Why I Don't Write Challenges
by Sarah

"Okay, everybody, sit DOWN! You're all here because you need money. I personally hired you all so I could FINALLY write a METMA challenge. First off, I need..." I was interrupted by an insane leprechaun carrying a pigeon who fell up through the floor. Don't ask me how he did that, it's solid cement and dirt under the dance floor taken over to hold my meeting.

The leprechaun appeared to be unconscious. I called over Madam Pomfrey, figured even if she was here to make money and make me a METMA challenge winner (which was doubtful, to say the least), she could at least resume her day job for a minute.

Man, was I wrong. Instead, she pulled off her robes to reveal a small tank top that showed her pierced belly button and incredibly short shorts. Waving her wand, she produced a CD player which promptly began to blast *NSYNC. Scared for my life, I picked up the leprechaun by his feet (fortunately, leprechauns are not prone to the smelly feet syndrome) and beat the CD player with his head. This I when I realized that the leprechaun was in fact dead, not unconscious. I assure you, it was not I who killed him. Beating something profusely with a person's head does not cause that person a large concussion or instant death. No, of course not. This is my world, and since it is my world, I do not wish to be tried on accounts of murder.

Unfortunately, his head was not enough. The CD player continued to belt out the songs that were beginning to drive me insane, much like the leprechaun. Well, actually, I don't really know if he's all that insane, I mean, he had a cameo and was dead the entire time. Hmph. Oh well. Before I could be driven even more insane (Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, and Oliver Wood were starting to pretend they were *NSYNC...), I called over Crabbe and Goyle, as much as I dislike them, and told them to sit on it. Much like Madam Pomfrey, they were unwilling to do what I told them. Do these people understand the concept of a job? No. It appears not.

These two, rather than becoming teeny boppers (thank god, I don't think I could stand to see those two in that. An old woman was bad enough. But two fat guys? Ugh....), they simultaneously (I swear they're the same person) screamed "Me gusta bailar!". To everyone's surprise, they appeared to be quite skilled in Spanish. No one else in the room knew what it meant, however, we ended up with a fairly good idea when the song changed to a techno dance song or whatever they're called, much to Madam Pomfrey's dismay, and began break dancing. Now, I was in a dance club that Voldemort had taken over for me, but even it was not designed for two five hundred pound people to break dance. Actually, I was not even sure that that was possible. Scared for my life, I began to look around. I did a double take when I spotted Severus Snape in the corner.

Snape was decked out in Neville's grandmother's clothes. Apparently the boggart had appealed to him, and he had finally gotten around to going with it. Whoa. I mean, I know the man is scary and kind of strange, but I didn't know he was into *that*. At least cross-dressing for him wasn't some things I really don't have any desire to see him in. I mean, honestly, it rather pains me to think about a middle-aged man with greasy black hair to run around in something like a mini skirt and a tube top. I don't think the students would have liked that much either. They liked this though; several of them were now knocked out from falling out of their chairs laughing. Harry, however, was in shock, as he had literally laughed his ass off.

I sighed, and wondered if these incompetent wizards realize the concept of a "job", or even the fact that I am the boss. I worried if I have accidentally hired a group from the circus that just happens to look like the Harry Potter characters. Note to self: make sure to check phone numbers before calling back. I went back to the old fashioned way of the METMA challenge, a computer, a keyboard, writer's block, and failing miserably.

The characters gathered around a campfire, for no other reason than the fact the author has just returned from camping two days ago. They in turn all recite legal mumbo jumbo about how they do not work for me and they belong to Joanne Kathleen Rowling, not I. Not like she'd really want them in this state, but hey, whatever. They also (as much as it pains me to say this) say how they were not working for me either, that they were just kidnapped by METMA on their way to find summer jobs.

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