The lid of the CBT box creaks open and there in front of you is the gigantic face of one of your favourite artists- Brandon Urie, from Panic at the Disco. The impossibleness of his size knocks reality off balance for a moment, and the world seems to rock a little. Then, your hazy vision focuses on Brendon, and your brain seems to make a decision to forget all of the things it can't register and deal with what it can. "Brendon? Brendon Urie?" You gaze up at the horsey, youthful features of your idol, starstruck. "I can't believe I'm meeting you! You're like a god to me, man!" The devious smile that is Brendon's trademark cracks into an expression of utter glee, and he breaks out into a hearty laugh, holding his gut. "Well, now that ya mention it, little dude...." When Brendon tries to tell you that he really 'is' your new god, you don't believe him. When he tells you that the slave trade has been revamped and is now catering to the rich and famous, you start to get a little nervous. When he jerks you out of the gift box and dumps you in a heavy wooden chest at the end of his bed with atleast a dozen other toy-soldier-sized slaves, you know your life is over... After an hour of acquainting yourself with the large collection of nervous, well-behaved slaves and learning what 'His Majesty', as he likes to be called, likes and dislikes in his enslaved young men, the lid of the chest lifts open, the hinges groaning laboriously. Brandon stands, inspecting the collection, his hands discerningly placed on his hips. Under the rich bedroom light his tilted face looks heavy with shadow, and you've never felt so helpless and insignificant. "Ok..." He declares, breaking the silence. "I want a volunteer for.." Before he finishes, hands shoot upward, and you follow suit. "Ah! Nice.. I see I still have my fans.. I'll actually need you all for this one, but emo and beach boy," he points toward you "you got in first, so you get an honoured position. Faggot in the back - not so quick, so I've got a suprise for you.. Now..."
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