literature

The End of Bieber's Tyranny

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Literature Text

Justin Bieber braced himself before he stepped out onto the stage. Hundreds, no, thousands of screaming girls awaited to see him, to adore their baby-faced idol, to shower him with their love. In his mind he went through his opening lines—the same ones he'd opened the last fifteen concerts with—and he breathed deeply. This was his moment, yet again. After this he'd be able to take a vacation from all the singing and dancing.

Thank god I don't have to work. That'd kill me. Bieber thought to himself.

Finally deciding that he was ready, the boy stepped out from behind the curtains, onto a bright blue stage with an equally sky-colored background. Three gigantic flat-screen TVs showed his face as he raised the microphone to his lips to speak. He strutted to the edge of the stage and spoke.

"Hey, how's it going San Fran? Wasup?"

More screaming. The girls in the front row jumped up and down and clapped and shrieked. He couldn't help but smile. Man, I wonder when girls will start to look pretty, like mom said they would. He also briefly thought about growing hair—after all, all of his friends were bearded and deep-voiced. He was still bald everywhere…that is, except for the scene-style hair atop his dome. That was probably what drove the girls wild.

Justin let out a note. At least, he considered it a note. So did the girls. Any musical connoisseurs unfortunate enough to hear this 'high A' when they were channel flipping immediately found the nearest handgun and killed themselves.

He dropped the note down as low as his voice would go (so about a note) and tapered off to make it sound like he'd said 'yeah.' He looked into the camera right in front of him, as had been planned, and pointed at it. People all over the world were watching him right now, most of them young girls and their ashamed parents.

Bieber was about to let out his most charming line yet when it happened.



There was a tremendous, loud, long, and deep demonic roar. The blue curtains turned a horrible dark red, and the big televisions shattered, spewing sparks onto the stage. All around, on the lining of the stage, flames burst out, roasting the security guards that had until now been holding back teenage girls from leaping over the guard rails. Every camera continued functioning, however, and when the crews tried to shut them off…they kept on recording.

Bieber began to sweat. He had already pissed himself.

Behind him, one of the televisions—the center one—suddenly liquefied. It pooled on the back of the stage into a large, viscous black puddle. For a moment, it remained prostrate.

A second or two later, it pulled together, forming into a small, gelatinous ball. Justin turned slowly to gawk at it.

"Wha…what's going on?"

Lightening shot out and killed a very creepy-looking old man who was shrieking "I love you Justin Bieber, come with me" in the crowd. This time Bieber did something a little worse than pissing himself. From the ball emanated a gurgling, rumbling, evil voice.

"Are you the one they call…Bieber?"

"Y…yes…" Bieber stuttered.

"You," Quoth the ball, "Are an abomination. You are the epitome of all that is wrong with modern 'music.'"

That offended the boy a bit. "Hey! People love my stuff!"

"Yes. And that must be changed if humanity is to be saved."

"Who are you?"

"I…" The ball suddenly spewed out more lightening bolts, vaporizing spotlights and exploding staff trucks nearby. It slowly turned from a black sphere into a man, in the fetal position at first, but who then rose to his feet. "…Am Ronny James fucking Dio!"

Those words froze a screaming and panicking crowd. It was heard the world round. In a basement in Lincoln, Nebraska, a couple of metalheads smoking pot couldn't handle it. Their brains blew out their ears. Ozzy Osbourne, at his home in London, sprouted wings and began hunting down bats. In China, Hiu Jintao ejaculated in his pants. Over in Edmonton, Alberta, a riot began on Whyte Ave by people who just wanted an excuse to flip some cars and get really drunk and rowdy.

But Justin Bieber only stood there, frozen. Before him, Dio raised an old, experienced, guitar-strumming middle finger.

"Eek!" Justin shrieked. His brain was overloaded with everything RJD had ever experienced—all the sex, drugs, and alcohol, but mostly the sex. Bieber simply couldn't handle it: his balls dropped so hard they shot down between his legs and through the stage, before exploding violently beneath him. The shrapnel, consisting of sperm traveling at velocities that would intimidate Chuck Yeager, sliced him and diced him until he was just a red mist.

Ronny James Dio let out a hearty guffaw. He had saved people from further exposure to this menace, this pest that gave young girls an idiotic idea of what love was and made them idolize boys who would never do a second of real work in their lives. But before him were thousands upon thousands of outraged teenage girls, along with a lot of parents who were pretending that they weren't glad to be spared from more bad singing.

To anyone else, fixing them would be a challenge. But this wasn't anyone else.

This was fucking Dio.


RJD hollered out in numerous tongues to summon a band that would solve this problem.

First, Keith Richards and Eddie Van Halen appeared as his guitarists.

Justin Chancellor and Tom Araya also formed, on the opposite side of the stage from the guitarists. Behind Dio, Roger Meddows-Taylor (from Queen, asshole), with an extra pair of arms attached, appeared amongst an elephantine drum set.

From these different styles, Dio instantly and without hesitation or any rehearsal had created the perfect song. Chancellor started it off with a long, complex solo, his fingers playing the thick strings in perfect harmony with each other. Elsewhere, George Bush approved the sound.

Next, Van Halen started up a beautiful riff with the help of Roger's sudden, defiant-sounding drumming. Tom Araya quickly joined in, merging an aggressive bass beat with Chancellor's more relaxed, rearguard sound.

Finally, Keith Richards completed the mix. As he began to play, around three hundred of the older teenagers in the crowd, who could recognize talent a little better than their younger comrades, fainted.

Dio threw his voice into the fray. From his mouth came the lyrics of Holy Diver, but it was a version completely different, adapted to the new sound. It was optimized for clearing people's minds of Bieber's selfishness and lack of talent. Pretty soon everyone, even the twelve year olds, were rocking out.

They were free of their idol, and yet they had not switched over to idolizing Dio.

They could now explore other types of music, rather than just sticking with the sort that has simplistic, repetitive beats and naïve lyrics about a fairy tale world where everything is lovey-dovey.

For many minutes the song went on, until Dio was satisfied.

Having saved humanity, Dio turned into a black liquid yet again, and quickly evaporated.

The band continued on, stopping one by one until only Chancellor was playing, finishing off with a solo unlike any the world had ever seen.

Their duty completed, they all stood up and walked off the stage, into the darkness.
If you feel the need to bitch at me, bitch at me about how the story was constructed, not about how I portrayed Bieber. I hate that kid and I think he's a horrid influence.
© 2010 - 2024 SgtPossum
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PokemonTrainerElio's avatar
I think Tumblr and SJWs are a horrid influence, look at society today...