BOB.EXE: Round 2

*It's finally here... at long last... by unpopular demand... with too many ellipses... the official sequel that nobody asked for...*

## Dawn of the Day of the Return of the Night of the Revenge of the Sequel of the Prequel of the Guy from that Show who did that Thing that one Time with the Potato and the BLOOD: Part II of 7 Trilogy

*... or, alternatively...*

## BOB.EXE: Round 2

It has been a rough estimate of 11 months, 4 weeks, 2 days, 23 hours, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds since the first recorded incident of "BOB.EXE BLOOD". It sounds like a really stupid name for a case, but we called it that because it had BOB.EXE and a lot of BLOOD. Even after all that time, the police department still has absolutely no idea what the heck is going on. Either that means we're the most incompetent cops since the last time cops have been depicted in fiction in a negative light, or it means that I'm going to contradict myself later on when I reveal that we actually do have an idea. Maybe both.

It all started when we found the first victims in a comatose state, lying in a pool of hyper-realistic BLOOD. At first, we thought that it was pretty shocking, but over time we began to realize just how dull and repetitive these incidents were getting. Just BLOOD, BLOOD, and more BLOOD. Only one thing was for certain... each victim's computer was broken beyond repair, but we were somehow able to conveniently retrieve data, and this data was somehow able to be conveniently interpreted to reveal that each computer was playing a game called "BOB.EXE". You got all that? No? Well, don't worry, because we're going to repeat that information later on because I'm sure you have the memory of a goldfish.

As I said, we had no idea what was going on. And, as I said, I was going to contradict myself by pointing out that we did, in fact, have an idea what was going on. Or, at least, one guy did. A whole police force, and just one guy had the slightest clue.

His name was Nick, and he was a really good detective. Well... at least, a good detective. On second thought, maybe just a competent detective. Never mind, he was really a mediocre detective. But, he could achieve some level of competency when he was teamed up with his sister, Laura. Then again, she was a woman, and rather than being some sort of progressive forward-thinkers, we were all just a bunch of idiotic sexist dirt-bags who never took a female cop seriously for anything more than her figure. That's why we denied her access to our secret supply of donuts.

Cops and donuts... that's still a relevant stereotype, right? Meh, I don't know. As I said, we're just incompetent idiots who serve no purpose other than cannon fodder in a lousy excuse for a creepypasta. Except for that one guy, but I'll get to him later. I should know about that. After all, I was there. I was there the day the courage of men failed... no wait, dang it, that's the wrong story to plagiarize...

As for Nick and Laura? They're both dead.

Whoops, spoiler alert! Can't let you know that Snape kills Dumbledore! Wait...

Sometimes, I wonder if I should have helped him... I dunno... meh, I wasn't really feeling like it. Anyways, when we were snooping around Nick's apartment the other day looking for... ahem, that's classified, but more importantly, we stumbled upon his secret diary. Apparently, he recorded everything he knew about the investigation in this diary. Good grief, he wrote a lot. No, seriously, he wrote a lot. He wrote so much, I don't know who would dare to read this. It's not just lengthy, it's boring. It's like if you took something that had as much substance as *The Hobbit* and stretched it out into three movies, each three hours long, and still didn't bother to develop any of the characters or world or, for that matter, know what it was that made the original good in the first place, but hey, when you have Benedict Cumberbatch as a dragon, then people will still pay to see it. I know I did.

But this story doesn't have Benedict Cumberbatch as a dragon. So, I'm going to do you all a favor and just skip over 99% of what he wrote just to get to the more memorable bits. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two, such as how to *not* write a creepypasta.

Or, for that matter, how to write a trollpasta that is so audaciously blatant in the fact that it is a trollpasta that you still scratch your head when you read all the comments left by people who somehow don't realize it's a trollpasta. Looks like Poe's Law strikes again. Maybe we were just too subtle... if you spell "subtle" with big bold flashing letters spinning against a backdrop of fire and explosions while an orchestra performs a bombastic symphony.

But, I digress. Here is what Nick wrote...

Dear Diary,

I don't even know why I'm addressing this to a diary like it's some sort of letter. Apparently, that's what they do, I think. People who have diaries, I mean. Which begs the question: why the heck do I have a diary? I'm not some middle-school girl writing about her secret crush. Last I checked, anyway. But, my psychologist told me to buy a diary. He said it should help, but I don't know what he means by that. He probably thinks I'm just going to write about my mother. Stupid psychologists. I'm a detective! I have an impressive memory! I don't need a diary to keep track of

Dear Diary,

Sorry about that. I lost track of what I was doing. I promise: I won't leave any more unfinished sentences like that in here. It just looks unprofessional. Wait, did I just say "sorry"? Why am I apologizing to you? You're just a book. A pair of covers with some paper inside. This whole thing is stupid... but, well, I've got to keep doing it. Laura insisted that she was not going to let me ignore this. She says it will help, too, and I trust her a lot more than I trust my psychiatrist. Come to think of it, why do I even see my psychologist if I don't trust him? That kind of defeats the purpose, I think.

Anyways, there has been an incident, and the boss has assigned Laura and me to investigate. I love the boss. We're old friends. That's why I'm never going to refer to him by name and I'm just going to keep referring to him by his occupation. I should be heading to the suburbs now to investigate this incident... something about some guy who lives in his basement... but first, I need to finish this sentence. Remember that promise!

Dear Diary,

Okay, um... I'm not sure what I was expecting because I didn't read the foreword by my boss at the beginning of this story, but it wasn't what I saw. The victim was lying in a pool of BLOOD. There was BLOOD everywhere. I don't even know why I'm writing BLOOD in all capital letters, but this BLOOD wasn't... normal. It was... how can I describe it... hyper-realistic? I know that doesn't make sense; this is reality, so how can something be more realistic than reality? What *is* real? How do you define real? Electrical signals interpreted by your brain?

My lawyers just informed me that the previous few sentences were plagiarized. So, just ignore that part. Remember: this story is 100% original! Do not steal!

Anyways, when we first saw the victim in the BLOOD, we thought he was dead. We were all set to bring out the body bags when the local paramedic informed us that he was merely comatose. He was alive, but his mind wasn't with us that day in his basement. Instead, he looked like he had his soul sucked out of him.

Not literally, I mean. Figuratively. Literally, he looked merely bored. "Bored to death" levels of boredom. Like, he was stuck reading some overly-lengthy overly-clichéd story with no redeeming qualities because he was so bored out of his mind that he had absolutely nothing better to do with his life. *That* kind of boredom.

It was Laura who found our first clue. He was breathing because he was still alive, obviously. But, very faintly, if you pressed your ear to his lips, you could just barely hear him whisper these words over and over again:

"TOO MUCH BLOOD. 7.8/10"

Laura also found our second clue. The victim was found at his computer desk: the natural habitat of the basement-dweller. For whatever reason, the computer was broken. It looked fine, but it simply would not turn on. One of the other cops present at the crime scene shook his head and said, "See, I knew those kinds of websites just downloaded a ton of viruses to your computer." I was curious what kinds of websites he visited (err... you know, just for the investigation, not for personal pleasure!), so we brought the computer back to the station to see if anything could be recovered.

Dear Diary,

The lab boys just got back to us. We sent in a sample of the BLOOD, because they have that thing that takes the BLOOD, looks at the DNA in the BLOOD, and answers the age-old question about BLOOD: "Whose BLOOD Is It, Anyway?" Well, the BLOOD results are in, and… anyway, we still have no idea whose BLOOD it is. It's not the victim’s BLOOD, that much is certain.

Using the magic of SCIENCE that they learned from Bill Nye, they were somehow able to determine that the computer was not broken by viruses downloaded from certain websites as we had previously suspected, but rather... well, it shut down while he was playing some sort of computer game called "BOB.EXE". That's the only thing we know about it. We were going to investigate further with a Google search, but we got bored and decided to call it a night before heading to the local Dunkin' Donuts.

Dear Diary,

More incidents. Basement-dwellers left in boredom-like comas with hyper-realistic BLOOD splattered everywhere. Each one of them had a broken computer. I think there's a pattern forming here, but I can't quite figure it out... meh, let's call it a night and go down to the Dunkin' Donuts again.

In other news, a sergeant just transferred over to our department temporarily. Can't remember his name, but I overheard some of the other cops talking about how this guy's practically a legend where he comes from.

Dear Diary,

Another day, more BLOOD, another victim. This one's name is Jack. I know I haven't mentioned any of the victims' names until now, but this is for the sake of establishing continuity.

There's been an interesting new development: Laura made another discovery. Of course she did; between the two of us, she's usually the one doing all the work.

While our Google search results for "BOB.EXE" typically resulted in either information about computer viruses or some poorly-done fanart of some old videogame from the early 90s, Laura found a recent eBay auction. It's a LEGO minifigure; I remember playing with LEGO sets when I was a kid. This particular one resembled the old classic ones, with a plain red shirt, plain blue pants, and a plain simple smile...

... except for the hyper-realistic BLOOD under its eyes.

We're currently trying to track the auctioneer. Maybe this could lend us some clues towards our search.

Dear Diary,

We've located the auctioneer. An unemployed man in his 30s named Zack. I was sent to investigate while Laura waited at home. She said that she was anticipating a package in the mail.

When I knocked on the door at his residence, I was greeted by an elderly old woman. She scrutinized me with eyes that felt like they pierced right through my soul, and then she turned over her shoulder and screamed: "ZACK! THERE'S A COP AT THE DOOR! YOUNG MAN, IF YOU'VE BEEN SPENDING YOUR UNEMPLOYMENT CHECKS ON KILLING ANNOYING SINGING NARRATORS AGAIN-"

"SHUT UP, GRANDMA!" I heard Zack yell back. A few seconds later, he was at the door. Good grief, this guy looked like he was trapped in the 90s and had given up trying to escape. He grinned at me, though he appeared nervous enough that I suspected that his grandmother might have been telling the truth about the narrators. "Hello, officer. What's up?"

"I'd just like to ask a few questions," I explained.

At his grandmother's insistence, Zack brought me inside. He led me downstairs into his basement, which was filled with tables and shelves adorned with countless LEGO models. It was nearly impossible for me to walk around without bumping into something. He also had a radio playing some techno song that sounded vaguely familiar.

"You've got quite the... err, impressive collection," I murmured.

Zack grinned. "I'm a LEGO maniac. I can't help it. I've been building with these Danish plastic-"

Rolling my eyes, I interrupted him before he could give me a lengthy lecture about all the stuff in his collection. "Let me ask you something: have you sold anything from your collection?"

"Well," he replied, "I generally keep everything for myself. Even the undesirable stuff. This doesn't come cheap, you know. Trust me, if I was addicted to drugs instead of LEGO, I'd have a *lot* more spending money in my pocket."

"What about this?" I asked, handing over a printout of the eBay auction page for the BOB.EXE minifigure.

Upon seeing the printout, Zack suddenly shuddered as his complexion paled. "I... tried... to expel that from my memory. It was just... awful. That game was so bad, it broke my computer! I'm still waiting to get it fixed. Now, if only I remembered to back it up on the external hard drive before it crashed..."

I blinked in surprise. "Wait... you *played* BOB.EXE?"

"Yeah, so?" he shrugged, unaware that he was the first person we've found to have played BOB.EXE without being reduced to a vegetable.

"What happened?" I inquired. "What was the game like?"

Zack sighed. "In one word? Boring. It was nothing but BLOOD showered in my face in a vain attempt to come across as spooky. BOB.EXE stole about 47 minutes and 54.505 seconds of my life that I'll never get back. And you know what was really disappointing? It was the only still-functional copy of *LEGO Universe*."

When I said that I did not know what *LEGO Universe* was, Zack rolled his eyes and explained to me that it was some "massively-multiplayer online game" that required servers to run, and because the game sold poorly (or, at least, that's what LEGO says, but conspiracy theorists say otherwise... I know, big surprise there), the servers were shut down. Apparently, BOB.EXE didn't require the servers to run the game.

"The only good thing about it," continued Zack, "was that I got a free minifigure out of it. Yeah, don't ask how that happened, because I honestly have no clue. I didn't want anything to do with it, so I just sold it on eBay to make some quick cash because I know there's a sucker out there who would buy a rare toy. But even that came with a consequence."

He showed me the spot on his computer desk where the minifigure had supposedly appeared. There was a stain of what looked like hyper-realistic BLOOD.

"Can't wipe that BLOOD off my desk," grumbled Zack, "no matter how hard I try."

"Does anyone else know about this?" I inquired.

Zack shrugged. "Not many people, just a few. You know, some ordinary gamers."

"Do you know how I can reach these 'gamers'?" I asked.

"Just throw in a ton of half-hearted references to MLG, Doritos, Mountain Dew, 420, weed, illuminati, that kind of stuff, and they'll be bound to find you."

Zack didn't know anything more about BOB.EXE, so I decided to call it a day. Just before leaving, I turned to look at him and asked, "That techno song you were playing on the radio..."

Zack grinned. "Oh, that? Yeah, dude, I love that song. It's from 1999, and it's like the last breath of the 90s before the new millennium took over. Man, listening to it sure takes me back..."

"Who's the artist?" I inquired. "What's the song's name?"

Zack said, "Darude - Sandstorm."

I promptly slammed the door in his face.

Dear Diary,

That meeting with Zack got me thinking. Okay, I hear you giggling and snarking, "That's a first!" Well, shut up.

Anyways, even with this new information, I don't feel like we're any closer to solving this case. Apparently, this BOB.EXE game is circulating around, and it's boring and filled with BLOOD. That doesn't sound like enough to break a computer or leave its player in a comatose state, nor does it explain where the hyper-realistic BLOOD or the minifigure came from. It's like a gaping plot hole or something. It could be supernatural, but that's just stupid.

I just remembered something... the first victim... he had a collection of LEGO sets. Modest, in comparison to Zack's, but still... and so did the second... and the third... holy crap, how could I have missed this? All the victims had LEGO collections. That must explain why they all played some "MMO" that was intended for little kids, beyond the fact that they were all basement-dwellers with little life outside videogames who were probably bored enough to try it.

I should talk to Laura about this. Bring her up to date on the information I've learned from Zack.

I wonder where that minifigure is now... Zack was sure that some sucker would buy it. I shudder to imagine what terrible fate will meet the unfortunate victim who made the winning bid.

Wait a second... Laura said she was expecting a package...

Oh no. I have to stop her!

I should be stopping her, but I just remembered that I had to come back and finish that previous sentence. Remember, that promise I made earlier?

I should still be going, but then I had to write that previous sentence explaining why I hadn't gone yet. And now, I'm writing this sentence explaining why I wrote that previous sentence. Damn it, why am I still writing?

Okay, fine. As soon as I write the period at the end of this sentence, I'm going. Happy now?

Crap, I wrote "Happy now" and had to finish it with a question mark before I could leave. And now I'm... why the hell am I still writing?

Laura!

Dear Diary,

If anyone else reads this, I hope you didn't skip over the past several entries where I did nothing but angst over my failure. Otherwise, it would seem like I didn't care that much about what happened.

I just got back from the hospital. Laura is alive. But only just. Like all the other victims, she's in a nonresponsive comatose state. Worse, the BOB.EXE minifigure is gone, leaving only a small stain of BLOOD on Laura's desk. Our one lead, and it has mysteriously vanished... taking my sister with it.

Damn it, why did it have to be her? The other cops always made fun of her for lacking a Y chromosome, but she could have solved this case on her own. I know she could. I needed her. I can't do it by myself!

On the way home from the hospital, I met this strange woman named Roberta Exley. She walked up to me with this peculiar perpetual smile on her face and asked, "Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Cthulego?"

Oh great. Cultists.

Roberta Exley rambled on and on, spewing stupid propaganda for the Church of Cthulego. "Cthulego will rise," she proclaimed, "and He shall bless us all with great happiness. He shall bless us, everyone. Everyone, that is, except for the False Shepherd who dares to stand in His path and lead us astray. If you are to achieve great happiness, you must follow the teachings of Cthulego and forsake the world's fourth-largest food crop, for they are the instruments of the False Shepherd."

Remind me to do a Google search for the world's fourth-largest food crop. I'm actually genuinely curious.

"And who is this 'False Shepherd'?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

Although she was grinning, if it were not for the dead-serious look in her eyes, I would have been sure that Roberta Exley was joking when she replied, "It is he, who bears the name of the Renaissance. He, who walks between dreams of titanic proportions. He, who preys upon the streets like a wolf. He, who calls himself 'great' even as he chains the unchained. He, whom we have cursed to never be awarded by the academy as punishment for his crimes. I, of course, am referring to..."

At that moment, a crazy-looking homeless bum approached us and asked, "Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, the Hovering Pasta Beast?"

Roberta's smile vanished as she looked very annoyed at having been interrupted. "Blasphemy!" she hissed. "You shall *not* spread propaganda for such a travesty while I'm trying to spread the word of Cthulego!"

In the time it took her to say that, another man walked up to us, holding a fossilized shell in the air. "Praise Lord Helix!" he proclaimed.

Roberta scowled. "Hey, now wait a second-"

But it was too late. Representatives from all sorts of different cults had swarmed us, each trying to promote their own agenda, like the cancerous fanbases of hedgehogs, horses, and animatronics fighting over control of deviantART. None of them were quite as memorable as the Hovering Pasta Beast.

Though, there was one point when some ugly guy wearing a shirt depicting a hyper-realistic starfish with the caption "Proud Representative of Trollpasta Wiki" began to speak. "Shrek is-"

In response, someone else pulled out a gun. "I swear," he seethed, "if I hear ONE more person beat that dead donkey under the pretense that it is comedic gold..."

The Trollpasta Wiki rep's facial features twisted into a very-wrinkled grin befitting of the pasta he represented. He started to say "love", but was immediately shot dead by the person with the gun.

"It was NEVER funny to begin with!" he snapped. "Stop it! Just... stop it!"

I think that's enough internet in real life for me today.

*Hello? Are you still there? It's me. No, not Nick, not the boss, not even Zack. The person who wrote this story. I'm temporarily interrupting the pasta to ask you something. Think of it as an intermission.*

*If you've somehow made it this far in this story, what are you doing with your life? Stop reading this lousy piece of trash and do something productive for a change. On second thought, what am* I *doing with* my *life, writing this lousy piece of trash, anyway?*

Dear Diary,

I don't care about being the good cop anymore. If being the bad cop means I'll find whoever did this to Laura, then give me a Q-tip and some nail polish to permanently wipe the good cop away.

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. I will look for you. I will find you. And I will kill you.

Now, my lawyers just informed me that I apparently plagiarized again. I don't care. I fired them. That veteran police sergeant guy (whatever his name is) saw the whole thing and he's now looking at me in a funny way. Fine. Let him watch. What could he possibly do? Give me a zero and flunk me?

DEAR DIARRHEA,

WHAT THE HELL THAT STUPID FAT OLD SERGEANT CONVINCED BOSS THAT WHAT HAPPENED TO LAURA LEFT ME TOO EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED TO CONTINUE THE INVESTIGATION SO THEYRE THROWING ME OFF THE CASE HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME I HATE THAT SERGEANT I HATE BOSS I HATE YOU OKAY MAYBE I DONT HATE YOU BUT AT THE VERY LEAST I SLIGHTLY DISLIKE YOU

Dear Diary,

Sorry for that earlier outburst. The sergeant (sorry, still can't remember his name) just took one look at me, pointed at me, and told me to "Cut it out." I don't even know how that worked, but it did. There was just... something... about the way he said it... so calm yet so stern...

Boss says that he's on my side, and I trust him like a friend. I'm sure that if my life was ever in peril, he'd be the first to help me. Anyways, he told me that it would be best if I took a break from the police work... but he subtly (with big bold flashing letters spinning against a backdrop of fire and explosions while an orchestra performed a bombastic symphony) hinted to me that, if I continued the investigation on my own, then there was technically nothing he could do to stop me. I'm sure there *is* some law or something, but I'm not going to look the gift horse in the mouth.

Dear Diary,

Again, if anyone else is reading this, I sincerely hope that you did not just skip over the past dozen entries where I explained my investigation in excruciating detail. Thanks to my new contact Wade (for a 10 year old kid, he's much better with computers than I am), I have finally been able to piece together everything.

It turns out that BOB.EXE is a malevolent interdimensional entity that can access only our reality through the game. See, it's interdimensional. That means it's not superstitious magical nonsense, it's SCIENCE! Therefore, this whole thing seems a lot more plausible.

But that's not all. Remember that Church of Cthulego? It turns out that BOB.EXE and Cthulego are one and the same. Amazing coincidence, right? At this point, BOB.EXE is only strong enough that it can exist in our dimension as a plastic minifigure under the guise of the *LEGO Universe* mascot, Bob. It's harvesting victims to feed itself so that it may rise to its true potential, that which the cultists call "Cthulego".

But wait, there's more! Through the overly-convoluted methods I detailed in my previous entry, I was finally able to get my hands on the BOB.EXE CD itself. What I should have done was just smashed it to pieces on the spot, but because I'm the idiotic protagonist of a creepypasta, my curiosity got the better of me. I just had to know what it was that left Laura and all those other victims in a comatose state.

I put the CD in my computer. It loaded a patcher to download the game files, and then I started up the game. It brought me to a log-in screen with a cheerful, bombastic orchestral soundtrack and cute little LEGO characters doing silly animations in the background. And in the foreground...

There he was.

BOB.EXE.

He stood next to the log-in menu, welcoming me to the game. He stared at me through his empty pitch-black eyes as he smiled innocently. As I moved my cursor across the screen, he kept pointing at the log-in menu, beckoning and inviting me to play in his universe.

There was just one problem. To log in, I needed a LEGO.com username and password. I didn't have either, and I wasn't going to go ask my parents' permission to get one.

With a sense of relief that my stupid curiosity would not get me punished, I shrugged. "Whoops," I said with a smug grin on my face, "I guess I can't play the game after all."

BOB.EXE's smile vanished, and the façade was shed. In an instant, the entire log-in screen changed from bright and idyllic to a dark, desolate, hellish wasteland splattered with BLOOD. Hyper-realistic BLOOD poured out of BOB.EXE's eyes as his face contorted into a hideous scowl. "OH COME ON!" he screamed at me, furious that his plan had failed.

I was genuinely startled. Even though I already knew the truth about BOB.EXE, I didn't actually expect him to hear me or respond to me. Thinking quickly, I immediately pressed Alt+F4 and exited to the desktop before he could crash my computer.

As I'm writing this, I'm constantly checking over my shoulder. That was too close, and I'm almost half-expecting that the BOB.EXE minifigure is going to show up in the flesh... err, plastic... any second now.

So far, so good. If that crazy Church of Cthulego wants me, they're not going to get me through some stupid game! They're going to have to come see me in person!

That was Nick's last journal entry. He wrote this approximately 2 weeks, 6 days, 15 hours, 3 minutes, and 14 seconds ago, according to the forensics lab. Today is his birthday, but that really has nothing to do with anything; I just thought I'd mention it.

And now, he's dead.

Whoops, spoiler alert! Can't let you know that Sheik is really Zelda... dang it, not again!

I always wondered why he acted the way he did during this investigation. Not that I was worried or anything; I just didn't care enough to bother to find out why. And, to be honest, I still don't care. Especially after getting this email from someone named Wade.

It was addressed strictly to Ponte Harry Boss.

That's my name.

Obviously. The email was sent to me, so of course it would be addressed to me! It's not like it's a big shocker.

The email contained an attachment, so I opened it, because I always open strange attachments included in strange emails. It was an audio file, and I listened to it. Here is the transcription, because this story hasn't jumped around enough in style and formatting...

[*Recording starts. Obviously. It's not like it would end before it starts, after all.*]

Nick: Guys, seriously, this isn't funny anymore! Let me out! I'm a cop! I'm not supposed to be the one behind bars; I'm the one who puts others behind bars!

Roberta: I think it suits you. After all, we made this cage specifically for you. We call it the [*pauses for dramatic effect*] Nicholas Cage!

[*A chorus of laughter is heard. We are currently pooling all of our resources into investigating whether the other cultists were actually laughing or if Roberta just used a cheap laugh-track from some 80s sitcom.*]

Nick: Roberta Exley! I knew you and your crazy cultists were behind this! But why? You said your cult just wanted to make the world happy!

Roberta: Oh, trust me, we do. However, in our present reality, happiness is not real. It is merely imaginary. But now, we have the power to take that imagination and harness it. Cthulego will rise again, and He shall bless us with His eldritch masterpiece! It's really quite exciting. Tell me, Nick. Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?

Nick: Exciting? This is boring! You think boring countless people with your hyper-realistic BLOOD and cheap cliché tricks is a masterpiece? It's a piece, alright, but not a masterpiece... it's a piece of s-

Roberta: Watch your tongue, Nick. Do not defile the sanctity of the Church of Cthulego with such foul language. We wouldn't want to upset Him, now, would we?

Nick: [*suddenly confident*] Upset him? Hah! If you think that would upset him... how about... *this*?

[*Several gasps and murmurs are heard, as if something shocking actually happened, which I sincerely doubt.*]

Roberta: Whoops, you forgot to put the CD in your computer.

Nick: Oh, I'm not going to put it in my computer. I'm going to break it! And, in doing so, I'm going to prevent anyone else from playing BOB.EXE again! He won't be able to bore anyone with his stupid BLOOD and... hey, wait, what are you – no fair, give that back!

Roberta: You really should have broken the CD while you had the chance, instead of just telling us that you were going to do it. But now, the CD is ours once again. Thank you for delivering it safely to us.

Nick: Hah! You thought *that* was the BOB.EXE CD? Think again! That was just a blank CD with "BOB.EXE" hastily scribbled on it that I brought with me to make a big dramatic show in front of you. I already broke the BOB.EXE CD before you guys kidnapped me. And threw every piece into a fire.

[*More gasps are heard. I think I actually agree with them this time... the protagonist actually did something sensible?*]

Roberta: Hmm, not bad. That was the only still-functional copy of *LEGO Universe* in existence. But... didn't you think we would have made back-ups?

Nick: No, of course not. Nobody ever thinks to make a back-up until the day after they lose all their data. That's how it always works.

Roberta: [*annoyed*] Fine, you called my bluff. However... even without *LEGO Universe*, we still have... options. Ways of tempting unsuspecting gamers into empowering Cthulego by giving something they truly desire, something they were so sure that they would never be able to play...

Nick: [*no longer confident*] You don't mean...?

Roberta: [*triumphant*] Yes, I do. *Half-Life 2: Episode 2: Chapter 1*.

Nick: You're... you're bluffing again!

Roberta: [*laughing maniacally*] No, I'm not! Behold – the only known copy of *Half-Life 2: Episode 2: Chapter 1* in existence, now blessed with the BLOOD of BOB.EXE!

[*The cultists proclaim praise of BOB.EXE, Cthulego, hyper-realistic BLOOD, and other such crap.*]

Nick: [*shocked*] No....! You sick bastards! This is going too far! You can't possibly unleash something so dangerous upon an innocent, unsuspecting world! This is too cruel!

Roberta: Well, there *is* another way. Do you recognize this, Nick?

Nick: That's the BOB.EXE minifigure! The one Zack auctioned on eBay!

Roberta: Precisely. Tell me, Nick. Everyone must die at some point. How do you wish to die? As a martyr for what you believe in? I would say, that would certainly be a most honorable form of death. You can stop us from unleashing *Half-Life 2: Episode 2: Chapter 1* upon the world, but you must be willing to sacrifice everything.

Nick: What the heck are you-

Roberta: Good enough for me! Let the BLOOD ritual commence!

[*The cultists start chanting enthusiastically.*]

Nick: BLOOD ritual? What BLOOD ritual?

Roberta: The BLOOD ritual to endow this plastic toy with the power needed for Cthulego to fully cross over into our reality in his true form without the need for *Half-Life 2: Episode 2: Chapter 1*. Through your pain, you will save so many unfortunate basement-dwelling gamers... temporarily, at least... *and* you will be helping our lord and savior rise to power. You should be honored!

Nick: Why are you taking off my shoes and socks? What... what are those? What are you doing?

[*The sound of thousands of tiny plastic objects falling upon the floor is heard.*]

Roberta: Tell me, Nick. [*okay, seriously, how many times has she said that phrase?*] Have you ever walked barefoot on a carpet covered with LEGO bricks before?

[*Nick cries out in terror, but it is too late. The next several minutes of the recording consists of the cultists chanting vigorously as Nick is forced to walk on the LEGO bricks, crying out in undiluted pain with ever step he takes.*]

Nick: Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!

[*Quietly at first, there is the sound of a storm wind blowing. It grows louder and louder as Nick continues walking, until it is so loud that it sounds like a tornado... or a hurricane... or a* maelstrom*. Get it? See what I did there? Because the villain in* LEGO Universe *is called the Maelstrom? Clever, isn't it? No? Ah... never mind. But then, when the winds reach their peak... loud, demonic laughter is heard.*]

Roberta: Praise Cthulego, for He has risen!

[*A voice that sounds like the grinding of bone begins speaking. At this point, through means that would probably drive an actual computer programmer up a wall, the audio file somehow downloaded a hyper-realistic picture to our computers depicting a hyper-realistic eldritch abomination vaguely resembling the original BOB.EXE minifigure, right down to the familiar hyper-realistic BLOOD dripping from his hyper-realistic eyes, but now far more powerful and demonic and even more hyper-realistic than ever before, with a writhing mass of hyper-realistic tentacles in lieu of his face and hands, and covered with hyper-realistic BLOOD. The mere sight of this hyper-realistic picture drove the first person writing this transcript insane, so we needed to replace him.*]

Cthulego: ***DON'T YOU SEE HOW MUCH FUN IT IS TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION?***

Nick: [*screaming*] No... No... NO!

Cthulego: ***YES, NICK... YOU ARE AT MY MERCY NOW. IT WON'T BE LONG NOW BEFORE... WAIT, WHAT?***

[*Gasps are heard among the crowd.*]

Roberta: It's... it's that police sergeant! Mike Cosgrove!

Cthulego: ***COSGROVE... WE MEET AGAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME. YOU DARE TO INTERFERE? THEN YOU... SHALL... DIE!***

Cosgrove: [*very calmly*] Cut it out.

Cthulego: [*taken aback*] ***OH... OKAY. I'M SORRY.***

[*The maelstrom winds suddenly end as Cthulego apparently vanishes. The cultists start murmuring in confusion. Cosgrove grunts in satisfaction.*]

Nick: What the...?

[*The audio recording abruptly ends. FINALLY.*]

Well, that was anticlimactic.

After hearing this... I've never felt so confused.

Nick may never be able to walk again, having been permanently mentally and physically scarred by his close encounter with Cthulego that left him completely and utterly confused about what the point of all this was supposed to be. He's currently in the hospital in a vain attempt to recover. That being said, he and Laura are still alive. Remember when I said earlier that they're both dead? I lied.

Well, there was nothing I could have done. I'm a useless cop, after all. And that sentence was actually lifted directly from the creepypasta we're satirizing. Don't you just love it when the jokes write themselves for you?

Here's where I would go on and on in some supposedly awe-inspiring speech about hope and dreams and how we must never give up in the fight against Cthulego... or BOB.EXE... or whatever he's called. I've lost track since this story doesn't make any sense...

But really, all we need is Sgt. Mike Cosgrove to point at people and tell them to "Cut it out." That'll solve all our problems.

I'm sure you don't believe me. I'm sure you doubt that these events ever took place. I'm sure you think that this is all just a load of crap. But, before you make us the laughingstock of the creepypastas, consider the following...

How long did it take you to read this story? Because BOB.EXE stole that time from your life. And now, you'll never get it back.

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## Videos

File:BOB.exe Round 2 by Peabody Sam (TrollPasta) Halloweek Monster Diaries, Night Six
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