There Are Three Types of People

Not An Untitled Part 1

In the quaint little town of Gloomsville, where the fog hung thick like a bad cologne and the streetlights flickered with a nervous energy, three unlikely heroes found themselves at the center of a peculiar and terrifying situation. It was the kind of evening that made you want to stay indoors, preferably under several layers of blankets, with a hot cup of cocoa and a good book—unless, of course, you were one of the three people who had decided to wander into the abandoned mansion on the hill.

The mansion loomed ominously against the backdrop of a darkening sky. Its windows were like hollow eyes, staring down at anyone foolish enough to approach. A chill wind howled, whispering secrets that would make even the bravest souls shudder. But for our trio, it was just another Tuesday night.

First up was Mortimer "Morty" Blunderbuss, a man whose name suggested a level of competence that was entirely absent from his life. Morty had an uncanny ability to trip over absolutely nothing and somehow manage to get himself stuck in the most ludicrous situations. He was currently attempting to read a map upside down while standing directly in front of the mansion's creaky front door.

"Guys! I think we should go left!" Morty exclaimed, pointing dramatically in the wrong direction.

"Morty, that's not left; that's the direction of the cemetery," replied his friend, Prudence "Prude" Pumpernickel, who was clutching her flashlight like it was a life preserver in a sea of uncertainty. Prude was known for her logical thinking and her penchant for overanalyzing every situation. She had brought along a survival kit that included everything from granola bars to an emergency whistle—just in case they encountered any wild animals or rogue ghosts.

"Cemetery? Sounds like a great place for a picnic!" Morty said cheerfully, oblivious to Prude's exasperation.

Meanwhile, their third companion, Chuckles McGee, stood off to the side with an air of nonchalance that could only be described as infuriatingly carefree. Chuckles had a knack for breaking the tension with absurd comments and an uncanny awareness of his own plot armor. He leaned against the mansion's doorframe and grinned at his friends.

"Hey, did you guys know that if we die here tonight, it'll be my fault? I mean, I'm practically invincible!" he declared with an exaggerated flourish. "I've got plot armor thicker than this door! Just look at it—so flimsy! It wouldn't stand a chance against my charm!"

Prude rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in her head. "Chuckles, this isn't a video game! We could actually die here! And what do you mean by 'plot armor'? That's not even a real thing!"

"Of course it is! It's what keeps me safe from all those horror movie clichés!" Chuckles replied with an infectious grin. "You know, like when someone hears a noise in the dark and decides to investigate instead of running away? That's not me! I'm too busy being fabulous!"

As if on cue, a loud crash echoed from inside the mansion, sending all three friends jumping back like startled cats. Morty stumbled over his own feet and landed on his backside with an undignified thud.

"What was that?" Prude hissed, her flashlight beam shaking as she pointed it toward the entrance.

"I dunno," Morty said from the ground, still trying to regain his composure. "Maybe it's just an old ghost looking for some company? You know how lonely they can get."

Chuckles laughed heartily. "Or maybe it's just an old lady who forgot where she put her dentures! Ha! Imagine her wandering around all confused!"

Prude sighed deeply. "This is not funny, Chuckles. We need to be serious. We're in an abandoned mansion rumored to be haunted by vengeful spirits! We should stick together and—"