A/N: I have several people to thank before this chapter. First, the Scar-loving Tearthgrrl, for something which I can't quite remember. I'd also like to thank Jagabor for the delicious potato chips, and Samuel Reiman for the dental checkup. Also, I wish to state that all stereotypes in this story are meant for humorous purposes, not for mocking. Please don't kill me.

oOo

"Um, Scar? Why are you wearing a hazmat suit?" asked Sarafina.

Scar looked over at Sarafina, then back to his binoculars. "Oh, you probably shouldn't be out here. Unless . . . yes . . . the radiation mutates you into some hot superbabe, and you're indebted to me forever . . ."

"Scar, Mufasa will become intelligent before I ever feel any sort of need to give you anything."

"He has a degree in physics from Harvard."

"He what?"

"Donated a whole bunch of money to get it. You should've heard the speech."

oOo

"I consider it an honor to receive a degree from a fine school such as this. This is one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and every one of you should feel proud to attend here. It's a privilege to say that I graduated from here—no, an honor. There is nowhere I would expect more excellence and talent to be gathered in one place. Once again, I thank you deeply for this, and in parting, I would like to say only one thing: Harvard sucks! Yale's where it's at, yeah yeah! . . . I think I messed that up a little . . ."

oOo

"You wrote that for him?"

"I wrote that for him," said Scar with a smile.

"You're evil."

"You're flattering. You're also about to experience a full blast of a mini-nuke if you don't get down."

"WHAT?!"

"Can you think of a better way to kill Simba?"

"Um, no . . ."

"I have this completely worked out. He'll trip one of many wires, setting off several mounted gatling guns, C-4, claymores, an artillery strike, a daisy cutter, a fuel-air bomb, and to top it off, a miniature nuclear bomb. Don't ask where I got it, it's complicated, I know a guy that knows a guy that knows Kim Jong-il . . ."

"So when is this going to happen?"

"Hopefully in the next few minutes."

"Scar?"

"Yes, my wonderfully beautiful lioness?"

"Did you know Simba's playing with Nala right now?"

"He is? So, um . . . I suppose this means that I'm in for a world of pain right now, aren't I?"

"Or you could go down there and disarm what's basically a minefield."

"I'll get right on that."

oOo

Scar sighed, unhooking tripwire after tripwire for an entire square mile of ground. "Wonderful. An entire day's work on down the drain." His glance stopped when he saw that there was an entire swath of them unhooked, as if someone had already walked through them. "But—but they're not hooked up?" He stormed through them, ripping them out of the ground angrily. "Of all the luck that I could have had, I couldn't have had just one live wire—"

Spang!

Scar's eyes widened.

"Mommy."

oOo

"Houston, this is Discovery. We're seeing what looks like a rather large explosion on the continent of Africa."

"Copy Discovery. Send visual confirmation."

"Roger that. Also, it seems we're recording the second scream to ever penetrate space."

"Aw, that poor bastard."

oOo

"You know, you keep this up," said Sarafina, "and we might just start calling you Wile E."

"At least he caught the roadrunner," growled Scar.

"No he didn't."

"Yes he did. It wasn't funny at all."

"I doubt it."

"It's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"That somehow, despite using the same company as that stupid dog, I have to pay out of the ass for it!"

Sarafina backed away. "Look, what you do with other guys should be kept private—"

"Oh, shut up."

"Yo yo yo, G, wazzup?"

Both Sarafina and Scar looked over to see Simba walking in, a heavy chain around his neck with obviously fake jewels encrusted in it and wearing a baseball hat cocked to the side. We're censoring what the hat says so you can sleep at night. "What the hell is this?" asked Scar.

"Yo, Unca Scar, man, you checkin' out my bling? Man, I know you want one! I can hook you up!"

"It's like idiots decided the English language was too hard and they needed to dumb it down," mused Scar.

"Man, you just hatin'! You ain't done nothing o' what I done! You don't understand stuff like all that stuff, knawmean? You just a—"

A/N: We would like to keep this a T rated story. Therefore, the next thirty seconds of dialogue have been omitted.

"—know what I sayin'? Yo G, you just a—"

A/N: And the next ten seconds . . .

"—word? Man, you don't know me!"

Sarafina and Scar stared at him blankly. "I so wish I had a nun just now," whispered Scar.

"Scar!"

"What? It'd be strictly experimental. How long does it take her to snap before she tries to punish him, how long before she reaches for the holy water, how long before she starts bleeding from the ears . . ."

"You know, you keep this up and you're going to alienate the entire community of Catholic readers."

"They're led like a guy that looks like a giant, human-sized bullet! Have you seen that hat?"

A/N: Apparently, we had already lost a great deal of our Catholic readers by this point. They showed up right then. However, the nature of their visit shall be omitted, due to blood, gore, and anal ra—and other things.

As the Catholics left, Scar lay on the floor, curled up in a ball. "God WHY?!"

One of the Catholics came back and whacked Scar in the balls with a baseball bat. "Sixth commandment, bitch!"

Simba rolled on the ground laughing. "Man, Unca Scar, you just got owned!"

Scar lunged over and grabbed Simba by the throat and snarled in a voice three octaves too high, "If you don't shut up, I am going to follow through with my dream of breaking all your legs, taking a dump in your mouth, setting you on fire, and then contemplating on whether or not to let you die."

Sarafina leaned down and whispered in Scar's ear.

"What? Yes, I know Chisan's not here."

More whispering.

"What do you mean I can't kill him unless—that bastard!"

oOo

Scar lay in front of the TV. It looked like something out of a horror movie. A man was strapped down in a tub full of water and was blindfolded. Water was poured over his mouth and forced up into his nose, the man coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath. A wet cloth was stuck up his nose, the rest covering his mouth as the man struggled wildly against his bonds. The screen suddenly snapped to a silver square with a bear on it. "What would you do for a Klondike bar?"

Scar chuckled slightly, stiffening in surprise as he heard a little voice next to him say, "That's scary."

Scar turned to see Nala sitting next to him. "Well, yes, I suppose it is."

"They have to resort to such high shock value simply to sell a product that is known and produced worldwide. You'd almost think they'd have something to hide because of it, or think that they were slipping horribly in profits. And yet this kind of extremism is becoming more common in all commercials, and they're desperately trying to outdo each other as the standards fall lower and lower, until it will be nude females pleasuring themselves with products that have no relevance at all to that activity. What I find so frightening is this race rules the world."

Scar stared at Nala. "Bwuh?"

She looked up at him. "Don't you agree?"

"You—YOU UNHOOKED THOSE WIRES!"

"You don't think I'd be stupid enough to go through a field full of tripwires, do you?"

"Yes!" said Scar. "You're not supposed to be some sort of—of—"

"Freakishly smart cub?"

"Yes!"

"Sucks to be you," said Nala. "Now pipe down, my favorite TV drama's about to come on."

"TV drama?"

"The O'Reilly Factor."

"I can't believe it. She gets decent lines. She gets decent lines, and I'm stuck acting like an idiot!"

Sarafina walked in. "Nala, what's your—er, not-father doing here?"

"I was just telling him about my day, Mother."

"And what happened?" asked Sarafina, sitting down.

"Well, Scar decided to tell me what a prostitute was."

"He did?" asked Sarafina, glaring at Scar.

"Yep. So I decided to find out for myself. It turns out it doesn't pay as well as you'd think."

"Scar," said Sarafina, "I'd like to talk to you outside. Maybe we could take a little trip down memory lane . . ."

Scar's eyes widened as Sarafina began to drag him out, his claws dragging desperately on the ground. "No! No! NO! Aieeeeeeeeee!" A splat was heard. "Damn that bitch!"

Nala giggled.

oOo

Scar smiled as he lay Simba down in the chair. "Now just relax. Of course this will get you that George Foreman in your mouth."

"Man, I just asked for some grills!"

"Whatever. Now shut up and start inhaling the happy gas," said Scar, putting a mask on Simba. He started the flow of some colored gas. "Now," he said, donning a gas mask and holding up a massive drill that was better suited boring holes in walls, "just tell me when this hurts."

"Don't you mean if?" asked Simba through the mask.

Scar's smile widened. "Just relax."

Zazu fluttered in, then suddenly covered his eyes with a wing. "Good lord, Scar, why are you naked?"

". . . I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," said Scar. "And put on a gas mask."

"There's a certain 'Madam Marie' waiting for you outside."

Scar dropped the drill, going straight through the gas mask and into Simba's mouth, still running. "Um . . . outside how?"

"As in outside, right on your doorstep," said Shenzi, walking into the room. "Uh—should I be worried that there's gas on the floor steadily coming toward me?"

Scar tossed her a gas mask. "Look, why are you even here?"

"Because I want to cash in on this little I.O.U. I have," she said, holding up the piece of paper.

"Eh . . . you can't. Not right now, at least."

"I can't? I can't? I've six friends right here that would beg to differ," she said, holding up a .45 revolver.

"Um . . . you shoot that and the gas all ignites?" asked Scar hopefully.

"You have to get with the program, Scar. The place is turning into Chernobyl!"

"Oh come now. Chernobyl wasn't nearly as bad."

"Gnnnnn!" moaned Simba.

"Don't worry, we're almost done here," said Scar.

"I'm giving you a week, Scar."

"A week? I can't do anything in a week!"

"And why not?"

"Look, if Mufasa wasn't here, then you'd already be here."

"Then get rid of him."

"I've tried."

"Try harder."

"Then what would you suggest?" asked Scar.

"The standard way we gangsters kill anyone: by giving them a long walk off a short pier."

"Done it."

"With cement boots?"

"I put him inside the damn cement truck."

"Um . . . drive-by shooting?"

"I've put a clip into him while he was sleeping."

"Poison?"

"Yes."

"Stabbing?"

"Yes."

"Strangling?"

"Yes."

"Hitman?"

"Three of them."

"Um . . ."

"Shenzi, I killed off half of the pride by making a 'movie night' and showing the video from the Ring. If Samara can't kill him, I don't know who can."

oOo

"Mom?" asked Nala. "You mind if I take my food over there in the corner?"

"Uh . . . no, but why? Don't you want to eat with the rest of the pride?"

"Uh—no, I wanna do some stuff."
"Alright," said Sarafina.

Nala slipped away from the rest of the pride, smiling at their ignorance. Yes . . . I'll be right here, simply eating . . . at least, that's what it'll look like to all of you onlookers.

Unknown to the rest of the pride, as well as a certain unusually mystified lion, Nala had managed to relieve Scar of his laptop, and was proceeding to look through it.

Yes . . . I'll sit here, and look like I'm looking over the kingdom, while I use my peripheral vision to scroll through his files. And then—I'll take a piece of the carcass—AND EAT IT! And then—when I've done that, I'll CHEW IT! And SWALLOW IT! I'm so evil and conniving and smart . . . What's this? Nala paused. It was just as she thought—Scar planned to kill Mufasa and Simba, leaving him as king . . .

No . . . this can't happen . . . I'll have to resort to more drastic measures . . . hmm . . .

oOo

Scar had miraculously found his laptop the next day—although whoever had taken it in the meantime had apparently visited every Twilight site known to man. He was finishing up purging it, which involved backing up all sensitive files and then taking a flamethrower to it, when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, my name's Joe, and I'm calling from the—"

Scar groaned. "What is it? I'm not buying anything."

The caller laughed. "Don't worry, sir; I'm not selling. I'm actually wondering if you'd be interested in taking our short survey—"

"You know, you guys are even more worthless than telemarketers, right? I mean, you don't even offer any compensation."

"I'm sorry to—er—hear that sir, but would you be able to take the survey? It will only take a few minutes."

"Fine. Go."

"Well, we're trying to learn how pleased people are with their current communities—"

"I hate the place."

"—so the first question is, how would you rate the community as a whole on a scale of zero to ten?"

"Stupid."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"I'd rate them stupid."

"Er—alright—um, well, how would you rate the government?"

"Extremely stupid."

"Could I get a number, sir?"

"Zero."

"Alright, and how would you rate the police service in your town?"

"Eh—two?"

"And on a scale of zero to ten, how afraid are you of being assaulted?"

"Ten."

"Of being cheated or conned out of your money?"

"Zero."

"Of being raped?"

"What? Uh—um . . . like, a zero."

"And on a scale of zero to ten, zero being impossible and ten being inevitable, what is the likelihood of you being raped?"

"Uh . . . still a zero, probably."

"And what is the likelihood of you squealing like a little piggy when raped?"

"What?"

"Could you make a pig squealing noise?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where do you live?"

Scar slammed down the phone.

"Scar!"

Scar jumped as he turned toward the voice. It was Shenzi walking into the den. "Er—has it been a week already?"

"It's been six days. You got my land?"

"Er—well—you see—I have a certain plan, but it just needs a few tweaks . . ."

"What's this plan?"

"Kill Mufasa?"

"You've been trying to do that for years."

"But it could work this time!"

"Scar, I'm going to put this very simply for you—you get me my house by tomorrow, and we'll be happy. But if you don't—you're going to suffer indescribable torture," growled Shenzi.

"What if I told you I could have it for you in just one more week?"

Shenzi thought about it. "Describable torture."