A bit of Star Wars/Dora fan fiction.
I awoke to the humid, billowing air of the jungle morning much earlier than was comfortable for me. Last night’s rainwater had settled around my badass Jedi sleeping bag, and I realized I’d need to dry it before I could stow it in my badass Jedi backpack and continue my badass Jedi journey. I picked it up and shook it, but to no avail; the tropical air was as thick with moisture as my overweight (and not too badass) Jedi uncle’s arteries were with cholesterol. I glanced upwards and noticed that my badass Jedi monkey companion was still asleep. “Wake up, Shoes! (fuck you, copyright laws)”
“Toby-Juan!” responded Shoes “Where are we going again?”
“To Grandma’s house. We must cross three relatively difficult checkpoints through the use of my badass Jedi backpack, my badass Jedi map, and my badass Jedi Spanish/counting skills.”
So off into the jungle we went. We marched along, teaching our imaginary viewers (Shoes is schizophrenic) elementary Spanish words along the way. As we approached the river, our first trial, Shoes urged me to open my badass Jedi backpack and find a suitable tool with which to ford or cross the river. “Dumbass,” I thought to myself. Instead, I used my badass Jedi force skills to float us both over the river.“What did the viewers gain from THAT?!” demanded Shoes, the poor, schizophrenic soul…
We stopped once we were beyond the river to consult my badass Jedi map. It began to sing a song about its identity and function, so I threw it on the ground, Andy Samberg style. “Sorry,” I explained “Talking objects creep the shit out of me.”
“That’s okay, Toby-Juan,” responded my badass purple Jedi backpack. Wait, was she purple before? Yes. Certainly. Am I losing it? No. Definitely not.
“Master Toby-Juan? Why are you frothing at the mouth and rolling around on the jungle floor? We have a mission!” implored Shoes, picking up the discarded badass Jedi map.
“Indeed. You speak the verdad.”
I glanced at the map; two checkpoints remained, but I was getting tired of writing about this bullshit. I threw my badass Jedi diary on the ground. Shoes picked it up and reminded me of Master Yodel’s instruction to document my findings. Fucking Shoes. I don’t wanna write.
We continued through the jungle and encountered a big, hairy, bear. He challenged me to a counting competition, but I can’t ever remember what comes after cuatro, so I stabbed him with my badass Jedi lightsaber. I’d never killed anyone before, and the shock of the crime caused me to pass out.
I woke up in a cold, metal cell. The Sith must’ve captured me! I searched for my badass Jedi lightsaber, but the cowards must’ve stripped me upon my imprisonment. I took stock of myself: I was wearing a pink shirt, orange shorts, yellow socks, white shoes, and a purple backpack. A purple backpack?! My badass Jedi backpack- the Sith must’ve overlooked it! I glanced inside. My badass Jedi map was there. It spoke to me… I knew I had to break out, but…
“Dr. Yodel, is she okay?” questioned an old Mexican woman, her face lined with worry.
“In a word, no,” responded Yodel. “She’s suffering from paranoid schizophrenia: she sees things that aren’t real. We thought, no, we hoped, if we let her ‘play out’ the fantasy, she’d work through it and come to the conclusion that none of it was real. It wasn’t working, so we tranquilized her and brought her here.”
I glanced up, looking for an escape route. Suddenly, Shoes was sitting in the prisoner bed across from me. “Shoes! How’d you get in here?!” I demanded, shaking with excitement.
“That’s unimportant. You have a mission, Toby-Juan. There’s an old Mexican woman outside your cell. Says she’s your grandma, but she’s really an ex-Jedi, defected to the Sith. Master Yodel has gone bad as well. Convince them to let you out on good behavior, then neutralize them.”
“Shoes? No, there’s no such thing as a talking monkey. Dora has gone completely insane. When her show was cancelled, she lost her grip on what was real, and what was part of the show she used to star in. She’s seventeen years old, for Pete’s sake, and she can’t count past four in her native language. Quite simply, she’s gone soft. Others didn’t recognize ‘Shoes’ or the talking map/backpack, so she took to cross dressing to cope with the stress. Convinced herself she was a Jedi. Jedi. Don’t. Exist.”
“Oh, my poor granddaughter!”
“We’re keeping her here, so she can’t hurt herself or anybody else,” said Dr. Yodel, glancing into the cell. Dora was nowhere to be seen.
“Backpack, backpack…” was chanted in a singsong voice from behind Dr. Yodel and Grandma…
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!