Deathdrop,
Yautja,
12 years ago
The ghost of Bruce Lee kicks ten shades of hell out of Chuck's silly face. The disturbance leads to a full-scale invasion from the afterlife. The subtle membrane between the material universe and the incorporeal realms beyond is suddenly punctured like a switchblade through a rotting whale. The dead force their way through the opening like last minute shoppers. As in life, the feeble are trampled and the stars rise above the wretched masses
The shades of all the dead rock stars and celebrities, glowing like angler fish and charging with the same dead-eyed intensity, force the wound in spacetime open wider and wider even as the Reapers Between attempt to seal the festering sore.
They close it off as best they can, but it's ultimately useless; the 20th Century will be restarted by it's spectral architects. Biggie Smalls, possessing Rosie O' Donnell's body and armed with a gun of flesh and ectoplasm, blows fresh holes into the torso of 50 Cent. Marylin Monroe opts to take on only what mass is required to cackle as she wrings the life from Madonna's neck. Justin Beaber is aged backwards by the demonic dancing of Michael Jackson; who can say what grisly fate awaits him?
One by one, the stars of today are extinguished, leaving the ghosts of a thousand yesterdays to pose and preen forever before cameras bolted to the heads of lobotomized longshoremen.
There is no hope here, only a really long and in the end pointless story that somehow ends with Deathdrop pawning off the cybernetic defense nipples of William Shatner and being paid in skulls.
In this case, THE skull.
MY SKULL!