The weeks sped by and so did the news of Crusher Media's demise.

First came the authors. There weren't hundreds, there weren't thousands, there were tens of thousands of writers and artists, telling their stories about the conditions they'd been forced into.

Second, came the photos of police discovering the people that lay in the cells. Bones sticking through skin. Tears mixed with faeces.

Third came the arrest of thousands of Crusher Media employees who were charged with being complicit in their CEO's crimes.

But there was one arrest that never made the headlines.

Two days after Crusher Media hit the news there was an article about the disappearance of CEO Richard Balls. His limousine was gone and his bank account had been cleaned out.

In the weeks that followed there were thousands of sightings. Some people thought they'd seen him begging on the street, others believed he was living in the seaside home of one of the country's top politicians.

But a week after his employees began to plead ignorant to what was going on beneath their feet, Balls was found in a $10,000-a-night hotel room in the Bahamas. He wasn't found in bed or the shower, he was found hanging from a noose from the balcony – I guess if you're a coward in life you're going to be a coward in death too.

****

I'm sorry for the tone being so gloomy these last few chapters. I guess it's all that dark shit that happened to me finally working its way out of my system.

On a lighter note, my former prison warden Alex is now in jail where he gets shot by a water cannon quite often. Every time I pass a novelty toy shop I can't help but go and find ties with handcuffs, prison bars, or penises on them. It's a highlight of my day when I wrap them up and send them to him.

And now, I think there's only one loose piece of our story to tie up, and that's to do with the other mansion near ours. You see, because of the collapse of Crusher Media, people were looking for good stories to read. And pretty soon our reads were so high that we were able to fully fix all the leaks, creaks, and groans of our mansion, I was able to buy as many fruit trees as I liked, and install a pool on the side of the house.

And it wasn't just us succeeding, thousands of websites were starting to spring up. Websites that were controlled solely by the authors. Websites that no one but the author and the reader reaped the rewards from.

We also had a tidal wave of writers come to join us. It wasn't just about needing somewhere to live. Many of them could’ve found places of their own – but they wanted to live with us. As much as they hated Crusher, they loved being in a community of writers and artists, so we ended up with beds coating the floor and an army of glamping tents on the front lawn. But even that wasn't quite enough.

So, Astra, Hera Kauri and I called into Lily's real estate firm and asked her if we could buy the mansion down the road.

Lily raised her eyebrows, 'You wouldn't believe it, 10 years that thing's been on the market, and it sold two days ago.'

'Two days?!' I said, 'Who bought it?'

Lily shrugged, 'A woman moving to the area. Pop in there sometime. It's good to meet your neighbours.’

We drove back in John Blue's rusty van which I still preferred to the brand new Tesla he'd bought.

The next day I walked down the road to the other mansion – it was almost an exact replica of ours, only it hadn't been fixed up to the same extent, a few of the windows were boarded over and it looked like someone was just starting a new paint job. As I walked, a car passed me, I waved at them and they stopped.

'Hi,' I said.

Inside were two women. One had a laptop on her knees and in the back sat a collection of paperback books.

'You guys writers?' I asked.

They nodded, 'We're headed to the mansion.'

'Oh, I think you've gone the wrong way. We're just down there, see where all the tents are.'

The woman driving glanced at our village of glamping tents and shook her head, 'No... that's the old one, the instructions said this place right here.'

'Old one?' I mumbled as they sped away.

I watched them and two more cars disappear into the gates of the second mansion. Then I walked up the road, up the driveway, into the garden, then finally to the front door of the other mansion. It had the same solid wooden door that our place had. The sound of barking came from inside, then there was the squeak of the doorknob turning and finally, a familiar face peering out at me.

'Eli the Hill,' she said, a smile curling around her eyes, ‘I was wondering when you’d show up for your final battle with the chicken.'

****

It was Lazy Cultivator. My original nemesis, and probably the writer whose pathway most aligned with mine. She looked different – maybe it was the lack of shadows under her eyes, or maybe it was the fact she was wearing a giant chicken suit.

She showed me around the mansion, it had the same slightly crooked walls and gaps between boards that I kind of missed about our newly renovated one, but also the patches of damp and mould spots that I definitely didn't miss. Little yellow feathers drifted from the chicken suit as she walked.

'I've had a massive payout,' she said 'Plus I've followed your footsteps when it came to creating my own website,' she winked, 'I think I may even be a few thousand views ahead of you.'

I laughed. 'Give me a few pills and we'll see about that.'

Lazy Cultivator shook her head, 'No can do sorry.' she held out her open palms, 'I'm clean.'

'Clean?!' I said and reached out and hugged her, 'Oh my god, well done! You're so brave!'

Lazy Cultivator nodded, 'Yeah I thought; Hey, if that weirdo who writes fan fictions about me can beat Crusher Media, then I can beat the habit that they gave me.'

‘Fan fictions?! They were more like diss tracks. I was insulting you.’

She held up her hand, there was this happy-full-of-life grin on her face, ‘Please, you wouldn’t insult the person who made you famous.’

We both roared with laughter. So much so that people looked down from the top floor at us.

'You bring friends?' I asked as we walked through her under-construction kitchen.

She shook her head, 'A couple, but most of the people staying here are writers I’ve never met before. They need somewhere to stay and now that I'm not burning all my money on pills I guess I've got a place to offer them.'

After hours and hours, I left with a promise that she’d be around to our house soon for dinner.

And as I walked home through a field of long grass there was a sunset in the distance, and it got me thinking about a sandy hill at sunrise, and a chicken who had swords on its wings.

****

I’m sitting on a sandy red hill.

The sun is rising to the east.

I take in a deep breath and enjoy the taste of the morning air. I look across to the other side of the hill and see a chicken sitting there, feet crossed, eyes closed.

Trudging up my side of the hill comes an army. Some carry swords, others typewriter-crossbow hybrids, or quills the size of spears. As the golden sun catches their faces I recognise Astra, Hera, Kauri and Victor, Weaver and John Blue are there too, quills in their hands.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a pen. I click the button and with a ringing sound, it becomes a sword.

As my friends join me the ground underneath us starts to shake. The sand on the side of the hill parts and out rises a giant stadium made of gold rails, silver stairs, and caviar seats.

And in the centre of the stadium, wearing a black suit, laced with diamonds, is Richard Balls.

People flood the stadium. Coins ring out like the tune of a national anthem. The scent of baked hotdogs and onions fills the air.

The chicken is no longer alone. A battalion of writers, armed to the teeth with shield-like erasers, javelin-like pencils, and razor-sharp laptops have joined her.

I clutch my sword. A drop of sweat slides down my forehead.

‘There’s a lot more of them, than there are of us.’ Kauri says from beside me.

Astra shakes her head, ‘I reckon one Hera is worth at least five of them.’

We laugh, then a giant gong dings. The chicken and its army start to run. Their feet kick up a cloud of sand that colours the air behind them.

‘Ready?’ Victor asks, hefting a giant, spiked computer mouse.

‘Ready.’ I say.

We charge. Our feet thunder on the ground like clouds and Astra’s giant keyboard slices the air in two as she runs. I let out a yell and the others join me, throwing their fear and anger and exhilaration into the wind.

The Chicken’s army grows in size the closer we get. One moment they're knee-high, the next I can smell the iron and copper of their weapons. The sound of steel fills the air as our armies collide, but... no one throws a fist, no one tries to stab. Instead, we hug each other, pat each other on the back. The chicken scoops me up in its wings and tosses me over its shoulders so I land on her back. Our armies looked up at us with a sea of grins.

I draw my sword, it shines like freedom in the sun. Then I bring the sword down to face Balls, who stands with two security guards on a raised podium.

Balls raises an eyebrow. He's grinning.

With a single wave of his hands two holes appear on the floor of the arena. As sand trickles down into them, giant mechanical spiders and drones rise up and take attack positions. Squads of black-clad security guards spread out in a line behind the spiders.

‘Think we can win this?’ I say to the chicken.

She fluffs her feathers, ‘No. We don’t stand a chance.’

‘As I thought.’ I give a grim, iseakai-like smile, ‘Let’s go get slaughtered.’

I raise my sword for a charge, our group yells their battlecries – some of them are okay: ‘Freedom in death is better than slavery in life’, and ‘We have nothing to fear, from the one without hair!’, but the writers screaming: ‘They have taken everything from us, now let’s take 10 percent, plus tax, shipping, and handling fees from them!’ and ‘For my pet cat Zeuss.’ clearly don't write battlecries very often

As we advance towards them the army of spiders and drones start malfunctioning. The sand is getting into their gears and clogging them up. One by one the spiders fall over, catch fire, and burn the security guards behind them.

After that most of the security guards start to run away. I try to run after one guy, but then see the platform with Balls on it.

I run to the shaft of the tower and start to climb. The rough, warm steel burns my fingers as I grip it. A shadow crosses my eyes and I look up.

A black-clad figure is climbing up the platform above me.

It takes me a few moments to recognise it as the isekai dude. He stabs his knives into the sides of the podium as he clambers up.

‘Hey!’ I call, ‘You’ll die if you go alone.’

the isekai dude gives a laugh so reasonable it seems maniacal, ‘That’s what I’m counting on.’

He clambers onto the podium, where two of Ball’s security guards stand. The isekai writer drops his knives and pulls out a pair of computer mice from his pockets.

As the guards approach, swords raised, the guy unleashes first one mouse, then the other on them.

The computer mice tangle themselves around them, weaving around the guards’ arms, necks, shoulders and waists.

But that doesn’t stop the guards stepping forward and stabbing their swords through his chest.

The isekai writer lets out a groan of pain, and crouches over.

The guards are laughing, but they can’t see the bloody smile on his face as he stumbles towards the edge of the platform.

He raises his arms to wave goodbye, and as he does – I see the chords for the computer mice are tied to his wrists.

He throws himself backwards off the edge, and as gravity takes hold of him the wires wrapped around the guards take hold of them too. They are ripped from their feet and out into the screaming air in front of them.

I watch them collide with the battlefield below before continuing my climb.

The top is the first sand-free surface I’ve touched so far. I plant my feet and raise my sword at Balls.

Only... only he’s curled in a ball crying. The sound of his pitiful sobs are unpleasant against the sound of the battlefield.

‘Stop being a baby.’ I say as I walk over.

Only, he isn’t being a baby. He's being a monster. He springs, a fistful of sand in between his fingers, the sand stings my eyes, making me stumble backwards as I wipe at them.

Just as I clear my eyes his foot hits my stomach, my neck whiplashes back and my feet stumble until suddenly there is no solid ground beneath them. I feel the air whip past me as I plummet towards my death.

But in the moment just before impact, I land in a soft bed of feathers.

It's the chicken. Powerful wings stirring up hurricanes as she moves.

‘I think it’s time for new management.’ she says.

I laugh, and her talons pick up the screaming Balls and drop him into the field of writers below. Astra throws sand in his face, Hera kicks his ass, and Kauri slaps the top of his head.

Balls starts to run, it's the stumbly disfigured run of someone who’s used to other people running for them.

We chase him... a large screaming, laughing mass of writers hellbent on revenge.

And that’s where I want to leave you. With that image of a hundred writers chasing Balls under the sunrise. Reds and oranges glittering off keyboards and typewriters and pens.

It’s been a wild story to live through. A bad story. A good story. A story to remember.

-ElitheHill