User blog:Wristy8/Exploration of Evil Bloons (maybe) (probably chapter one)

Just a fanfic.

 This is My Disclaimer and Other Legal  Mumbo -jumbo

Author: Me.

Fandom:   Bloons, Bloons Monkey City

Disclaimer: I don’t know John. I don’t know Doe. I don't know Simon. I don’t own anyone of them. I don’t mean to cause harm, confusion or headaches.. Also, please don’t sue me…I don’t do well in jail and I have no money. Void where prohibited.

---START OF FANFIC (PROBABLY CHAPTER ONE)

                In a land where cities thrive in a treacherous land roaming with wild, savage Bloons, where monkeys live in cities (inspired by the quote ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’) armed with their own enemies (Bloons) capable of launching an attack to decimate (decimate, not obliterate) other monkey-living villages, lives a pacifist. His name is John.

                John does not stick up like a diamond in a goat’s a$$ among his hairy pals, much unlike the city he lives in. No, other cities live in under the belief that the idea of war is good, that war benefits oneself, that war is essential for one’s survival, and other survival mumbo-jumbo. Well, it is true that you do gain some meagre amount of money and bananas, but is that necessary? Is it worth the cruelty and cost? And questioning war is indeed what John and his pals do.

                John is also a farmer, and manages a plantation of about eight banana trees. He lives a rather fulfilling life. He plays ball for about an hour a day, takes a brief nap afterwards, then goes to the nearby Cryo Lab to deliver bananas to the researches dispatched there. He has made a couple of acquaintances there – Doe and Simon being the closest to. The staff there are all quite friendly – sometimes they allow John to be part of an experiment and let him sit in the prototype high-tech machine for inducing sleep (at least that what it claims to do – top-secret biopsies of monkeys after being in the machine reveal that they had been exposed to absolute zero temperatures, their body shattered then reassembled.) It is egg-shaped and slightly higher than John. He would have to push the door open and crawl inside, before lying completely flat in a yellow, dark and surprisingly dank chamber. Looking up, the ceiling was never higher than the height of one pink Bloon. The door would always close automatically. He would shut his eyelids tight, feel a brief chill (“Necessary for lowering your brain activity, allowing for quality sleep,” Simon explained) and fall into a trance.

                This time, however, he did feel the chill, but did not fall into a deep sleep as expected. He pushed his eyelids tighter together, but to no avail. He had the uncanny feeling that he was in a coffin. Then, the freeze. The cold began from the top of his head, to his chest, working its way down the torso, to his thighs, and then his feet. By the time he realised the machine had malfunctioned, he was rigid and stiff.

                Panic hit him, his heart beating faster than a sledgehammer (also keeping him alive at the same time) and threatening to pop out of his mouth anytime. “This,” he thought, “is what it means to the frozen inside your body. Ok.”

                Feeling himself drifting in and out of consciousness, he began to think of all the things he would leave behind the world. His family, the city of pacifists, Doe and Simon, and his banana plantation.

                Peculiarly, he also thought of pacifism and the cruelty of war. It all became all too paradoxical for him. “Why would we want to produce these evil beings just for the sake of money and bananas? Aren’t farms more than enough? Isn’t it equivalent to a massacre of our own species through sending of evil manifestations?” He thought, “Who... invented Bloons?”

                For the rest of the time he was stuck in the machine, he embarked on a thought process as intensive as the activity involved in calculating the speed of a glued lead Bloon.