Avatar Adventure

Pt. 2: Gone in 60 Seconds

About an hour later, I realized how fucking expensive it would be to buy gas for a trip to Hollywood, so I stopped by a used-car lot and sold my ride. It was a Pinto. I mean, sure, it wasn't safe to drive, but it sure gave me that rush I always look for. It was like being in a Michael Bay flick every time I went to buy Tropicana. The guy at the lot gave me a thousand bucks for it, and, as I was leaving, he threw me an extra five hundred for, "having the balls to actually drive a Pinto and not be dead already." I thanked him, waited till he turned around, and promptly stole a yellow '07 Ford Mustang with a black stripe down the center and a license plate that read, "OJDI DIT". As I drove away, I heard him yell, "Why!?!" I responded, "Because of James Mothafuckin' Cameron!"

James. Mothafuckin'. Cameron.
 

Pt. 3: Terminator 2: Judgment Day

The Mustang got me into Ohio on a single tank before it died on me. I was amazed it did too, but then again, it was fucking Ohio. I was on a long, boring stretch of road surrounded on either side by farms, grass, and suicidal cows. I lit a match and tossed it into the gas tank of the Mustang. Then I turned around and walked away slowly as it blew up behind me. It was really cool...for like a split-second, because the heat from the blast knocked me about 15ft. away. The fall broke my pinkie finger and severely burned my left ass-check. Reeling from the pain, I cursed James Cameron for ravaging my soft anal flesh and limped to the nearby farm.

Pt. 4: O' Brother Where Art Thou?

I knocked on the door of a small, cozy-looking household. An old, white man opened it, looked at my mangled, beaten, slightly crispy body, and exclaimed,
"Martha! Look! It's a colored fellow!" 
I was in too much pain to call him a cracker, so I simply asked for assistance instead. He led me in, and while his wife and he cared for my ass and reset my finger, he introduced me to his family.
"Here's my wife, Martha, and then there's me, 'course, name's Farmer Apist..."

I snickered.

He continued, "...then there's Mary Sue, Betty Sue, and, my favorite one, Willy Sue."
Farmer Apist kept talking for quite a while, but I wasn't paying attention, because Martha had been rubbing ointment on my scalded cheek for a bit too long. I promptly stood up, thanked Farmer Apist, opened his pantry, and left a graham cracker I found there on the table, hoping he got the message. I then punched out the kitchen window and leapt out, screaming, "Cameron!" like a madman, leaving the Apists behind.

Pt. 5: Rocky

I had been riding Farmer Apist's prize cow, Bovara Streisand for multiple hours now, having stolen her on the way out. She ran amazingly quick, especially for a cow from Ohio, and in only two days, we'd arrived in Hollywood. We were both starving. White Castle drive-thru had done a number on our stomachs. Fortunately, Bovara had used the incredible diarrhea to propel us as record speeds, a brown, chunky turbo boost with a hint of onion. We'd flown down the highways like we'd eaten a Mushroom and could hear a Blue Shell behind us.

The two of us began our search for James Cameron, asking anyone who'd stop to listen. After a few hours with no luck, we sat down on the Walk of Fame, staring at the star meant for Godzilla and wondering how the hell he got here. Someone tapped on my shoulder, and, as I turned, I was stunned to see Sylvester Stallone standing there with a lopsided grin. There was a bit of broccoli in his teeth. But who cares? It was fuckin' Rambo!
 "It's fuckin' Rambo!"
 "HEY HEY, whatdahellyoukidsdoinghereondasidewalkwithacow?", garbled Stallone.
 "Oh, we were looking for...wait, was that even English?"
 "Coursedatwasenglish, youstupidkid! Answermyfuckin'question!"
 "Right then, we're looking for James Cameron, he owes me ten bucks."
Stallone froze. A look of shock came across his face, or at least I think it was a look of shock. It was a bit hard to tell with him. 
 "Yo, Ican'thaveyouhurtingPappaCamCam!"
He started screaming like crazy, and, in one swift motion, tore off his pants and punched me in the mouth. One of my teeth was spinning on a row of letters that spelled out, "Drew Barrymore". The last thing I thought before I passed out?
"How the hell did she get a star?"

Pt. 6: Silence of the Lambs

When I awoke, James Cameron stood in front of me, in a blue Snuggie that said, "Avatar RULES" and eating a large hamburger. The sauce had run down his fingers and created several sticky brown spots on his douchebaggerishly-sleeved blanket. It looked an awful lot like the ocean had crapped out Cameron's head amidst chocolate sauce.
 "I rather enjoyed your bovine friend. In fact, I topped off this patty with some fava beans and a nice chianti."
He licked his lips. I was absolutely livid.
 "YOU SON OF A BLUE SMURF-LOOKING BITCH!"
Cameron laughed, "Oh, don't be such a vagina...if she didn't want to get eaten, she should have just tasted worse. Now then, why were you so desperate to find me?"
 "I...just wanted my money back from seeing Avatar! You'd didn't have to eat Bovara! Shit's too real now, Cameron!"
 "Oh, it's not nearly real enough yet, I promise you! You trying to regain your money means that I lose some. Understand my predicament?"
 "Wow...you really love cash, huh? Can't ever spare ten? I know Avatar made a couple billion too."
 "You don't seem to understand: I fuck money, I love it so much. That's how I make my movies. I don't even like Avatar! But what I did learn was that people like seeing Pocahantas again if everyone's blue!"

While he spoke, I realized what I'd thought was rope tying me to the chair was actually an extremely long braid of hair. For the first time, I saw that Cameron had a large bald patch.
"Gross."

A second passed.

 "What a minute...it's just hair." I quickly ripped away my dandruff-flaked bonds and stood face-to-face with James Cameron.
 "Damn, man, you're really short, you know?"
Cameron, whose, eyes barely came up to the swell that was my copious bulge, caught himself staring, "Huh? Oh, sorry! I'm not short, you're just...um-argh-nerd! If you really want your money back, you're going to have to duel me for it."
 
I had been ready for something like this. I figured my quest for justice would end in a duel with katanas.
 "Just like Kill Bill."
 "Hmm? No...with Yu-Gi-Oh cards!"
Cameron pulled open his Snuggie and revealed several rows of Yu-Gi-Oh cards, each in an individual case and slightly moist. He put on a single white glove with no fingers that read Heart of the Cards, Bitches!
"Fine, Cameron...you wanna dance? Let's dance."
I pulled out my own deck of cards, which I always kept handy, because, "Like a boy scout, I'm always prepared...to fuck your day up."
Cameron smirked, his Snuggie flowing in the wind like a backwards cape, "It's time to D-D-D-DUEL!"

Final Part: Invictus

 We dueled for hours, and I was losing pretty badly. Cameron obviously was simply a master of little collectible children's cards.
 "Damn it, I just want my 10 dollars back!"
 "Well, with this final card, I'll totally beat you! And make you cry! Like a baby reading Kafka!"
A loud gunshot rang out. Cameron's hand now lay on the floor, still clutching his Blue Eyes White Dragon, leaving a stump behind. Looking past it, at a now open door, I saw my heroes. Morgan Freeman and Samuel L. Jackson stood there, dressed in full battle gear, and armed to the teeth with a variety of guns and matching shirts filled with tons of militant black phrases, like "Stop following me in the convenience store!", "Give me the gold!", and "Fuck Elvis."
 "It's over, Cameron, release the boy," said Morgan Freeman.
 "HELL YEA! LET THE MOTHERFUCKER! GO!" replied Sam Jackson.

I was so relieved.

Cameron shouted out, "Argh! My immortal Afro-American foes! You're like the pepper to my salt, the flavor to my flav, the black to my entertainment television, the-"
Morgan Freeman held out his hand, his aura silencing the director. "Cameron. You're bleeding quite a bit. I believe you've stained your Snuggie card collection."
James Cameron broke down in tears, screaming and tearing out chunks of hair. "No! Hemoglobin ruins the collector's value! NO!!!"

The crazed director exploded, leaving chunks of burnt Snuggie everywhere.
Morgan Freeman freed me, put me on his back, and began to fly away, Sam Jackson behind him.
 "WE GOT HERE! JUST IN TIME!" shouted Sam Jackson.
 "It was a close call, but fortunately, Oprah's Black Guy GPS located you just in time. Score another one for the Black Radical Operations Specialists."
 "Well, that's certainly goo-what!? What happened to Cameron? Black Radical Operations Specialists? BROS?"
 "YESSIR!"
 "Quiet, Sam. God, I can't take you anywhere," Freeman looked at me. "Young Rubin, Cameron is not dead, he's simply broke the cardinal rule of Snuggies: he wept and bled on the same one. It makes them explode. They say it in the commercial."
 "You don't say."
 "He'll be back, definitely. And we'll find a way to stop him."
 "YOU DAMN RIGHT WE WILL!"
 "Oh, and we have a surprise for you."
 "Bovara! But how did you pull a cow out of your hip pocket?! And how did you bring her back to-"
 "Mooo!"
 "SHUT THE HELL UP, BOVARA!"
Morgan Freeman smiled, his eyes bright, "I'm Morgan Freeman. That's how."