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The Happy Smiley Dib Show!	By : V021 Category: +G through L > Invader Zim > AU/AR-Alternate Universe-Alternate Reality Views: 2643 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Invader Zim, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
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- 7
Real work? Pah-sha! I fart in its general direction! After all, what could be a better ego stroke than seeing the bemused/puzzled reviews you all have been leaving? You are leaving me reviews, right? That, and I’m itching to get to the smut. Oh yes, the sweet smelling smutty smut-smuttiness of smut…
Chapter 6: Teenage Alien Hellcats And Devil Dolls Do the Cyclops Rock!
Zim stretched out across the cot he had set-up in Keef’s attic. He was cramped into a tiny corner right underneath the roof’s peak from all the boxes, confined to a place that was moldy, stifling hot, and excessively dark in a dankly attic sort of way…which is just how Zim liked it. Besides, the attic was his only escape from HORRIBLE happiness permeating the rest of the house. Its perpetually gloomy atmosphere had been created by the perfected combination of neglect and antique architecture that made it totally resistant to every one of Keef’s frequent attempts at ‘cheering up’ the place, even without Zim’s extra help.
Reaching behind him, the alien selected at random one of the latest batch of cutesy plushies Keef had given him. He held the blankly smiling bunny at arm’s length above his face for a moment, staring at it numbly before pressing his claws into its belly and ripping it apart with slow satisfaction. Zim closed his eyes blissfully as he listened to the seams tearing and imagining that it was Keef’s happy face instead.
“You’ve got some issues,” quipped the Other Zim, plopping down at the edge of the cot.
Tossing the now tattered mass of fluff at it, Zim rolled over and muttered childishly, “I’m ignoring you…”
The Other glared down at him with such intensity that Zim could feel the baleful heat of its gaze boring into the back of his skull. “I will not be ignored, Zim. Now, face me!”
“NO! GO AWAY!” Zim hissed. He dragged the pillow over his head and tried burrowing deeper into the thin mattress.
“You can’t ignore me forever, Zim,” rasped the Other smugly. “You have to sleep sometime…”
“Sleep?” He turned to face the Other. “But Irkens don’t need sleep!”
“Yeah, because you used to be so drugged up on amphetamines. But you haven’t got any left, do you Zim?”
“What babble is this? I am not drugged up! And my PAK is fully stocked with performance enhancers and my chemical regulators are working perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
The Other chuckled. “Is that so? Then tell me, when was the last time you ran a diagnostic check?”
“Uh…” His brow furrowed in thought a moment before Zim suddenly goes psycho, “I’M NOT DEFECTIVE! HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY SANITY!”
“But I didn’t say anything about sanity…”
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING NOISE TUBE!” Zim snapped, advancing on the Other. “You keep on and on and on, spilling those filthy lies around like poisonous sheep drippings! But you won’t break me, THE MIGHTY ZIM! Because I see right through your tricks, meat-smelly. I know exactly who you are and you’ll never succeed…”
“Really?” cooed the Other, leaning back against a wall that had appeared in mid-air. “And who am I now?”
Zim began laughing. In a startling burst of speed, he lunged for the Other only to have his smirking doppelganger pull off the most impressive back flip right as they collided. Extracting himself from the heap of junk and cardboard he’d crashed into, Zim turns to face his enemy only to see himself reflected in the old free-standing mirror. It…it had to be a slight miscalculation that caused him to hit that mirror, giving that awful lying Other a chance to escape. Yeah. That was it. A miscalculation…
He giggled nervously, reaching into his PAK for the hand-held diagnostics panel. Fingers twitching, he punched the start-up button and stumbled back to the cot to wait.
“PAK system check complete. WARNING! Bio-chemical regulation system non-functional due to increased androgen hormone concentration. Corruption by foreign matter is most probable source of disturbance.”
“Foreign matter!” Zim rasped, horrified at the possibility of having GERMS. It didn’t even occur to him that the problem may have been caused by the genetic tampering he had done to himself by introducing key elements of human (specifically, Dib’s) DNA in order to surpass his archenemy. Besides, he had more conveniently recalled an earlier encounter with the Dib; an encounter that had nearly cost Zim not only his life, but his identity as well…
“DIB!” He leapt up with a scream. “YOU BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME! TO THINK THAT I, ZIM, WAS PRACTICALLY LIVING WITHIN YOUR HUMANY-HUMANNESS! YOU’VE INFECTED ME WITH YOUR CRAZINESS, YOU FUCKING LITTLE MONKEY!”
“Zim? Are you alright!” gasped Keef as he burst into attic. He caught sight of the shredded plushy and the collapsed boxes.
Cut short during his enraged howling, Zim glared darkly at the boy. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my house, Zim.” Concerned, Keef moved toward him with hands outstretched. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Just peachy…” he sneered.
The smile flicked back on as Keef asked, “Lunch’s ready. Wanna come down and eat?”
“No.”
The smile faltered. “But I made Carpaccio de Pesce and melon sorbet…” (a/n: Somebody’s been watching too much Food Network.)
Zim arched an ‘eyebrow’ at him, wondering about the dangers that faced anyone foolish enough to ingest any product so girly-named as “sorbet” before growling, “Shouldn’t you be at Skool right now?”
“Silly Zim! The Skool got blown up, so they’re giving us a week off till they get a new building. Now we can spend even more time together!” Keef chirped, hugging Zim around the waist.
Arching back, Zim shoves him away and sputtering, “Get you filthy paws off of me!”
Keef looks slightly hurt for a second but soon recovers in time to notice Zim moving for the stairs. “Hey, buddy! Where you going?”
“Out.”
“Great! Let me get my coat and we’ll…”

“Alone. I need to be alone right now…” Zim grumbled. When Keef began to say something, the glare of pure venom he gave the boy was enough to knock the grin off his face. Clicking around on his heels, Zim turned and walked out, leaving Keef standing there alone.style='mso-special-character:line-break'>
Straightening up the counter for the eighth time that day, Shabs sighed. Six years of study for a doctorate in pharmaceutical chemistry only to spend his life doling out pills in some hackney Walgreen’s wanna-be. Sometimes it made him wonder why he even bothered.
“Hey! Hey! Drug-seller!”
Shabs turned toward the impatient, twiggy green young man and forced a happy smile. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you toady?”
“I need the following compounds,” snarled the man, tossing a list at him.
“Alright, sir…” Shabs glanced at the list, blinked, and re-read it again. “Uh…Methamphetamine, bupropion, loxapine, marinol…Oh Be-jebus! Cannabis sativa! Sir! Do you have prescriptions for all these?”
“Prescription! I don’t need no stinking prescription! Now, give to Zim!”
“Excuse me, sir, but I cannot give you any of these medications because they are all restricted by Federal law due their addictive natures and the high probability of misuse. Plus cannabis isn’t exactly legal in this country…”
“But…but you don’t understand! My PAK was sabotaged, leaving its chemical synthesizers unable to create more of the substances that regulate my emotions and my meat-brain! Without those compounds, my regulators will continue malfunctioning until they finally quit working altogether, leaving me to spiral into an never-ending spiral of MADNESS!”
“That may be, sir,” grumbled Shabs, prying the man’s hands off of his lab coat. “But I still cannot legally sell you those drugs without first seeing a prescription from a reliable doctor, psychiatric professional, or health clinic. Now, I’d suggest you go see one of them first and then come back here with a prescription.”
“RARGH! YOU FUC-” Before Zim could leap across the counter to manhandle Shabs, two of the store security guards appeared from nowhere and hurled him out into the street.
“If you try that again, punk, we’ll ban you from the store,” threatened Large Guard 1.
Zim glared at them, getting that dirt off his shoulder as he stood there plotting. Seeing that it would be futile to try going back up to the counter and that wretched clerk, he carefully slipped into the alley adjacent to the pharmacy. He was almost to the back door when a smelly hippie magically popped-up from the ground in front of him.
“Whuzzup, Little Greenie? You looking to get a quick fix?” The smelly hippie opened up his coat to display a candy-color rainbow of baggies. “I’ve got uppers, downers, Black Beauties, coke, meth, poppers, reds, ecstasy, GHB, special K; you name it, I’ve got it! Or may be you wanna little weed?” He held open the opposite flap to show the row upon row of marijuana sorted into convenient packets or already rolled joints.
“Stink-creature, your wares seem…not good. How do I know they’ll work?” asked Zim after a moment’s thought.
“Oh! I assure you, my discerning friend! My shit is the finest quality around! And I’m selling at the lowest prices in town!” The smelly magic hippie then whipped out a series of cards. “Plus, I’m union. Jersey local # 6893. So you wanna try, Greenie?”
Torn between his inherit paranoia and the desperation to get back to a state closer to normal (well, normal for a megalomaniacal alien invader), Zim finally fished out a handful of Earth monies. “I’ll take ten packets of those red pills, six of the pink pills, and the most potent…uh, ‘weed’ you have.”
“Sure thing, my man!” The smelly hippie gladly snapped up the monies and gave Zim the packets and his finest One-Hit-Shit, neglecting to mention that he had paid ten-times the street value for it all. “Can I set you up with anything else?”
“Hmm… You have any ethanol in there?”
The smelly hippie gaped at him.
“Dude, get real! That shit’s bad for you!” With that, the smelly hippie sank back into the ground.
Zim shrugged and, quickly swallowing a handful of pills, walked back out of the alley to find some ethyl alcohol to finish reestablishing his internal equilibrium. He wandered the city streets aimlessly for hours, feeling slightly less tensed now that he had a fresh dose of stimulant pulsating through his veins. Streetlights flickered on overhead as Zim cruised toward a likely looking establishment.
No matter where you went in the universe, if you wanted hard liquor cheap with no questions asked, there would always be the dive-bar. And inside was exactly what a dive-bar should be: dirty, rancid smelling, and patronized by the scummiest scum of society’s scum. Just inhaling that noxious blend of stale vomit and booze dragged Zim back to those youthful times on Devastia when he’d sneak out of training to get his drink on.
Riding a wave of nostalgia, Zim went up to the bar and began looking for the highest proof on the shelf. “Hey, bartender! Bring me a—”
“Hey, punk!” interrupted when one of the scum who had decided that Zim’s green skin, girly figure, and clothing was too offensive to his Skynard loving redneckism.
Keeping his rage in check, Zim tried again. “I want bottle of—”
“We ain’t got no bitch beer, pansy boy!” Skynard continued, leaning in close so Zim could gain the full bouquet of his beer breath.
Zim glanced at the bottle dangling from the redneck’s beefy hand. “You call that beer? I drank stronger than that when I was a smeet!”
“Oh, so you think you is a bad ass, huh? Mick! Get the shot glasses and the tequila!”
Poker-faced, Mick the bartender sat up the bottle and the glasses as the rest of the bar closed in to watch the contest.
“All right, pussy,” sneered Skynard with sick grin. “We’re each going to take one shot each till either the bottle’s empty or one of us hits the floor. Loser pays for everybody tonight. Deal?”
“Sure, sure…”
The first four shots went by quickly, but by the fifth Skynard was teetering a bit on his stool. The sixth, seventh, and eighth saw him start to list heavily while Zim was knocking them back without a care in the world. By the ninth, Skynard was about ready to hit the floor but still Zim seem unaffected.
“You’re going down, bitch-boy…” Skynard slurred letting Mick pour the tenth shot. The glass had hardly reached his mouth before the redneck went tumbling backwards off his stool.
The gathered scum stared at the green stranger in reverent awe and confusion.

Downing his shot, Zim snickered at his fallen opponent and nonchalantly tossed back the remaining tequila before turning to Mick. “Now, can I have a couple of bottles of Everclear?”

Meanwhile, ‘neath the unassuming suburbs…
Gaz carefully adjusted the stone in its setting, fixing the connective wires and the pentagram alignment until it was perfectly attuned to the cosmic forces of vengeance and dark magic. Which was easy for her since the method outlined by the great sages was identical to the way she had her Japanese FlayStation2 hooked-up.
Satisfied, Gaz cut on the recharger and watched wide-eyed as the surge of dull violet energy flowed into the spell drives, filling them with an unholy power. She snapped back into her regular disinterest with a lazy snort as she walked over to the now sheet covered table. Gaz took a deep breath and then snapped, “Begin running spell: BLACKLIGHT.”
The bolt of energy struck Gaz before she could even brace herself. It surged over and into her, burning her vision into a dense, ultraviolet haze. Arching out from her chest, the energy struck the sheet-covered thing, coating it in a freakish halo of light. The thing began to shudder with the influx of power, limbs twitching as if it were being electrified.

Helpless, Gaz watched this bizarre display with a faint sense of awe and horror. Before she could see it’s climatic finish, she felt the floor beneath her feet buckle and shift as though the very earth was tearing itself apart to swallow her alive. She knew the energy was twisting deeper inside until she could sense it melting down the very essence of her and vomiting it out into the twitching, writhing thing on the table. As she collapsed in convulsions to the floor, Gaz was vaguely aware of somebody—a woman? — screaming next to her. Then, just before the glowing darkness completely consumed her, Gaz realized to her embarrassment that those screams were her own.
“GAZZY, I’M HOME!” shrieked G.I.R. as it bounded into the house, a gargantuan bag of McMeaty’s burger stuff held high over its head. It stood in the living for a moment awaiting her displeased growl, but there was simply quiet. Shrugging, it walked into the kitchen and down the steps to the lab below.
G.I.R. knew Gaz had said that it wasn’t allowed to come down there because she was busy working on a surprise for his master, but the magic weenie told G.I.R. that everything would be alright since it was just telling her that dinner was here. Besides, the little robot really, really, really-really wanted to see what the big surprise was.
Tripping, G.I.R. slide down the last few stairs on its tiny metal hinny. It skidded to a stop right at the edge of the spell drive circle and, sensing someone moving around, peeked its head around.
“Gaz?” The word hung unanswered as the robot stared blankly at the violet-hued scene.
Lying on the floor was Gaz’s still body, splayed out at a painful angle as a dark, sheet-covered figure leaned over her. The figure was poking her warily with one metal claw as if it thought she might get back up and maul him.
“You… You hurt the Scary Lady…” Overcome with a surge of uncharacteristic anger, G.I.R. shifted to duty-mode and, glaring red, deployed its entire arsenal. “You DIE!”
“G.I.R.! DON’T! IT’S ME!” Whipping back the sheet from his face, the figure stood up and revealed that he was…
“BIG-HEAD BOY!” squealed the robot in surprised glee. “What you doin’ here!”
“What are you doing here?” Dib retorted in a frighteningly hateful tone.
“I brought home some dinner!” G.I.R. answered, waving a McMeaty’s burger in Dib’s face. “Want some?”
“No.” Pushing the greasy food-like substance away, Dib readjusted the sheet around his waist and picked Gaz up from the floor. He stepped past the robot as he headed toward the stairs.
“Hey! Where you goin’? What’s the matter with Gazzy!”
“She’s sick.” Dib muttered, carrying his sister’s limp body back to the main house level, then up to her room with G.I.R. trailing close behind. With deliberate care he dress her in her favorite set of piggy pajamas, tucked her into bed, and turned to the confused robot.
“Listen, G.I.R.” he said softly. “Gaz is feeling very, very, very sick right now. I’d watched her, but I’ve got some important stuff to do so I need you to stay and keep an eye on her for me, okay?”
“But…”
“It would make Gaz happy if you did. And you do want Gaz to be happy, don’t you G.I.R.?”
“Okay, Dib-head!” cooed the robot, plopping down onto the bed next to her before digging into its feast of burger-flavored food.
Wincing at the sight of G.I.R.’s sloppy gorging, Dib started to leave then turned sharply back. “Oh, and one last thing: Don’t mess up my—eh, Gaz’s stuff while I’m gone.”
There was a muffle gulp of agreement as G.I.R. continued to wallow in the grease-dripping bag. Dib growled in annoyance but simply pulled the door shut. Getting dressed quickly, he stepped out of his room and into the bathroom to get a look at himself in the mirror.
Dib could hardly believe the boy staring back was really him now. Glaring one eye back at him, the flesh felt cold and dead when he reached up to touch it. The cowlick came up in a shock of black wire from the unkempt mass bristling on his head. His limbs moved in a jerky, pained way like a puppet being pulled along by its strings. Even his clothes had a disheveled, uncomfortable look to them as if he had dug through somebody else’s closet and thrown on this stranger’s clothing without bothering to see if they fit right.
“Dib,” he sneered in a vicious falsetto. “You really look like hell.”
There was a giggle, then he answered in a slightly more normal voice, “Well Gaz, you know how that saying goes: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve going to kill Zim now. Later.”
Still giggling, Dib left the house and drove off in the coup.
- 5
- 6
- 7
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The Happy Smiley Dib Show!