Young Writers Society

Mel was about to complain that her girl Hilly didn't win (she so deserved to win - who would vote against her?!), but then she found that her chair had been transported to the grill stage, along with Jerica.

Oh. That was right. They were here to now do the... roasting. Which meant tearing each other down, right? The conversation she had with Jerica kept replaying in her mind...

Mel a couple posts ago wrote:"But I don't really want to insult you. You're pretty chill, even if you got a stick up your butt."

She narrowed her eyes at her, feeling a grin pulling her lips.

That was right. She wasn't going to insult Jerica. Instead, Mel was going to insult someone who deserved the insults...

"Hey! You! Talking dog!" she barked, looking around for K.K., who was sitting on the side of the stage, actually grilling food. Mel pointed at him accusatorily. "You want me to roast Jerica? Jerica's a mother*BLEEP*ing QUEEN! You, sir, are a four-legged ugly rugrat bully who sounds like a molerat giving birth to a brick. Your songs? Terrible. Billie Eyelash is worlds better than you. Is that why you host these silly gameshows? Because your voice is too annoying to be hired anywhere else? Find another job!"

Jerica was silent for a long moment, weighing her options. On the one hand, she didn't particularly want to insult Mel. She was a little annoying. But overall seemed fairly chill. But then she definitely didn't want to risk any punishment rounds after the atrocity of this hell so far.

She hoped Mel would tick her off. It'd be easier to rip her apart if Jerica was angry at her. Her best bet was to get offended by whatever it was that Mel had to say to her and then--

Jerica's brain stopped when Mel started hurling insults at the freakish dog. Now this was a sport she could get behind. The option hadn't crossed her mind before that very instant, but now that Mel planted the idea, Jerica was sold.

"Bet he couldn't find another job if he tried," Jerica cut in, picking up the same energy. "It's clear this job takes no talent whatsoever, and he's still doing a shoddy job of it. Guess you really can't teach an old dog new tricks. Next stop? The pound. Let's see how snarky you are in a kennel, puppy-boy."

"Really, guys? Really?" K.K. taunted. "You take a dig at the host? What party poopers, am I right, folks?"

K.K. turned back to the crowd, waving his paws, and the crowd boo'd loudly.

"Play the game, girls, or the game will play you," K.K. said in an unveiled threat.

"Awww, the wittle pwuppy wuppy doesn't like tasting his own medicine," Jerica mocked, undeterred. "Don't dish it if you can't take it, mangey. Just be a good boy."

"Looks like we need to raise the stakes," K.K. said with a maniacal little giggle.

At that moment, a bunch of steaks appeared, floating in the air.

"If you two don't play by the rules, your penalty is being turned into a steak."

Jerica wasn’t sure what dark magic this strange dog controlled, but she’d never heard of something like that happening, no matter how evil the sorcerer. Besides, having an ally would be nice and it seemed like she was making one in Mel. No point in throwing that away to appease a mutt and an audience that wouldn’t even honor her request for more rum.

That, and she had a pun ready. “Heh… heh… roast beef, if you will.”

Raise the stakes? Why did that seem a little familiar? ...

@Vincian stared at the candy cane forest. "Don't mind the cheery exterior. That forest took my family from me. We can't underestimate it."

"Really?"

"No, but I'm raising the stakes."

All of a sudden, dozens of wooden stakes popped up around the edge of the forest.

... Anyways, back to roleplay.

Mel was thrilled that Jerica was playing along. A devilish grin was plastered across her face as she watched Jerica mock K.K. with a thick baby voice, reminiscent of her time that she did the same to Lordy from round one. Mel giggled when Jerica punned K.K's veiled threat, glad that she wasn't scared of some puny high-pitched talking dog either.

"Awww, is the wittle puppy wuppy hungry?" she mocked in even greater intensity, exaggeratedly pouting her lips and clasping her hands together. "Lil pupper want some steaks? Awwwwh. But good bois need to be rewarded!"

She then beckoned for K.K. to come, and then to roll over and sit.

"Aw, c'mere, lil K.K., sit! Sit, K.K.! Roll over! Oh, oh!"

And with that, Mel conjured an illusory steak, mimicking one already randomly floating in the air, and then tossed it over to K.K.

"Fetch!" she said with another giggle.

K.K. opened his mouth wide - quite disturbingly wide - as the steak flew right into his mouth and he swallowed it whole.

"You're next," K.K. said with a toothy smile.

Then he snapped his fingers, and both Mel and Jerica turned into steaks.

They weren't actually steaks of course, but for all intents and purposes, for the moment, they were steaks, and they flopped into their seats as steaks.


"I mean, I had to keep my word, guys," K.K. asked as the rest of the contestants watched in horror. "Otherwise the big city fat cats will steal my show. I don't even get paid for this."

K.K. of course, didn't let them stay steaks for long, and he snapped his fingers again, and they both turned back into people again.

"Okay, I'm going to give you one last chance to play by the rules and then you'll both lose," K.K. said. "Hurry up! Time's a ticking!"

It wasn't funny anymore.

But she still hadn't bothered to think up any real roasts for Mel. And also, "Wait, did you say 'and then'? And then we'll both lose anyway, even if we insult each other?"

40 words

It was weird being turned into a steak. Steaks had no brains. Mel couldn't think while being a steak, so it didn't really feel like anything.

Mel only had a second or two to think this through as she stared at K.K. threatening them to play along. Any time someone lost, K.K. would put them through a "humiliation round," but it would always end, and they'd be okay. Something told her that this weird impossible magic wouldn't be permanent too. So...

"Nah," she said with a grin. "Did you say you don't get paid to do this? Hah! Imagine being such a loser that you spend all your time posing in front of an audience pretending you've got your life figured out, but really you're a broke scrooge with no one wanting to play with you? Aw, do you need us to play fetch with you? Need some scritchy scratches? It's too bad no one wants to touch your furless balloon head."

"Wow. Amazing. Fantastic. Superb. Splendiferous. Show-stopping. Never been done before," K.K. said in his high-pitched voice, full of sarcasm as ever. "You really ended me. Oh bother. I guess--"


At that, the crowd boo-ed in disappointment. Did that mean the show was over? But, as if reading the crowd's minds, K.K. broke through the boo's with a maniacal laugh.


"Please," he said. "As if that would do anything! I guess there really are two losers this round. Time for punishment."

He clapped his paws and twirled into the air, flying effortlessly until he landed on a hovering podium above the grill and pulled out his guitar out of nowhere.

"I think this calls for a song," he said.



A disco ball lowered from the ceiling, and as the entirety of the audience started to dance and colorful lights shone everywhere, Jerica and Mel were dropped into the flames. The dance party went on for the length of the song as Jerica and Mel were nowhere to be seen.

When they arose from the flames, they were both baked potato chips, because they didn't roast well enough. The potato chip versions of them were gingerly brought back to their seats by Timmy and Tommy while Carter and Lordshire were quietly brought out onto the giant grill.

"We have one more roasting round to go, folks," K.K. said with a smile. "Maybe these two will actually have fun with it like all was intended!"

CARTER HADDON. vs. LORDY LORDSHIRE

"Let's get to it!" K.K. chirped. "Three, two, one... go!"

Now that he was actually thinking about it, Lordy didn't even really like Carter. As a matter of fact, the shape of his face and the way he trimmed his beard sort of annoyed Lordy. Up to this point, he was simply tolerating Carter for civility's sake. But now, sitting across from him, looking at his smug little face (no pun intended), he realized even civility was not enough to stop him from wanting Carter to leave the stage crying for his mommy and daddy.

"Well, old pal. We should've known it would come to this eventually." Lordy shook his head, "Now that I'm finally getting a good look at you, you definitely seem like the college kid who's entire personality was based around being a frat boy who had to buy all of his friendships."

"I mean I can't blame you. Back home where I'm from, I'm wanted in like- fourteen different cities for a whole assortment of different things," Lordy turned and stared right into Carters eye, "But I mean, at least I'm wanted."

Carter watched Lordy with a small smirk, unfazed. Lordy didn't really know anything about him. He was just making things up, but it wasn't like he could say anything that really hurt. Because the truth was, Carter didn't care about what Lordy thought, and this was just a stupid competition, right?

"Look at you," Carter said. "Basing your roasts off of what -- an assumption and a stereotype? Though I guess I expected just as much from someone who needs alcohol to have any coherent thoughts."

Carter scoffed.

"I may not be 'wanted' by the law, but at least I have friends. What do you have? Imbeciles, who merely tolerate your insufferable presence because you just happen to be funny when a little buzzed? Oh, lucky you. You're an average man with a touchy temper and an inflated ego. That only makes you just like every other homeless drunkard on the edge of a psychotic episode. What are you wanted for? Kicking puppies and slitting throats? Well, then. Bravo."

Lordy fake gasped, "Kicking puppies? Not even I'm that cruel, Carteroni. I mean, maybe that's menacing to you, considering most puppies are just about your height."

Lordy tapped his chin with his index finger thoughtfully.

"You've got a lot of anger packaged up in that small frame of yours. I can tell how hard you're trying to pull off this 'nice guy' act." Lordy rolled his eyes, "But I don't want you to sit here and think I'm blaming you for any of that. I'm sure you've had it rough. Hell, I'd be angry all the time too if I had to shop for all my clothes in the kids section."

Carter laughed. He expected the short jokes, but they were such a cheap shot. Like everyone else, he had no choice in the genes he inherited, nor could he change anything about it.

"I don't know why you think I'm so angry," Carter said with a well-humored smile. "Is it because of my cutting remarks? That's all part of the game, Lordy."

He leaned back into his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee, eyeing Lordy with a smirk and condescension.

"I consider my size a blessing, actually. You'd be surprised how many people like yourself assume I'm not much of a threat just because they tower over me. But if we're going to make petty roasts on each other's appearances, why don't we turn it back to you, hm? Should I start with the drunken swagger? Or perhaps how your lanky frame screams: scarecrow, and yet, I think if you were to be hung up in a field, the birds would be more scared of their own reflection seen on your bald head than your figure sprawled out on a stick? Or maybe we should address your wardrobe? You look like the rejected spawn of a clown and a court jester that was raised by raccoons and grew up to become an illiterate butler whose only motivation is things that are 'shiny.'"