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The purple dinosaur looked at his reflection with weary eyes.

He'd been doing this too fucking long.

Year after year, he was stuck dealing with obnoxious children and retarded—literally, mentally retarded—pieces of trash that disgraced the dinosaur name.

But who was he to talk?

His life was in shambles, he was the shell of who he used to be.

It all started when he was young, fresh out of CretaceouCollege and desperate for a job, he heard from a friend that a “friend of a friend” had an idea for a new show, and it involved traveling.

Well, he had always wanted to travel, and starring in a show would have him dripping in bitches, right?

So he went for the job.

Traveled all the way to the planet Earth, where he was given weird looks and called a costumed pedophile.

But this dinosaur didn't give a fuck what these less-advanced apes thought, he wanted a paycheck.

After a short audition and some time waiting, he had scored the job, along with some co-host dinosaurs.

At least he wouldn't be stuck alone with stupid humans, right?

Everything he used to believe was wrong. It was all wrong.

His costars were atrocious and the children...well, they were children, what could you expect?

He wanted so much to return to his home, where he could still get an office job and maybe bag that 7 that was always crushing on him.

But no.

He had put all his eggs into this basket and spent the last of his gas storage to get there. After all, they would surely have fuel for space travel, right?

Again, no.

He was stuck.

Day after day, month after month, year after year, he was stuck doing that stupid fucking voice and that stupid fucking song while the pieces of shit pranced around him, calling him Barney.


The name was disgusting, it was a peasant's name.

He was Barnaby, a 4.0 college graduate with a knack for stocks.

But...that was at home.

Here, he was just some faggy play thing that danced around for children.

As much as he wanted to quit, what kind of self-respecting company would hire what they saw as just a stupid purple dinosaur?

So many times he found himself staring at the bottom of vodka bottles, his only release, just telling himself that he had to do it, he had to kill himself.

But it was so hard.

He was so weak on the inside.

It's true, he had tried before, but he always chickened out.

His life was pathetic.

He was pathetic.

But one fateful night, that began just as every day before, he found himself stumbling into what ended up being a gay bar, already quite tipsy.

He received more than enough strange looks, but he didn't care.

He was over this shit.

Slamming a seat on the bar, he ordered some drinks.

What they were, he couldn't remember.

Then again, he didn't care.

Shot after shot, he tried to drown out his pain, his sorrow. If only for tonight.

Out of the blue, he felt a tap on his right.

He ignored it, half due to the likelihood of it being an accident, the other half due to he was so fucking drunk.

But the tapping persisted.

He quickly turned his head (which was a bad move and made everything spin) and was met with the gaze of a young brunette.

“What,” he slurred in his natural, grisly voice.

“I just wanted to say you look like you got some problems, man. People—er, living beings—are kinda my thing. So I wanted to lend an ear, bro.”

Barnaby glared at the younger man.

“Like you would fucking understand,” he grunted, turning back to his booze.

“I never said I was going to understand, just that I would listen. Trust me, you'll feel way better.”

The dinosaur sighed deeply. “I guess I don't have anything to lose at this point. But tell me, what's your name, kid?”

“Mark, Mark Zuckerberg,” the other beamed. “Lemme guess, you're—”

“Barnaby. I don't go by any other goddamn name.”

“Right, right,” Mark awkwardly grinned. “So, gimme the skinny!”

The older man rolled his eyes and recanted his manifesto (which he indeed had one in the recesses of his closet), not sparing any details.

After he finished, head bobbing in a drunken stupor, he waited for a response.

Mark gaped at him, starry-eyed but skeptical. “And...these aren't just drunk fairy tales?”

“Kid, I'm at the end of my wits. Have been for years. I have no gain for lying about this shit.”

“Ah...” The white man nodded. “Well, if you ever want company, I'm here for you!”

Barnaby slowly blinked and muttered, “I always have company. Just not the kind I need.”

The brunette sighed, “Stop being such a Negative Ned, man. You need to have some fun! Loosen up a little!”

“Well, maybe having some fun would be a nice change, for once...”

“Awesome! Then let's blow this joint and head to my place!”

“You got a flatscreen?” The dinosaur asked, somewhat eager to hang out with another sane man.

“Oh, I have a lot more than a flatscreen,” Mark lilted, his intentions passing over the other's head.


After a short drive in a nice sports car—the purple beast didn't know nor care the specifics other than “sports car”—they arrived to a mansion.

“Nice one, but I'm not in the mood for jokes,” he drawled.

“Jokes? This is really my place, man. C'mon, I'll show you.”

For once in a long time, Barnaby's omnipresent anger subsided, he was...impressed.

What happened next was somewhat of a blur, between having more booze, playing pool, eating foods that were unknown to the alien (some for the better), and eventually soaking in the tycoon's steaming hot tub.

It was relaxing, just the two of them and the stars shining above.

The steam, it was nice, his face felt refreshed.

And the water, yes, made his muscles feel a little less tense.

It didn't mix well with all the alcohol in his system, but he didn't care.

Then again, he never cared. At least, not since he moved here.

But...the fact that someone cared enough about him, even if they were basically a stranger, to let him into their home and even feel comfortable enough to go commando in the hot tub.

It was a nice change. None of those fake smiles that were followed by words behind his back.

No, this man was an honest man.

He could be trusted, right?

But, as if that was the magic word, he was wrong.

One moment, he was sitting in a hot tub.

Then his consciousness faded.

And when his consciousness returned, he had a pounding in his head.

Wait, no...he had a pounding in more than just his head.

He flung his eyes open to find the shadowy figure of Mark, the man he trusted, violently thrusting into him.

Somehow, it didn't hurt.

But that begged the question, how long had he been out?

No, no, that didn't matter now.

Adrenaline quickly coming to him, the dinosaur growled and kicked the man off, his beastly strength so powerful that the man hit his head against the back wall, unconscious.

Barnaby angrily, yet painfully stood up, hoping the worst didn't happen.

But it did.

He felt something drip down his leg and looked, horrified.

There it was, milky white, gliding down his orifice.

It was too late.

He wanted to cry.

Just fall over and cry.

But he didn't, he had used up all his tears years ago.

There was no point in waiting around.

With a limp, he ran off, grabbing the car keys and, eventually, driving his way back home.

That proved hard, with his sore ass and pulsing head, but he made it home.

Just in time for the next episode.

His cyclic routine continued on as if nothing had ever happened, and he never let himself acknowledge that night.

But others noticed.

From his growing stomach to his odd food options to his growing irritability.

Not like they really knew.

After all, human males don't get pregnant.

But he wasn't human.

He wasn't even their traditional form of dinosaur.

He was an alien. A pregnant alien. Carrying the child of the man who raped him.

But he refused to talk about it.

It wasn't until the moment he went into labor that he spoke a word of it.


It was so painful. Physically and emotionally.

He still refused to cry.

He was Barnaby, he was strong.

And what came out wasn't a half-human, half-dinosaur.

It was a blue dinosaur.

A visibly disabled blue dinosaur.

Somewhere, he recalled a radio host saying “don't play God”.

This must've been how God's trial stages felt.

It was disgusting.

It was weak.

And yet, it was him.

It reminded him that he was disgusting.

That he was weak.

No, he couldn't keep it.

He refused to look at it any more than he had to.

Luckily for him, he still remembered where that bastard lived.

It's not like he would ever forget, as much as he wanted to.

His coworkers' protests to keep the child fell on deaf ears.

He didn't care.


After a drive, he was at that doorstep.

The doorstep that once was inviting.

The doorstep that now held bad memories.

He dropped the wriggling child, wrapped in a blanket.

He didn't ring the doorbell.

He didn't knock.

He just left.

Whether or not that bastard still lived there.

Whether or not that bastard would take in the child.

He didn't care.


What Barnaby didn't know, though, was that he kept the child.

It was some stinging guilt that wouldn't allow him to let it die.

Sure, it was goofy-looking, was endearing.

And he could put it to work.

As stupid as the thing looked, it learned quickly.

It was only a year or two when it was smart enough to work in the Privacy department of his father's claim to fame, Facebook.

The nameless child, unaware of his conception, who had grown up watching the man who, unbeknownst to him, carried the blue babe in his womb.

But it was fine, he had fun with the friends he made online.

Not many people visited him or his department, but he was content.

Lots of things made him happy, nothing made him sad.

It's only ironic for him to be the one painful regret of the purple dinosaur.

The regret that pushed him over the edge.

The regret that helped him finally pull the trigger.

He found his release.

Sweet, sweet release.

Leaving his sad, pathetic child alone.

Alone in the Settings Tab.

But it was okay.

The nameless child was always happy.

Happy, and naive.

So blissfully naive.