Leor paused, his sword raised over his head. Sweat-soaked hair dipped slightly into his vision, inadvertently blocking the blinding glare of the sun. The gladiator lay flat on the ground, left arm crossed over his face in protection, as if bone could stop a bronze-forged blade. Leor stared at him, the man’s eyes closed and body covered in blood. It seeped into every layer Leor could see, draining off into the dry, dusty ground below. He adjusted his head slightly so the sun’s rays slipped through his hair, then stabbed down through the blindness. The gladiator moaned, but did not scream. Leor raised his sword again, then quickly brought it downward. He felt the blade collide but heard nothing.

With his eyes still lost in the glare of the sun, Leor turned back around, sword dragging behind him like a child pulling a doll. Thousands of jubilant faces stared back at him, hands clapping and mouths shouting in drunken celebration. He glanced back down at the dirt, puddles of dark brown soaking across the surface. A stream of blood was pouring down his arm, its source a burning wound he dared not look at. His shoulder felt limp and heavy, even after dropping the sword with a metallic clink. The crowd chanted at him, their words reiterating his fate. He closed his eyes, mind racing as he fought to ignore them. Another. He brought his left arm to his right shoulder, hand lightly brushing the gash within it. Another. He knew he had no say, no control over his own damn life anymore. He began to feel dizzy, his closed eyes picturing every screaming face, as he . . . as he . . . wait, shit, where is it? It was just here. Crap.

Oh god, they’re going to kill me. I put it down for like two seconds and, shit. Man, where did I put the damn script for this thing? They pay me to type it for them and I just lose it? Shit. Mom? MOM! Did you see my script? No, the script. S-C-R-I-P-T. Yeah, the gladiator one. No. No, Mom, I’ll make the bed later! Just leave me alone for a minute, okay? Jesus. All right, think. Think. This isn’t that bad. Yeah, I can save this. Okay. I’ll just continue in the same style they wrote it, I’m sure they won’t even realize. I’m a great writer.

He began to feel dizzy, his closed eyes picturing every screaming voice, as he turned into a gigantic dragon with like ten swords for wings. He flapped them majestically, the wind screaming as blades cut and murdered the air. Dust filled the skies as he slowly rose off the ground, his massive tail—which was made of fully armed U.S. Marines—danced slowly back and forth. The crowd’s drunken cheers quickly became a dumbfounded silence. Leor stared out at them, their faces now seeming to contemplate their own fate, and let forth a cacophonous roar. Green and yellow Sour Patch Kids with only sour sides, no sweet sides, spewed forth from his mouth and rained down upon the audience. They screamed, their skin melting off under the super sour candies. Those that weren’t crushed became the targets of the now-sentient Sour Patch Kids, who hunted them down and mercilessly beat them.

Leor flew higher into the air, his sword wings decapitating people as he passed, until he reached the top of the stadium. He perched himself on a ledge overlooking the battlefield, then turned so his back faced the crowd. The U.S. Marines, which formed his tail, trained their sights on various members of the audience, then fired. Screams continued to echo from the stands, heads exploding like grapes in a microwave. One of the Marines picked up a phone off another’s back and shouted into it, pointing at a map in his hands. Seventeen pterodactyls wearing bomber jackets appeared overhead, each carrying a large canister of napalm. They dropped them simultaneously, fiery eruptions spreading throughout the crowd as they met the Earth. Leor turned back around to survey the damage.

The stands had been replaced by a sea of fire, bullet holes riddling the spaces not hidden by flame. Large Sour Patch Kids were melting and pooling in a molten puddle of gelatin while others prowled the stands to search for survivors. The emperor stood in the middle of the battlefield, totally flipping Leor the bird and calling him a super faggot. Leor turned into a metal hawk made of chrome and acid, then flew up into the air and dove toward the emperor. His middle finger was still raised, pointed and following Leor as he sped toward his body. Leor fired a laser from his eyes, slicing the finger clean off and catching it with his talons. He then flew directly through the emperor’s body, embedding the finger deep within his scrotum while doing so. The emperor exploded into a plume of blood, body parts, and red Skittles. Leor turned back into a man–this time as bodybuilder wearing a toga and carrying two really hot blonde girls–and smiled, then walked off into the sunset as the stadium also exploded.

There. That wasn’t so bad. I don’t think they’ll notice I lost the original script. I’ll tell them I used a little bit of creative licensing to improve where it was needed. Yeah, that’s good. That’s fine. This is great.

I’m fucked.

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Writing Prompt: The narrator is fluently telling the story when he suddenly realizes the rest of the script is gone.