A little fanfic

[Master Procrastinator]

WARNING: The following is meant to contain weapons-grade silliness.

HANNAH MONTANA AND THE CULT OF AWESOME

ACT 1: THE BEGINSENING

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It was a warm summer's day on the Hannah Montana Pony Preserve.
Hannah was watching as her sidekick John brushed down her most
favorite pony of them all, when all of a sudden she let out a sigh of
boredom. John shuddered. Nothing good ever came of Hannah
being bored. Almost right on cue, catastrophe struck – a massive
explosion rocked the pony barn, causing it to shake like it was a
polaroid picture. Fortunately, the barn had been built to withstand
a direct nuclear assault. Hannah was very protective of her ponies.
“Something blew up!” the overly enthusiastic teen proclaimed in her
'I'm overly enthusiastic' voice (did she even have any others?).
“Let's go check it out!” John was a little reluctant to follow
until he remembered that the sidekick gig did have hazard pay.
Outside the barn, a fallen rocket was clearly visible in the distance,
with a long cloud of smoke trailing from the wreckage like a tornado
lacking in motivation. “It's too far to walk,” said Hannah, “let's take
the pony!” John did not like the idea of a long pony ride. He was a man,
not some pony-riding freak. Fortunately, Hannah's favorite pony was
also the fastest pony alive, capable of outrunning even a rocket-powered
Segway, and so the duo arrived at the crash site so fast that Einstein
did donuts in his grave.

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The rocket was in bad shape. Hannah knew this because she was
an expert in the field of rocketry. And because the rocket had
totally exploded. “This rocket totally exploded!” gasped Hannah.
John did not get paid enough to care enough to even roll his eyes
at Hannah's masterful talent for stating the obvious. There wasn't
much in the pile of blackened metal to identify the fallen craft or
what its purpose was – other than being a frickin' sweet rocket.
“This adventure sucks!” said Hannah, folding her arms and pouting.
John was very glad that this adventure sucked. The adventures
that Hannah actually enjoyed usually involved globetrotting,
international intrigue, and lethal pop-star showdowns, none
of which were fun for him. Wait... did his ears hear the sound of
incoming helicopters? A fleet of black choppers surrounded the
crash site, as a throng of chainmail-wearing warriors poured out of them.
Vikings. John liked the adventures involving vikings least of all.

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Fortunately, Hannah happened to be the world's greatest kung-fu
fighter, and she knew that vikings were easily defeated by ninja skills.
“Give us the rocket, little girl!” one of the berserkers growled.
Hannah was unfazed. “John! Use your gun!” she commanded.
John was all too happy to comply, because he didn't like vikings even a
little bit, and neither did his gun. His gun felt no fear as the
raging horde rushed towards them, and John envied the trusty little
firearm. Hannah, ever eager and impatient, charged straight forward
into the mass of norsemen, smiling all the way. She ducked under the
swing of an axe, feeling its edge cut the air where her head had just been.
A swift kick to the shin sent the axeman to his knees, and a second kick
to the face sent him into unconscious bliss. For the briefest fraction of an
instant the other vikings paused to ponder how a small child could
defeat a mighty warrior. Then, since they are not such big fans
of the whole pondering thing, the vikings attacked with even greater fury.
Hannah danced among them as if she were playing a deadly game
of DDR, her strikes as swift and precise as an aimbot. One down...
two, three, four... “M-M-M-MONSTER KILL!” said John, in his
best Unreal announcer voice. The vikings were ignoring the little
man, since he was too cowardly to charge into melee and thus must
not pose any threat, but the sorcerous power of his gun proved to be
their undoing. As they tried in vain to land a blow on the pop princess,
they were struck down by thunderbolts of hot lead. The vikings were
decimated before John and Hannah could even work up a sweat.

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Seeing the devastation below them, the helicopter pilots wisely
decided to flee in terror. “There's only one nation that would
send vikings to recover a lost rocketship: Europe!” Hannah
thought aloud, putting her world-famous deductive powers
to good use. “Let's go to Europe!” John groaned at the idea.
There were French people in Europe. Or so he had heard.
“They have guns in Europe,” he reminded Hannah, “guns and bombs.”
“So that rules out going there by plane... We'll just have to cross
the ocean somehow!” Oh please, oh please, oh please, thought John,
don't let the next sentence be “fortunately Hannah was a world
champion long-distance swimmer!”

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Fortunately, Hannah owned a fleet of naval aircraft carriers.
John let out a sigh of relief. The sea sparkled as if it were made
of diamonds, only those diamonds were also made out of
water somehow. Hannah was way too excited about the
boring ocean voyage up ahead, bouncing around,
giggling like an fool, before turning and smiling at John.
And then John was a zombie.

TO BE CONTINUED