[ WP ] The director of the newest Marvel movie decides not to give Stan Lee a cameo because it would be too much hassle . Stan Lee does n't take too kindly to this - and neither does anyone else .

*Quicksilver* was slated to be a box office hit. The anticipatory buzz, however, came to a screeching halt as headlines everywhere screamed `` *Quicksilver* director DENIES Stan Lee traditional cameo!'' Fans were outraged, boycotts were called. Stan Lee himself remained quiet on the matter, allowing his legions of followers to helm the front lines. Neckbeards and casual fans alike voiced their opposition with varying degrees of fervor. This, in a political climate wrought with division and on the brink of collapse, had united the people. This had given them a truly common enemy, an insidious tormentor, a man fueled by the suffering of the innocent. He had betrayed the creator, and he had to be punished. The punishment: utter hatred from the entire world. 
 
 Sure, there were some who agreed with the director in his choice to not include Stan Lee in the summer blockbuster. But they were quickly dismissed as invalid, and ultimately vultures to controversy. Pundits criticized the public for focusing on so trivial of a matter, entreating that the situation bore no significance to our reality as a civilization. They too were quickly hushed as everything political, economic, judicial, societal, and meaningful had been honed down to this singular issue. Stan Lee was the Creator. This betrayal grew to be compared to Lucifer's, the mythical betrayal of God himself. 
 
 On the day of the premiere, only a handful of thirsty and oblivious celebrities showed up, only to quickly retreat upon seeing the hordes of protestors violently opposing any who dared enter. The situation rapidly deteriorated into a riot, with several people seriously injured in the frantic clouds of tear gas and smoke. 
 
 That very next day, Stan Lee was found dead in his home, he had passed away comfortably in his sleep, never to enact his final cameo. He had helped to build an entire universe, rich with history and memorable characters. He had but one wish, to be a part of the universe to which he had given such bursting life. As news of his tragic death reached all corners of the globe, all hell broke loose, and the director of *Quicksilver* had to flee for his life. 
 
 -- -- -- 
 
 Christopher Nolan sat in the back of a Mom and Pop barbecue joint. He'd taken up smoking, and Ms. Simmons did n't mind, as long as he kept that back door open and did n't light up while other customers were inside. He had found comfort in the secluded and grungy restaurant, and the Orange Crush barbecue sauce was actually insanely delicious on pulled pork. *Frank Underwood is on to something... *, he pondered with a chuckle. It was the little things, they were all he had. 
 
 Years ago, he had made an agreement. He had promised his life away. He had agreed to become a pariah, forever shunned by the people of the world. This was the final stage: unity. Thousands of political experts, statisticians, economists, psychologists, behavioral analysts, and secret volunteer operatives had pulled together in the shadows to reach a singular goal: the unification of the American people. There was to be one scapegoat, one who would achieve greatness, become powerful, and finally commit a crime so heinous, so beyond the scope of current perceptions of evil, that the people would set aside their differences to strangle their truest traitor. Christopher was not only a traitor to tradition, but he was a traitor to freedom, happiness, well-being, truth, light. He was the epitome of evil in every sense, in every American mind. 
 
 He sat smoking as a familiar shadow graced the threshold of the joint's back door. Christopher smiled. 
 
 Stan Lee entered the room and stood there for a minute, lamentation on his face. He glanced at Nolan's burning cigarette, then to the stub on Chris's left side, where his arm used to be. Stan Lee stifled a heavy sob, years of emotional bottling had culminated to this point, but his training allowed him to remain composed no matter what. `` Chris... We did it.'' 
 
 `` We did, did n't we.'' Christopher absentmindedly caressed his phantom arm. 
 
 `` It's finished, the timeline has been corrected! We've done it...'' Stan gazed at the broken man in front of him. ``... you've done well, I'm sorry about your --'' 
 
 `` All part of the game, sir. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be of use to mankind.'' 
 
 `` It's almost time, Chris.'' 
 
 `` I know sir... I'll miss you. You've always been a great mentor to me, ever since that day in Constantinople, when it all began.'' Christopher smiled. 
 
 `` It was your father who rescued me. Without you both, I'd be dead with a spear between my eyes.'' Stan laughed. 
 
 `` If they'd studied you, they'd have worshipped you as a god. Even knowing the truth, I sometimes marvel at how well you played the part,'' Christopher said with a chuckle and a slight cough. 
 
 Stan Lee approached the young man before him and held his hand with comforting fatherly warmth. `` It'll be centuries, but we'll meet again. It will be a day of celebration. October 13th 2742. Until then, this world needs you, my boy. The Angel of Earth, the Planetary Protector, the Invincible Inhabitant... My friend.'' 
 
 As Stan released Chris's remaining hand, the young man began to change shape. His features melted into a metallic mercurial fluid. Within seconds, he had been reformed into an entirely different person. He no longer resembled Hollywood Director Christopher Nolan, most hated man on earth. He no longer resembled anyone. He was now a nameless human, about 5' 8'' 160lbs. with a slightly asymmetric-but-average face. 
 
 `` Thank you,'' Christopher said, getting used to having two arms again, flexing his new fingers, feeling his new face, his newest form. 
 
 `` See you later, Bub. You're gon na have a great life, I've seen it. Say hi to Carla for me, that'll blow her mind later on.'' Stan said with a smirk, laughter bubbling. 
 
 `` Who is Carla?'' 
 
 Before he could get an answer, Stan popped out of existence, as if he were a bubble. Christopher, or whatever he'd eventually come to call himself, smiled. Before he left he put a hefty tip on the table for Mrs. Simmons, and tossed the half-full pack of cigarettes into the trash, the sweet smell of Crush Sauce lingering on him as he walked out into the sunshine again. 
 
 

