DISCLAIMER: I don't own Evil Dead! I don't own Bruce Campbell or any of Sam Raimi's franchises. In fact, I don't own anything except for a ratty old sweater and some Tupac CD's. May I remind you, I am poor. So poor in fact, that my family has to eat cereal with forks just to save milk. (THAT IS NOT FUNNY!) Anyway, this is just something I was thinking of one rainy Tuesday.

MUAHAHAHAHA!

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Dearborn, Michigan, 1993

Ashley J. Williams was just an average guy. He walked, talked, dressed, and acted like the average man. With the exception of his delapitated right forearm, yeah, you could say that he was a regular guy. Tall, somewhat handsome, and with a cynical "out there" personality, he was virtually avoided by everyone and anyone who came in contact with him,especially when he began to rant and rave about the undead creatures he supposedly had fought. His co-workers thought he was crazy, but that was okay by him. He preferred to be alone, and this exact attitude led him to trust no one, half the time not even himself. He could go on and on about how he was going to become "king" and rule the world, but that's another story.

Ash let out a prolonged sigh as he began to trudge down the long toy aisle, where he'd just finished restocking a new shipment of Furbys. He hated the fluffy little bastards, and didn't understand how parents would buy that crap for their kids. They'd end up breaking in a week anyhow, and if you wanted something that was furry, exceptionally hideous, and yapped all night long, why not get a puppy? He shoved his hands into his pocket as he began to walk, the heavy heels of his shoes clicking against the hard tile floor. He'd worked at S-Mart for the last three years, and had yet to get a promotion. Cheap sons of bitches. As far as he was concerned, he was the hardest working guy in the place, if not the most deserving. There were days when he'd just wake up and wonder why he was still alive, and today was one of those unfortunate days.

He suddenly felt himself cringe, and the fine hair on the back of his neck stood on end as a high, unreasonably shrill voice rang out from behind him. Ash then turned around to see his manager, Ted charging down the aisle, carrying a very broken Furby in his hands.

"Williams! What did you do?" he practically screamed, shoving the smashed toy in front of him. Ash shrugged casually, as if he hadn't stomped the hell out of it less than fifteen minutes ago.

"The damn thing looked at me wrong." he answered finally, gesturing towards the plastic culprit. Ted sighed heavily and glared at him, with an expression that just screamed, "Dude, you need serious help".

"IT'S A DAMN FURBY!" he exclaimed loudly. So loudly in fact, that a few customers heard his dramatic outburst and immediately left the store. "HOW CAN IT POSSIBLY LOOK AT YOU WRONG?!"

Ash shrugged in an attempt to keep himself from laughing.

"Hey, I don't know how, but the furry little bastard did."

Once again, Ted gave him a punishing glance, one that threatened to fire him although he didn't have the authority.

"Just go, Ash..." he said tiredly, pointing an index finger to the back of the store. "Go...stock shelves or something."

Ash turned around and did what he was told, quite satisfied with himself by the fact that he'd used his "mental condition" to get out of being downsized. He'd done it before, and got a real kick out of it. It seemed like that and killing Deadites were the only real joys in his life, well, besides the Playboy channel. But nonetheless, Ash still had the eerie feeling that he shouldn't be alive, and today was going to be an unlucky day.