Inspired by by a writing prompt I saw on Reddit the other day. It was fun to write. Hope you enjoy.

"I-I don't like in here, Rick. It's really cramped, and dark, and all these moldy cardboard boxes are re-really making me nu-nauseous."

"For the last time, shut up, will ya Morty?! Just bear with it! And keep a tight grip on that stuffed tiger! You drop it, and I swear Morty, as soon as we get ba-back home, I'll write your scrawny little ass out of my will!" Rick wipes the sweat pooling against his brow and slumps to the floor, exhausted. "Jesus! Do you have any idea who that even is out there?" He rummages through the darkness of the closet. Rick lassos his grandson's nostrils with his fingers and pulls him close. "You ain't never heard of Calvin? From...uh...y'know, that famous comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes?" Morty shakes his head.

"You-you're talking about the one with the ugly bald kid and the football, ri-right?" Rick gags on his grandson's ignorance and pushes him into a mountain of sweaters.

"Jesus, Morty, no! Christ, it's li-like you little millennial shit-turds don't even know how to open a fucking newspaper." Rick pinches his eyebrows together and sighs. "All right, let me break it down for you. See, in our universe, Calvin and Hobbes was written back in the mid 1980s, by this reclusive old curmudgeon of a cartoonist...named...uh...shit, Morty, his name escapes me right now, but that isn't what's important."

From outside the closet, they hear the sound of a door slowly opening, and then abruptly slamming shut. Rick lowers his head to the carpet and listens intently to what is going on down the hall. He holds this position for a few seconds, and then returns to his feet. "I gotta make this qu-quick, Morty, so dig the stuffing out of your ears and listen up. What's most important right now is that you understand that six year old little prick out there running a-amok in this shitty little comic strip dimension is the only thing our own universe has ever produced capable of playing hardball with God himself."

"Ou-our universe? Aw geez, Rick, I'm real confused. Aren't we in the comic strip dimension?"

"That's what I said, Morty! Believe it or not, that spiky haired little turd used to be a regular Earth kid, just like you." Rick narrows his eyes and grits his teeth. He starts to reach for his flask, but something makes him hesitate. Morty scoops it off the floor and hands it to him. Rick nods his thanks, and takes a sip. He licks his lips. "You wanna know what makes that kid so damn da-dangerous, Morty?" Rick jabs his middle fingers against his skull and crosses his eyes. "It's his fucking imagination. That kid's got enough untap-tap-untaped creative potential to conjure up anything his warped little heart desires. Anything, Morty! I-I've seen him do things with a gob of spit and a little red wagon that took me tw-tweeenty years and three kidneys to pull off!"

"Th-that's ridiculous!"

"Exactly, Morty. His imagination is so damn strong, he can make up whatever weird shit he wants and get away with it. Not even the universe has balls big enough to tell this kid no. If it did, Calvin might wind up 'transmogrifying' the universe, the multiverse, and all of us straight outta Compton. Or worse."

"We-well, if he's as powerful as you say, what's he doing locked up?"

"The powers that be decided the little bastard was way too dan-dangerous to keep alive in our dimension, so they discreetly transplanted his ass here back in the early 1970s when he was just a kid to keep him from growing up and knitting the fabric of the universe into a fucking throw rug."

Rick chuckles.

"Funny thing is, there ain't no way this shitty little dimension could hold him back if he ever actually wanted to escape."

"S-so why doesn't he?"

"Because as far as Calvin's concerned Morty, he ain't never left home. He'd been living in a perfect fantasy world of his own design long before the intergalactic council was finally convinced it was high time to give poor Calvin a new inter-dimensional shipping address. They needed a cover, though. Can't just spirit a kid away, no matter how dangerous it might be. So the council did some dream diving and planted a drop - mind you, just a fucking drop, Morty - of that kid's creative genius inside a cartoonist desperate for a breakout hit. They figured a Sunday comic strip was the best kind of holding tank for the kid."

"S-so what are we gonna do, Rick? I mean, we've fought aliens and monsters before, but never anything like this!" Rick pats his grandson on his shoulder and smiles dastardly. A little red pair of tennis shoes are now outlining the bottom of the closet door. Something on the other side tries to force the lock.

"Oh, just leave the fi-finer details to your grandpa, Morty. I've crossed paths with this kid a few times before. It's never pretty, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I've never beaten him. Not once." Rick grabs the old cardboard box Morty is using a stool and brandishes it over his shoulder. "But then again, he's never beaten me, either." The doorknob clicks open. Rick cracks his neck, takes one last sip from his flask, and saunters out the closet.

"We're just gonna have to play by his rules for a while. At least for now. Put your thinking cap on, Morty. It's time to get schwifty."