Justin Timberlake died at just the right time. He was thirty-eight years old when he contracted a weird new sexually transmitted disease that ripped apart people's immune systems almost overnight and left them regretting that one last shag, wherever and however it was, such as standing upright in Club Head's last stall with a vid promoter named Tynna while the DJ played history's forty-third remix of "I Love the Nightlife." When he took his last breath, they popped him into the cryogenic chamber at once. "Like a pop-tart into a toaster," JC said as he stood by the hospital bed, feeling sad despite the innate Michael Jacksonian freakiness of Justin's disposition. He thought it was a good turn of phrase and repeated it several times, wishing he could share it but knowing he'd get more horrified looks.
When Justin woke up he was still thirty-eight. A hundred years had passed, and it was just like waking up into one of those bad Japanese movies made in the distant past about the distant future. They'd gotten everything right. The furniture was white and egg-shaped and the walls were freckled with little round lights. Bland nurses with crew-cuts and blue, spray-on gloves attended him and made him eat Jello. Two days later he found out he was still a very rich man and that there only a billion people in the world.
He held a press conference attended by one earnest reporter and five bored ones who'd apparently had nothing better to do, and who left immediately afterward. The only person to interview him was the earnest reporter, Skip Pei, who'd monopolized the event while the others half-listened and drank complimentary mimosas and grew progressively louder and more giggly. Justin suspected that if Skip hadn't questioned him, no one would have.
After a night of drinking, Skip was a fast friend who helped Justin find an apartment and nodded in all the right places for the next several weeks after that.
"So this whole green-skinned, devil-horned fashion look," Justin said vaguely one day, gesturing at Skip. "What's that about?" After a startled look, Skip explained. "Damn," Justin said. "Damn, that's...wow."
Skip of course felt obliged to take Justin to a few demon bars to shake his shock loose, which was where Justin met the crabby vampire. He'd nudged his way up against the bar and was waiting for a drink, and when he turned sideways he saw the guy, looked like an ordinary guy. A bit like Billy Idol, actually. He was slumped over his drink sulking at it and possibly contemplating murder. It was a dark, dire glower that might set his high-test vodka on fire at any moment.
"Fuck off," the guy said without looking at him. Justin turned away, but that merely allowed the guy to stare at him for a minute. And then he snorted.
Justin challenged him aggressively. "What? What the fuck is your problem?"
"Going to sing us a song, nancy boy?" When Justin didn't reply, the guy seemed to assume he was confused. "It's amateur talent night, y'know."
"You know who I am," Justin said. This creep was the first person who knew who he was, and he wasn't even a fan.
And now someone else has to continue this in their LJ. Please? Remember, you're trying to get (1) Justin pregnant, (2) regress Spike to the age of eight, and (3) make them both into cat-people. Come on. It's a noble cause, people.
ETA: See this post for more parts. Call dibs there if you want a part.