What's this? NICK WANNA GO TO WAR?

In the dank underbelly of Tundratown, where the moon seemed always to weep icy tears upon the cobblestone dungeons below, Nick Wilde, the fox of questionable repute, stood before the august presence of Mr. Big—a tiny tyrant who ruled the underground with an iron will and a teeny, ice-cold heart.

"Mr. Big," Nick entreated, the tremor in his voice betraying the tempest of desperation roiling beneath his suave exterior. "I must go to war! The call of duty beckons, and I—"

The voluble vulpine's fervent plea fell on ears no less frigid than the Arctic abyss. Mr. Big's diminutive form reclined upon a throne sculpted from the tears of those he'd crushed underfoot. Slowly, he raised a hand, commanding the attention of the scarred hench-weasels flanking him. Their muscles taut, their gazes alert—they waited only for his command.

"Nick," he began, his voice as a whispering wind through a frozen forest. "You have disrespected my house... and now you wish to go to war? You are pitiable, truly pitiable."

With the curtness of finality in his tone, Mr. Big gave a discreet nod. At this signal, the weasels pounced. Nick, helpless against the encroaching tide of cold rage, found himself ensnared in their vice-like grips. Helpless, helpless before the inexorable jaws of fate, his gaze fell on the dreaded object: the glacial sarcophagus of retribution—a block of ice as unyielding as Mr. Big's disdain.

"This fate is too gentle for you," Mr. Big concluded. "But not before you are properly humiliated."

In a cacophony of cruel laughter, the weasels meticulously affixed vile internet memes, foul relics of a desolate corner of cyberspace, to Nick’s face. Each sticker, each laminated epitaph of mockery, further eroded his dignity until it was but dust in the wintery wind.

Into this icy abyss of ridicule was thrust another pitiable soul—Mr. "I sell bootleg films on the street." His laugh, a raspy cackle, echoed in the frosty chamber.

"Look at you, Wilde," mocked the rodent, as his mangy whiskers twitched and his eyes glimmered with scorn. "Stoned like a statue... as always. And I thought my Disney knock-offs were bad."

Nick could hardly parry this verbal lance; frostbite nibbled at his resolve. The abyss swallowed them whole, obliterating them into incoherence, shards of identity scattered amidst the tundra of forgotten hopes. Only the evidence remained: repugnant furry art and cringe incarnate.

Mr. Big, the orchestrator of their demise, reclined back, a wily smile curling at his lips. Outside the storm raged on, but inside—ah, inside, the ambient glow of an overpriced gaming PC beckoned. He leaned closer to the screen, anticipation pricking at his fingertips.

With an almost affectionate caress, he navigated through a labyrinthine mess of bookmarks, hordes of digital detritus until he found his heart's desire: Zootopia fanfics. His finger clicked on an entry, reveling in the horrific prose that greeted his eyes. It was grotesque, it was abhorrent, it was... bliss.

Mr. Big cackled—a sound like creaking ice. At last, he had found an indulgence befitting his august temperament, an opiate to eclipse the mundane criminality of his existence. Bad Zootopia fanfics—his guilty pleasure, his gleeful perdition.

And thus, in his subterranean realm of cold vengeance, Mr. Big reveled, reveling in a symphony of schadenfreude rendered in the most excruciatingly bad, purple prose.

This story was generated by user ed with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

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