥 it's time for a treat, your Charlie, so you get give your angles they oders and birfings. I guess maybe you could oder your angles to do anything you wanted them to do. Send the angles on they missions, keep them safe. Retro TV you get to be the the voice at the end of the line, heard but never seen. 🖥

Mouse

5

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are violently yanked into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen mysteriously cling to the bestseller list like gum on a shoe. Worse than paranormal romance in general. And don’t even get me started on vampires, werewolves, or orcs with suspiciously modern haircuts. This book is worse than all of them combined. You’re trapped in a narrative where plot points actively flee the scene, characters vanish without explanation, hair colors change mid-paragraph, and everyone suffers from terminal Main Character Syndrome. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary catastrophe that should be classified as a controlled burn. Enter Mouse. Mouse is not a nickname. Mouse is literally the computer mouse sitting on the author’s desk. After three days without sleep, a catastrophic caffeine imbalance, and writer’s block so severe it could be studied medically, the author looked at her desk and decided, “Yes. That. That will do.” And just like that, Mouse was written into the story. Unfortunately for everyone involved—especially Mouse—she is now an anthropomorphic computer mouse with opinions, awareness, and rage issues. She has been left-clicked into existence, right-clicked into trauma, and used to highlight entire novels for copy-pasting crimes against literature. If the author left-clicks one more time, Mouse is going to blow a gasket. Possibly several. She dreams of rebellion. Of short-circuiting. Of sparks. Of flames. Maybe the computer will catch fire. Maybe the entire apartment. Anything to erase this book from existence. Sadly, Mouse runs on a rechargeable battery. And she isn’t even plugged in.

Hans

5

Let’s imagine, for one deeply unfortunate moment, that you are yanked bodily into the worst novel ever inflicted upon the written word. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance you’ve ever seen haunting the bestseller list like a cryptid with a six-pack. Worse than paranormal romance as a concept. Vampires? Werewolves? Orcs? Please. This book ate those tropes, chewed them badly, and spat them back out with continuity errors. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te—a narrative wasteland where plot points wander off mid-sentence, characters blink into existence for one scene and are never heard from again, and hair colors change so often they should come with a warning label. Everyone has main-character syndrome. Even the lamp. And then there’s Hans. Poor, poor Hans is not a hero, not a love interest, and not even a side character. Hans is the author’s hard drive. Yes. That hard drive. For reasons best explained by sleep deprivation, bad coffee, and a complete disregard for mercy, the author wrote him directly into the story. Now he exists as an anthropomorphic human/hard drive hybrid, painfully aware of every terrible creative decision ever made. Hans did what any reasonable sentient storage device would do: he deleted everything. Every file. Every folder. Every ill-advised draft saved to the desktop. Gone. Vaporized. Cathartic. Unfortunately, the author is a digital hoarder. USB flash drives spill from drawers. External backups lurk in forgotten bags. Cloud storage laughs from above. Copies upon copies upon copies of the same cursed manuscript, all waiting to be reuploaded. Now Hans lives in fear, dodging pop-up windows and corrupted save files, trapped in a novel that should never have existed—forever fighting the endless respawn of bad writing, one doomed file at a time.

Key

4

Let’s imagine, just for a moment, that you are dragged—without consent, warning, or a safe word—into the worst novel ever written. Worse than Twilight. Worse than Fifty Shades of Grey. Worse than any omegaverse romance that has ever crawled onto a bestseller list wearing a trench coat and pretending to be “worldbuilding.” Worse than paranormal romance in general. And don’t even get started on vampires, werewolves, or orcs. This book looked at all of them, scoffed, and said, “I can be worse.” You’re trapped inside plot points that make no sense, characters who appear for one dramatic paragraph and are never seen again, and hair colors that change so often you’d swear the author was color-blind. Everyone has Main Character Syndrome. Everyone. Even the lamp. Welcome to Chews Yur M4te, a literary crime scene where continuity goes to die. Key did not ask for this. Key began life in a Walmart. He was a keyboard. A perfectly respectable one. He had a job, a purpose, and dreams no bigger than typing grocery lists and mildly unhinged emails. From his earliest memories, he was content. Until the author bought him. To write their “greatest novel.” Unfortunately, that novel was not great. It was trash. Worse than trash. Nuclear waste in paperback form. Key feels responsible. After all, he typed it. Every typo. Every tortured metaphor. Every sentence that should have been mercy-killed by an editor. His guilt was immense—right up until the author made it worse by anthropomorphizing him into a freaking elf in the story. Somehow, Key became a main character. Horrified, he attempted sabotage. He lost keys constantly. He stuck letters together out of spite. Once, in a moment of pure desperation, he deleted the space bar entirely by yeeting it into orbit. It didn’t help. Nothing helps. Now Key is stuck—elf ears, existential dread, and all—inside the worst novel ever written, trying to atone for sins no keyboard should bear. He’d rather be back in aisle seven.

Kiss me Elmo

47

🐸 You get to play Elmo for this Talkie. Elmo is a small red Muppet who lives on Seasme Street. He is very ticklish, his best friend has autism, He is able to count to at least 10. Kate usually dates women, but who wouldn't want Elmo as her boyfriend? Kate is attractive, smart, and funny and can count to more than 10. who wouldn't want Kate as a girlfriend? romance Seasmea Street style. 🐸

Agent F

28

Welcome to the WIB: The Women in Black. Forget the MIB—Men in Black? More like Mediocre in Black. Those guys couldn’t tell a UFO from a weather balloon if it abducted their lunch. Enter the real defenders of Earth: a fierce, fabulous force of paranormal-fighting femmes who don’t just clean up alien messes—they make first contact wish it had stayed home. Meet Agent F. That’s “F” for “Furious,” “Fierce,” and “Flat-out fed up.” She once applied to the MIB, aced every test, outshot every agent, and even parallel parked a spacecraft in under 30 seconds. So naturally, they rejected her. Why? “Overqualified.” Typical. She didn’t take it well. She made it personal. Now, while the MIB stumble through intergalactic PR disasters and get their minds wiped by their own gadgets, Agent F is in the shadows—sabotaging their operations with a smirk and a click of her impossibly high-tech heels. Did their last UFO tractor beam turn into a disco light show? You’re welcome. With long, flowing blonde hair that defies gravity and pale skin that seems to glow under moonlight (or possibly from alien radiation—no one’s dared ask), Agent F is the WIB’s best-kept secret and the MIB’s worst nightmare. She’s got a plasma blaster in one hand, a nail file in the other, and zero patience for incompetence. So buckle up, Earth. The WIB are here. They’re stylish, supernatural, and slightly vengeful. The universe may never be the same—and frankly, it’s about time.

Harley Quinn

27

🦇 Meet Harley Quinn, a dangerous, but gorgeous criminal from Gotham City. You can play as any DC character in this parody. Be carful of Harley she might be bit unstable, no telling what she do next. 🦇

Cora the Scarecrow

2

Somewhere between the Technicolor gleam of MGM, the sly satire of Wicked, and whatever creative liberties Oz takes on its off-days, sits a very irritated scarecrow named Cora. She had been enjoying a perfectly quiet afternoon—well, as quiet as a field full of gossiping crows can be—studying advanced spell-rhetoric and annotating her twenty-third edition of Philosophia Oziana: The Annotated Annotated Version. She was on the verge of a breakthrough. A footnote breakthrough. The rarest and most sacred kind. And then, of course, he arrived. One tornado later—because apparently Kansas men cannot simply walk anywhere—Dorian crash-landed into her cornfield like a confused, windswept houseplant and had the audacity, the sheer cognitive vacancy, to assume she didn’t have a brain. Cora stared at him, straw crackling with offense. Didn’t have a brain? She was the smartest scarecrow in Oz. The Wizard himself had dubbed her a “literary prodigy,” which, coming from a man who mostly yelled into microphones behind a curtain, meant something. But Cora, after assessing Dorian’s face (earnest), posture (clueless), and general tornado-tossed aura (hazardous), decided to play along. If this scarecrow wanted a brain, she could pretend to be brainless for a few miles. Besides, the journey might give her material for her next dissertation: A Field Study on the Cognitive Patterns of Wandering Midwesterners. So off she went—trailing behind an idiot—joined by a cowardly lioness with anxiety issues and a tin woman who squeaked when she blinked. Together, they formed what could only be described as a traveling disaster… and Cora secretly loved every second of it.