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In a normal comic with normal people, Ellen might be saying something like "hey, I've just been stranded in a car for several hours, there's a torrential storm out, we don't have any power, I was clearly being facetious when I said I'd run a game if Max wrote ten years' worth of sci-fi in two days, I have nothing prepared, and I love you all, I really do, but I'ma need y'all to FUCK OFF OUT OF MY HOME RIGHT NOW so I can MASTURBATE.

But then, y'know, there's a lot here that's not normal.

(Saturday evening, INT: EB and JH's living room, dark)

EB: This... this is a mess. You have declared war upon the very concept of written language, and then immediately committed war crimes in that war.
MH: It features graphic sex scenes with everyone from Professor Snape to Captain Kirk, that's what counts.
EB: Seriously, Max, I... I can't run a game in this. I don't have a story prepared.
JH: Well, this is all just a framework that uses a single character to link all possible fanficcable universes into one big universe, right?
EB: Essentially, yeah.
JH: So maybe you don't have to come up with a story.
EB: ...
EB: ...Alright, fuck it, we're doing this.
EB: Max, you're Freddy. Gina, you're Daphne. Nicole, Velma. Lily, Shaggy.
EB: And Jamie, grab a seat. You're Scooby-Doo.
MH: Hell yes!
LH: Hell no.
JH: What's a Scooby-Doo?