*Danny hiding in the living room with a pot over his head and the lid as a shield as he holds a large fork in one hand*
Jazz: Danny! Why are there marshmallows fighting the ecto-weenies!?
Danny: ......so...funny story....
Jazz: Daniel Edward Fenton.
Danny: Okay so maybe I showed a bunch of blob ghosts all the Ghostbuster movies. And maybe i bought a bag of marshmallows to snack on while we did that. And maybe I accidentally left the extra bag in the kitchen and didn't know that mom and dad left a new batch of ectoplasm samples there as well. And maybe a mischievous little blob-Not to name names but *cough* Blobert *cough* - purposefully tipped the bag into the samples and the marshmallows reanimated and I thought that was the end of it but the blob ghosts found out they could overshadow the ecto-mallows and they declared war on the weenie. They also found out they could shift their look to look exactly like the mini Stay Puft Marshmallow Men.....
Jazz: .......
Danny: ...so, haha, yeah. Then the weenies saw the mallows formed hands and feet and got jealous and took a swim in the new ecto sample too and they were able to grow hands and feet as well and Jazz... I have no idea what mom and dad did to that sample but I'm scared.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Phic Phight - I Saw The Tall Skinny Figures Consuming Our Flesh. I Could Not Have Been Mistaken, Brother. The Smell Of The Flesh Was Surely One Of Us. They Suspended The Flesh Above A Fire And Let It Burn Before Consuming It
A routine bite turns catastrophic when hotdogs all over town suddenly become sentient, violently feral, and incapable of anything but relentless, coordinated screaming. Thereâs nothing stopping these ecto-weenies and everyoneâs screaming about it. AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
The first bite was a mistake. Gerald Pickens learned this the moment his lunch tried to assassinate him. He had just lifted the hotdog, admired its suspicious greenish sheen, and taken a bold, optimistic biteâŚ
And then the hotdog screamed.
Not a polite yelp. Not a squeak. It unleashed a raw, feral shriek that sounded like a teakettle possessed by pure rage. A mouth snapped open on the hotdog as it slowly turned an ectoplasmic green. The sausage twisting in his grip and bites down with a ring of tiny, needle-like teeth that absolutely did not belong there.
Gerald drops it immediately, but It did not drop him. It clung. It writhed. It screamed louder.
Gerald began shaking his head back and forth, trying to get the thing to let go of his lower lip. Screaming all the while, âWHY IS IT SCREAMING!â, because this had quickly become a screaming-based relationship.
Across the park, a woman calmly packed up her picnic. âOh godsâ, she mutters, grabbing up her child, âitâs starting againâ, glaring at the air, âsomeone needs to stop selling the Fentonâs hotdogsâ.
By sunset, the town had become a chorus of meat, it was like every hotdog in the entire city had woken up; and when they did so, they all screamed.
Convenience store rollers became spinning racks of shrieking, snapping cylinders. Backyard grills erupted into chaos as dozens of hotdogs flung themselves off of the heat, hissing and howling like furious little sirens. A man sprints down the street, pursued by three airborne hotdogs that had launched themselves with terrifying accuracy; screaming the entire time.
They did not speak.
They did not negotiate.
They only screamed.
But somehow, they coordinated.
And there was one thing everyone knew for sure, somehow, someway, this was the Fentonâs fault. Whenever food became green and mean it was always the Fentonâs fault.
In the city center, a tipped-over cart became ground zero. Hotdogs spill out, twitching, shrieking, flopping across the pavement in a chaotic frenzy. At first it looked random, noise without pattern, movement without thought.
Then someone noticed something chilling. The hotdogs, the ecto-weenies were screaming⌠together.
A rising and falling, layered cacophony of screaming that began to sync, like an orchestra tuned by madness. High-pitched squeals punctuated deeper, guttural wails. Groups of them would cluster, their screams aligning in strange, repeating patterns.
It wasnât language, but it was communication; and it was working.
The Fenton parents joining the fray with their own screaming, and Jack Fentonâs whoops of unbridled joy, only increases the chaos; all punctuated with the sound of ecto-blaster fire and exploding meat splattering onto buildings.
Most of the townâs folks just start screaming along, because if you canât beat âem then join âem; trying to talk over the clusterfuck of raw meat screams was basically pointless anyways.
The first formation appeared near a baseball field. It was a cluster of hotdogs arranging themselves in a rough circle, flexing the buns theyâve acquired, meat tube bodies tensing. Their screams rising in pitch, then dropping in unison, and then they charged.
Not randomly. Not blindly. They descended upon the concession stand. They swarmed it, knocking over mustard bottles, tearing into napkin dispensers with their bizarre needle teeth, hurling themselves against the counter in a frenzy of noise and fury. Their screams growing sharper, more frantic, almost⌠triumphant; as they start tearing it to shreds, chunks of metal and plastic getting flung everywhere.
Witnesses described it as âwatching a riot conducted entirely by angry Aztec death whistlesâ, as they had to flee to avoid getting hit/impaled by the scraps of the food stand. Then having to flee even more urgently and further when the Fentonâs arrived guns blazing, the couple even ran over a fire hydrant with their gav; resulting in a mass of soggy raw ecto-weenies...
The rest of the town attempted to respond, as the Fentonâs werenât having a lot of luck actually quelling the ecto-weenie madness; the monstrous meats all likely held grudges against the couple after all.
The town attempt, unfortunately, went poorly. The Amity General hospital quickly got overrun with ecto-weenie bite wounds, some even having to get treated for ecto-infections and ecto-contamination. The hospital deploying Fenton ghost foamer foam around all their doors and windows in an attempt to protect their patients.
Their long suffering mayor, Vlad Masters, having to hold a press conference. Said press conference began three minutes late because the podium had to be⌠replaced. The first one had been dragged offstage by two screaming ecto-weenies that had latched onto its legs like furious, sentient magnets, and dragged it away.
Mayor Masters stepped up, suit far more rumpled than anyone had ever seen it, bolo tie slightly askew, with the expression of a man who had not slept so much as blinked aggressively for several hours in a row. He gripped the sides of the podium like this one might try to escape too; which was a fair concern. Behind him, the city seal hung crooked, as no one had the energy to fix it. In front of him, a room packed with reporters, cameras, and one suspiciously twitching lunch bag.
The mayor leaned into the microphone, it letting out a faint feedback squeal; and somewhere in the distance, a hotdog screamed back.
He closes his eyes, opens them again, and begins, âgood afternoonâ, voice already carrying a quietly furious edge, âI am Mayor Masters, as you are all painfully aware, and I am here to address the⌠ongoing situation involving-â. Then from the back of the room an ecto-weenie screams, not loudly, just enough to slice through the air like a tiny, furious alarm. The mayor doesnât even look, â-the ongoing situationâ, speaking louder to hopefully drown out any meat-centric vocal invasions to his speech, âinvolving the cityâs, and I cannot stress this enough, entirely unacceptable outbreak of hostile, screaming ecto-weeniesâ.
Cameras flash as Vlad nods his head curtly at the crowd, âlet me be absolutely clear. This administration is taking decisive, bold, and-â, pausing as something faintly shrieks under a table, â-increasingly creative measures to handle what I will, for legal reasons, continue to refer to as âthe meat madness incidentââ.
A reporter raises a hand, âMr. Mayor, do you believe the ecto-weenies are acting with intent?â.
The mayor stares at them like they are stupid, âintent?â.
A distant chorus of screaming rises, as if on cue.
The mayor gestures vaguely towards the sound, âfor Goudas sake, they are organizing into formations, Linda. They are launching coordinated attacks on food trucks. One of them stole my car keysâ, pausing then, âI watched it happenâ.
Another reporter leans forwards, âsir, are you saying the ecto-weenies are⌠intelligent?â.
âI am sayingâ, the mayor pinching the bridge of his nose, âthat I have personally witnessed a group of green screaming malicious hotdogs use a seesaw to catapult one of their own through a second-story window-â.
Silence.
Then, softly, from the twitching lunch bag⌠A scream. The bag begins to inch its way across the floor. Making the mayor stop mid-sentence, watching it with a flat, hollow gaze, ââŚdonâtâ, he glares even harder.
The bag froze.
Everyone froze.
For a moment, it looked like it might actually behave.
Then the bag bursts open. An ecto-weenie launches itself into the air, spinning, screaming like a spectral fidget spinner dipped in rage.
And the mayor? The mayor goddamn catches it.
No hesitation. No thought. Just pure reflex. He grabs it mid-flight with his bare hand, and the room erupts into chaos. The ecto-weenie writhing, screaming directly into his face, tiny teeth snapping.
âŚ
The mayor shoves it in his mouth and violently mashes it into silence with his teeth. The mayor adjusts his tie, smoothes his jacket, and looks back to the cameras like nothing had happened, ânow, where were weâ.
A stunned reporter blinks, âyou were explaining your plan, sirâ.
âAh, yesâ, the mayor nods to himself, âthe planâ. He places both hands on the podium and leans in, âis we donât have oneâ. Continuing over the annoyed mumbling, âwe have tried containment. We have tried negotiation; which, as Iâm sure you all have heard about by now, has been wildly unsuccessful. We have tried ignoring them, which only resulted in one of them learning how to open a doorâ, sighing, âI donât know how it opened the door, and frankly? I donât want to knowâ.
Another reporter raises a hand, hesitant of the clearly ticked off mayor, âMr. Mayor, what would you say to the citizens who are afraid?â.
The mayor looks directly into the cameras. For a moment, something like his usual confidence flickered back. The practiced charisma. The polished authority. Then, from outside, a massive, unified scream rolled through the city like thunder made of meat.
The flicker died.
âI would sayâ, he replies, âthat fear is a completely rational response to a screaming, mobile food product that appears to hold grudges. And Iâd also say that this is Amity Park, grow a cracker jacking spine alreadyâ, scowling, âalso, stop buying them. Stop bringing them into your homes like this is normal. I saw a man yesterday try to âgive one a chanceâ. It bit his shoelaces off and screamed at his dogâ.
The final question comes from the back, âsir⌠do you think this will end?â.
The mayor stares at them. Inhale and exhale, âI thinkâ, speaking slowly, âthat we are all going to have to learn to live in a world where hotdogs scream backâ.
The room falls silent.
The mayor straightens, composing himself, âthank you. This concludes this-â.
Annnnnd then the microphones get overrun by a pack of shrieking ecto-weenies that latched on and turned the entire event into an audio nightmare. The emergency alert system briefly broadcast nothing but a wall of distorted screaming before someone unplugs it.
The only thing anyone could see on screen was reporters and other visitors kicking and stomping at the ecto-weenies; and the mayor showing a truly disturbing level of violence towards the former edible pink sludge, tearing them apart with his bare hands and teeth and shoes and bashing them with a reporters camera.
Even the G.I.W. attempted to intervene, claiming theyâd quell the supernatural meat Armageddon, them immediately having to backpedal when a platoon was overwhelmed by a coordinated barrage of airborne ecto-weenies that seemed to understand trajectory, timing, and vengeance. The entire Fenton family, but especially Danny Fenton, mocking them relentlessly as they all fled.
Gerald, now heavily bandaged and deeply suspicious of anything tubular, found himself barricaded in a lab with Dr. Madeline Fenton.
Between them sat a single captured ecto-weenie, contained within a reinforced ecto-glass cylinder; the Fenton son sitting on top of it and actively hissing at the ecto-weenie, at least the dog seemed marginally fearful of the boy.
The ecto-weenie stared at them⌠or at least, it oriented itself in their direction, and it screamed.
Constantly screamed. Danny screamed back.
âDo they ever stop?!â, Gerald shouting, pressing his hands over his ears.
âNo!â, Dr. Fenton shook her head, scribbling notes, âbut listen carefully!â.
âI am trying not to!â.
âNo, listen!â.
Gerald reluctantly focused, the scream wasnât static, instead it wavered and shifted. Rose and fell in repeating patterns.
From somewhere outside the lab, distant screams answered. The ecto-weenie in the container change pitch.
The distant screams changed with it.
Gerald went very still. Whispering, âoh god, theyâre⌠talkingâ.
âNot talkingâ, Dr. Fenton smiled, it was very disturbing to see, âsomething else. Something more primalâ.
The ecto-weenie suddenly slams itself against the glass, screaming at a frequency so sharp it rattled the equipment.
And from outside came a response.
Louder. Closer.
Danny screaming even louder right back.
Gerald backed away, âIt called themâ.
From there the uprising escalated.
Ecto-weenies moved in swarms now, guided by waves of sound, armed with ketchups and mustards and relishes. Entire streets became rivers of writhing, shrieking bodies, flowing toward targets with eerie precision; coating every sentient being they came across with condiments and squishy globs of raw meat. Even the Box Ghost got nailed, Skulker saw what was happening and nopped out immediately after shouting at Phantom about âgetting his deranged lair in orderâ. Phantom shouting back about how he âcould only eat so many!â, to the hunter ghosts great disgust.
Phantom was mostly blasting the ecto-weenies the times when he would show up, but he was indeed also eating the things.
The ecto-weenies toppled food trucks, overran grocery stores, and gathered in massive, pulsing clusters that screamed into the sky like some grotesque signal fire.
People tried to reason with them, but it was futile, for there was nothing to reason with.
Only noise.
Only fury.
Only the relentless, unbearable sound of a species that had discovered pain and decided to return it to sender.
You eat us, we eat you. You cook us, we COOK YOU.
It all converged outside of FentonWorks.
Thousands of ecto-weenies gather, a churning mass of condiments, and buns, and meat, and endless, layered screaming. The sound was overwhelming, a physical force that pressed against the skull and made thoughts feel slippery.
Many of the towns folk stood at the edges of the mass, armed with⌠whatever they thought might help. Tongs. Fire extinguishers. One guy held a loaf of bread like a peace offering and looked deeply unsure about it. Ecto-guns⌠lots of ecto-guns.
Danny stepped forwards anyway, entirely unarmed and twitching an eye, he had made several poor decisions that week and saw no reason to stop now.
The screaming shifted, it didnât stop but it focused. A wave of sound rolling towards the teen, rising, tightening, like a question made entirely of rage.
Danny scowls, âokay, you slippery meat sticksâ, rolling his shoulders, âI get it. Youâre a smidge pissed offâ.
The screaming spikes.
âYeah yeah yeah, AHHHHHHH at you tooâ, rolling his eyes, âso youâre extremely madâ.
The mass surged, then stills just a fraction. The sound dipping then rising again in a strange, pulsing rhythm.
Danny frowns, âyou⌠want somethingâ.
Gerald muttering, âoh zone, heâs communicating with themâ.
Someone else shouting, âjust how many of those things have you eaten to speak hotdog scream language!â.
Danny flips whoever off behind his back without even turning around. Meanwhile, the ecto-weenies pitch changes again, a pattern emerging, a repetition.
Maddie Fenton, watching from behind, grabs his arm, âtheyâre emphasizing that frequency. Itâs deliberateâ.
âGreatâ, Danny huffs, âtheyâre aggressively musicalâ.
The screaming intensifies again, building to a painful crescendo, then dropping sharply.
Silence.
Not silence.
Itâs a lower, sustained wail. Steady and demanding.
Danny blinks, âwaitâ. He looks around at all the crap the dogs of doom had gathered. At the grills, and the food carts. At the world that had, until very recently, considered these things disposable. Speaking slowly, ââŚYou donât want to be cooked anymoreâ.
The reaction is immediate. A deafening, explosive scream that shook the windows.
Not random.
Not chaotic.
Agreement.
Danny narrows his eyes, bends over, and screams in the âfaceâ of the closest ecto-weenie, âWELL TOO BAD! IMMA EAT ALL YOU BITCH ASS BITCHES! WHEN A STRONGER SPIRIT APPEARS, THE WEAKER SPIRIT COWERS! BUT ALL EVIL SPIRITS COWER BEFORE JESUS!â.
Vlad faces palms, âoh great, heâs calling himself Jesus now. A god complex was not the thing I wanted him to learn from meâ.
Danny sagging and turning on Vlad, âGod, can you go bomb an abortion clinic or something?!â.
The ecto-weenies shriek and launch themselves at Danny, him tearing them to shreds like a feral raccoon immediately. The towns folk all joining the fray shortly after.
Ecto-weenies get stomped on, tied together and swung like nunchucks, run over by lawn mowers, whipped up into a crème brÝlÊe, eaten, melted by oddly acidic whip cream. The towns folk get bit, shot in the eye by condiments, stabbed by knives and storm drain grates, whipped by their own shoe laces, ecto-weenies writhe around in their hair making horrible greasy knots.
The devil was taking notes, the Observants were crying, the Amity Parkers were all plotting a yearly âdestroy all hot dogsâ day, the ghosts start pre-emptively banning hotdogs and all hotdog related things from their lairs.
The chaos was televised, the world refused to believe, for green hotdog vengeance for the consumption of their delicious burnt flesh was incomprehensibly silly.
The resolution was⌠strange.
A sanctuary was established: an abandoned stadium, cleared of grills, fryers, and anything remotely culinary. The ecto-weenies migrated there in great, screaming waves, their voices echoing off of the empty stands like a permanent, furious anthem.
The towns folk agreed to stop devouring their brethren⌠Or at least⌠to hesitate in their consumption. To check throughly if it was a hotdog or⌠an ecto-weenie.
The ecto-weenies, in turn, stopped attacking⌠Mostly. Sometimes it was only under threat of siccing the Fenton son or the mayor on them that the contaminated mince meat behaved.
But the screaming, oh the screaming, never ceased. It merely⌠settled and became background noise.
A constant reminder.
And sometimes⌠Danny would scream back.
Months later, Gerald stands outside the stadium fence, holding a carrot like it was a diplomatic document.
Inside, thousands of ecto-weenies writhe, cluster, separate, and reform in shifting patterns. Their screams rise and fall, sometimes chaotic, sometimes eerily synchronized.
He watches as a group arrange themselves in a rough spiral, their shrieks forming a strange, almost hypnotic rhythm.
Not words.
Never words.
But meaning, somehow.
The mass turns, as one, toward the fence. Towards him.
Gerald raises the carrot slightly, âI come in peace?â.
The response is immediate. A piercing, unified shriek that vibrates through his bones.
He nods slowly, âyeah. That tracksâ.
Itâs a fragile truce, written not in language, but in the ungodly shrieks of undead weenies and pissed of half ghosts.
End.
Prompts: The ecto-wenie uprising begins
Vlad didnât think being mayor of Amity Park would really take much work. It would be more like a vacation really. After all, heâd been running a very successful company for years, how hard could a town be?
Check out Ghost Stories (English Dub) quotes and use your favorite ones to write a Danny Phantom fic!
(I've also got a few saved if you need help narrowing any down (I used: "When a stronger spirit appears, the weaker spirit cowers. But all evil spirits cower before Jesus!" and "God, can you go bomb an abortion clinic or something?").
