Categories > Anime/Manga > Big O
A Crossover Fanfic Where The Jellies Meet The Gang From Drinky Crow show.
The sky over Walla Walla, Washington, was unusually clear—an omen, perhaps, of the chaos to come. The Jelly family was enjoying a quiet afternoon in their backyard pool, which was filled not with water, but with a viscous, neon-blue goo that Barry swore was “good for the tentacles.”
Cornell sat on the edge, headphones in, nodding to a Tyler, the Creator track, while KY practiced synchronized swimming moves that no one had asked for.
Then came the crash.
A flaming dirigible—patched together with whiskey barrels, rusted anchors, and what looked suspiciously like a stolen mast from the Black Pearl—plummeted from the sky and slammed into the Jellies front lawn.
The explosion was modest, more of a cinematic puff than a Michael Bay spectacle, but it was enough to send Cornell tumbling into the goo and KY shrieking, “We’re under attack!”
"Damn bitch! We are!". Screamed Barry!
From the wreckage emerged four figures: a soot-covered monkey in a tattered sailor’s coat, a drunken crow with a bottle lodged in his beak, a stern-looking Captain with a peg leg and a monocle, and a bird with a sharp gaze and sharper wit.
Uncle Gabby coughed dramatically. “Well, that landing was almost as bad as the time we tried to dock in Tijuana during Spring Break.”
Drinky Crow staggered forward, eyes wild. “Where’s the booze? I smell sobriety and I don’t like it.”
Barry Jelly blinked. “Uh… hi?” Cornell greeted them with confusion, despite him having his ear buds on. " Uhhhh, what up dawgs?"
Phoebe Bird stepped forward, brushing ash off her feathers. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here because we heard this town’s gone dry.”
Debbie floated over, her gelatinous form wobbling with concern. “Dry? Like… no water?”
“No,” Captain growled. “No alcohol. No rum. No whiskey. Not even a sad little wine cooler.”
Cornell pulled out his earbuds. “Wait, what? That’s true. Mayor Jenkins and Marvin passed a ban last week. Said it was for ‘public health.’”
Uncle Gabby scoffed. “Public health? That’s what they said before they banned absinthe in Paris. And look what happened—Midnight in Paris got made.”
Drinky Crow flapped his wings. “We need your help. You’re locals. You know the terrain. We need to find booze. Real booze. The kind that makes you forget your name and question your life choices.”
Barry looked at Debbie, who looked at KY, who looked at Cornell. The family huddled.
“This is batshit insane,” KY whispered. “We’re jellyfish. We don’t even drink.”
“But Cornell does,” Barry said. “He’s human. He’s got needs.”
Cornell shrugged. “Hey! Hope you were joking about that Dad! I mean, I’m not an alcoholic, but I do miss the occasional hard seltzer.” Barry whispers to Cornell, "Just pretend." Cornell gives in, "Okay, whatever you say, dawg."
Debbie sighed. “Fine. We’ll help. But only to find out why Jenkins passed this law.”
The next morning, the unlikely crew piled into Barry’s old RV, which had been retrofitted with tentacle-friendly seats and a minibar that now held nothing but LaCroix and regret. Uncle Gabby immediately began rummaging through the glove compartment.
“Any maps? Any clues? Any leftover gin?”
Phoebe Bird took the wheel. “We’ll start in Yakima. Wine country. If there’s any resistance to the ban, it’ll be there.”
As they drove through the rolling hills of Washington State, the group bonded in strange ways. KY taught Uncle Gabby how to use TikTok, resulting in a viral video of him juggling jellybeans while drunk. Drinky Crow tried to seduce a scarecrow in a vineyard, mistaking it for a sommelier. Captain lectured Cornell on the history of naval warfare, peppering in references to Master and Commander and Pirates of the Caribbean.
At one point, they stopped at a roadside diner shaped like a giant boot. Inside, the waitress—a grizzled woman named Doris—served them coffee and whispered, “You didn’t hear it from me, but Marvin’s been pushing Jenkins hard. Real hard. Rumor is, Marvin used to be a mean drunk. Real mean. Burned down a bowling alley once.”
Drinky Crow perked up. “A bowling alley? That’s practically a church!”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “So Marvin’s the puppet master. Jenkins is just the face.”
Cornell nodded. “We need to confront Marvin. But first… we need evidence.”
Uncle Gabby grinned. “Then it’s time for a stakeout. Like The Nice Guys, but with more feathers.”
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The RV rolled into Spokane under a sky the color of hangovers. Uncle Gabby was perched on the roof, scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars he’d stolen from a birdwatcher in Hoquim. Inside, Cornell was piecing together a conspiracy board made of sticky notes, yarn, and empty LaCroix cans.
“Okay,” Cornell said, pointing to a photo of Marvin taped to the fridge. “We know Marvin used to drink. Doris said he burned down a bowling alley. That’s not just a bad night—that’s trauma.”
KY floated nearby, arms crossed. “So he passed the law to protect himself. But why trick Jenkins?”
Captain grunted. “Because Jenkins is a fool. A puppet. Like that guy in The Truman Show who thought he was in control.”
Phoebe Bird, ever the tactician, had been quietly hacking into the Walla Walla municipal database using a laptop she borrowed from a tech bro in Seattle. “Got it,” she said.
“Marvin submitted the alcohol ban proposal under a shell organization called ‘Citizens for Clean Living.’ Guess who’s the only member?”
“Marvin. Marvin The Whale,” Cornell said.
“Bingo.”
"Damn! I hate it when I'm right!". Spurted Cornell.
Uncle Gabby slid down from the roof, landing with a thud. “Then it’s time we pay Marvin a visit. But not with words. With action. Like Mad Max: Fury Road, but with less leather and more feathers.”
They found Marvin the Whale at a community center in Kennewick, leading a support group called “Dry But Not Dead.” He was mid-speech when the RV crashed through the front lawn, sending folding chairs flying and spilling decaf coffee everywhere.
Marvin The Whale tired eyes and a clipboard, froze. “What the hell is this?”
Drinky Crow burst through the RV door, wings flapping. “It’s a reckoning, Marvin! You took away our nectar! Our lifeblood! Our fermented joy!”
Uncle Gabby followed, dramatically tossing a bottle of kombucha to the ground. “This is what you’ve reduced us to. Kombucha, Marvin.”
Marvin sighed. “I knew you’d come. I’ve seen your kind before. Booze pirates. Rum romantics. But I had to do it. I had to stop the cycle.”
Cornell stepped forward. “You could’ve just gone to therapy.”
Marvin’s eyes narrowed. “I did. For years. But every time I passed a bar, I felt the pull. So I made Walla Walla a safe zone. I convinced Jenkins it was for the kids. For the future.”
KY raised an eyebrow. “You lied to him.”
“I protected him,” Marvin snapped. “He’s weak. He’d be drunk on power and Pinot Noir if I hadn’t stepped in.”
Captain growled. “You don’t get to decide for everyone. That’s not leadership. That’s tyranny.”
Phoebe Bird flapped her wings. “We’re not here to shame you, Marvin. We’re here to restore balance. Let people choose.”
Marvin looked around at the support group, who were now watching the confrontation like it was a live episode of Succession. He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I went too far.”
Uncle Gabby leaned in. “So you’ll repeal the ban?”
Marvin hesitated. “I’ll talk to Jenkins. But only if you promise not to burn down any more community centers.”
Drinky Crow raised a wing. “No promises.”
The next day, the crew returned to Walla Walla. Mayor Jenkins was hosting a press conference in front of City Hall, flanked by banners that read “Clean Living, Clear Minds.”
Cornell stepped up to the mic. “Mayor Jenkins, we have something to show you.”
Phoebe Bird handed him a folder filled with Marvin’s shell organization documents, hacked emails, and a photo of Marvin drunkenly hugging a bottle of Fireball from 2009.
Jenkins blinked. “Marvin… you lied to me?”
Marvin stepped forward, sheepish. “I did. But I thought I was helping.”
Jenkins looked at the crowd, then at the Jelly family, then at Drinky Crow, who was already sipping from a flask labeled “Emergency.”
“I hereby repeal the alcohol ban,” Jenkins said. “Effective immediately.”
The crowd erupted. Uncle Gabby popped a bottle of champagne. KY filmed the moment for TikTok. Barry and Debbie hugged Cornell, proud of their son’s investigative work.
Drinky Crow raised his flask. “To freedom. To fermentation. To the madness of choice.”
Captain nodded. “And to never trusting a whale with a clipboard again.”
That night, the Jellies family hosted a backyard party. The goo pool was filled with spiked punch. Uncle Gabby DJed using a turntable made from a ship’s wheel. Phoebe Bird danced with KY. Cornell sat with Marvin, who sipped a ginger ale and watched the stars.
“I’m sorry,” Marvin said.
Cornell shrugged. “You tried. That counts.”
Marvin smiled. “You ever see Leaving Las Vegas?”
Cornell nodded. “Yeah. Sad movie.”
“Exactly,” Marvin said. “Let’s not end up like that.”
Drinky Crow flew overhead, trailing streamers and shouting, “I regret nothing!”
And for one surreal night in Walla Walla, jellyfish and birds, humans and monkeys, all danced together under a moon that looked suspiciously like a bottle cap.
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The morning after the repeal of the alcohol ban, Walla Walla was buzzing like a shaken soda can. The streets were alive with celebration—streamers, jazz bands, and food trucks offering everything from rum-infused churros to absinthe slushies. The Jelly family, still recovering from the previous night’s backyard bash, sat on their porch sipping electrolyte smoothies and watching the town transform.
Barry Jelly adjusted his reading glasses. “I haven’t seen this much excitement since KY won that jellyfish spelling bee.”
KY groaned. “That was rigged. ‘Cnidarian’ shouldn’t have counted.”
Cornell, still wearing his “Legalize Liquor” hoodie, scrolled through his phone. “We’re trending. Uncle Gabby’s TikTok has 2.3 million views.”
Inside the RV, Uncle Gabby was passed out in a hammock made of caution tape. Drinky Crow was perched on the roof, sipping from a martini glass and singing a slurred version of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Captain stood nearby, polishing his monocle and muttering quotes from The Hunt for Red October.
Phoebe Bird, ever composed, landed beside Cornell. “We did good. But something’s still off.”
Cornell raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Phoebe looked toward City Hall. “Jenkins may have repealed the law, but Marvin’s influence runs deep. He’s still running that support group. Still preaching the dry gospel.”
Cornell nodded. “Damn. So what do we do? Cancel him?”
Phoebe smirked. “No. We invite him.”
That evening, the Jellies and the Drinky Crow crew hosted a town hall in the bowling alley Marvin once burned down. It had been rebuilt with neon lanes, disco lights, and a bar shaped like a pirate ship. Marvin arrived reluctantly, clutching a ginger ale and wearing a shirt that read “Sober But Salty.”
Cornell took the mic. “Tonight isn’t about revenge. It’s about reconciliation.”
Uncle Gabby leaned in. “And karaoke.”
Marvin stepped forward. “I’ve spent years trying to control my urges. I thought banning alcohol would help others avoid my mistakes. But I see now… I was just projecting.”
Drinky Crow flapped his wings. “We all project, Marvin. I once tried to marry a bottle of rum.”
Captain nodded solemnly. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
Marvin chuckled. “Maybe there’s room for both. For choice. For moderation.”
Phoebe Bird raised her glass. “To balance.”
The crowd echoed her toast. Marvin smiled, then turned to the karaoke machine. “Anyone know Hotel California?”
In a dimly lit speakeasy beneath the bowling alley, Doris—the diner waitress—wiped down the bar and lit a cigarette. A shadowy figure approached.
“You knew Marvin’s secret all along,” the figure said.
Doris smirked. “I know everyone’s secrets. That’s why I serve fucking decaf.”
The camera panned out, revealing a wall of photos: Jenkins, Marvin, Drinky Crow, even KY. Doris poured herself a shot of espresso and whispered, “Walla Walla’s just the beginning.”
Cue dramatic music. Fade to black.
The sky over Walla Walla, Washington, was unusually clear—an omen, perhaps, of the chaos to come. The Jelly family was enjoying a quiet afternoon in their backyard pool, which was filled not with water, but with a viscous, neon-blue goo that Barry swore was “good for the tentacles.”
Cornell sat on the edge, headphones in, nodding to a Tyler, the Creator track, while KY practiced synchronized swimming moves that no one had asked for.
Then came the crash.
A flaming dirigible—patched together with whiskey barrels, rusted anchors, and what looked suspiciously like a stolen mast from the Black Pearl—plummeted from the sky and slammed into the Jellies front lawn.
The explosion was modest, more of a cinematic puff than a Michael Bay spectacle, but it was enough to send Cornell tumbling into the goo and KY shrieking, “We’re under attack!”
"Damn bitch! We are!". Screamed Barry!
From the wreckage emerged four figures: a soot-covered monkey in a tattered sailor’s coat, a drunken crow with a bottle lodged in his beak, a stern-looking Captain with a peg leg and a monocle, and a bird with a sharp gaze and sharper wit.
Uncle Gabby coughed dramatically. “Well, that landing was almost as bad as the time we tried to dock in Tijuana during Spring Break.”
Drinky Crow staggered forward, eyes wild. “Where’s the booze? I smell sobriety and I don’t like it.”
Barry Jelly blinked. “Uh… hi?” Cornell greeted them with confusion, despite him having his ear buds on. " Uhhhh, what up dawgs?"
Phoebe Bird stepped forward, brushing ash off her feathers. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here because we heard this town’s gone dry.”
Debbie floated over, her gelatinous form wobbling with concern. “Dry? Like… no water?”
“No,” Captain growled. “No alcohol. No rum. No whiskey. Not even a sad little wine cooler.”
Cornell pulled out his earbuds. “Wait, what? That’s true. Mayor Jenkins and Marvin passed a ban last week. Said it was for ‘public health.’”
Uncle Gabby scoffed. “Public health? That’s what they said before they banned absinthe in Paris. And look what happened—Midnight in Paris got made.”
Drinky Crow flapped his wings. “We need your help. You’re locals. You know the terrain. We need to find booze. Real booze. The kind that makes you forget your name and question your life choices.”
Barry looked at Debbie, who looked at KY, who looked at Cornell. The family huddled.
“This is batshit insane,” KY whispered. “We’re jellyfish. We don’t even drink.”
“But Cornell does,” Barry said. “He’s human. He’s got needs.”
Cornell shrugged. “Hey! Hope you were joking about that Dad! I mean, I’m not an alcoholic, but I do miss the occasional hard seltzer.” Barry whispers to Cornell, "Just pretend." Cornell gives in, "Okay, whatever you say, dawg."
Debbie sighed. “Fine. We’ll help. But only to find out why Jenkins passed this law.”
The next morning, the unlikely crew piled into Barry’s old RV, which had been retrofitted with tentacle-friendly seats and a minibar that now held nothing but LaCroix and regret. Uncle Gabby immediately began rummaging through the glove compartment.
“Any maps? Any clues? Any leftover gin?”
Phoebe Bird took the wheel. “We’ll start in Yakima. Wine country. If there’s any resistance to the ban, it’ll be there.”
As they drove through the rolling hills of Washington State, the group bonded in strange ways. KY taught Uncle Gabby how to use TikTok, resulting in a viral video of him juggling jellybeans while drunk. Drinky Crow tried to seduce a scarecrow in a vineyard, mistaking it for a sommelier. Captain lectured Cornell on the history of naval warfare, peppering in references to Master and Commander and Pirates of the Caribbean.
At one point, they stopped at a roadside diner shaped like a giant boot. Inside, the waitress—a grizzled woman named Doris—served them coffee and whispered, “You didn’t hear it from me, but Marvin’s been pushing Jenkins hard. Real hard. Rumor is, Marvin used to be a mean drunk. Real mean. Burned down a bowling alley once.”
Drinky Crow perked up. “A bowling alley? That’s practically a church!”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “So Marvin’s the puppet master. Jenkins is just the face.”
Cornell nodded. “We need to confront Marvin. But first… we need evidence.”
Uncle Gabby grinned. “Then it’s time for a stakeout. Like The Nice Guys, but with more feathers.”
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
The RV rolled into Spokane under a sky the color of hangovers. Uncle Gabby was perched on the roof, scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars he’d stolen from a birdwatcher in Hoquim. Inside, Cornell was piecing together a conspiracy board made of sticky notes, yarn, and empty LaCroix cans.
“Okay,” Cornell said, pointing to a photo of Marvin taped to the fridge. “We know Marvin used to drink. Doris said he burned down a bowling alley. That’s not just a bad night—that’s trauma.”
KY floated nearby, arms crossed. “So he passed the law to protect himself. But why trick Jenkins?”
Captain grunted. “Because Jenkins is a fool. A puppet. Like that guy in The Truman Show who thought he was in control.”
Phoebe Bird, ever the tactician, had been quietly hacking into the Walla Walla municipal database using a laptop she borrowed from a tech bro in Seattle. “Got it,” she said.
“Marvin submitted the alcohol ban proposal under a shell organization called ‘Citizens for Clean Living.’ Guess who’s the only member?”
“Marvin. Marvin The Whale,” Cornell said.
“Bingo.”
"Damn! I hate it when I'm right!". Spurted Cornell.
Uncle Gabby slid down from the roof, landing with a thud. “Then it’s time we pay Marvin a visit. But not with words. With action. Like Mad Max: Fury Road, but with less leather and more feathers.”
They found Marvin the Whale at a community center in Kennewick, leading a support group called “Dry But Not Dead.” He was mid-speech when the RV crashed through the front lawn, sending folding chairs flying and spilling decaf coffee everywhere.
Marvin The Whale tired eyes and a clipboard, froze. “What the hell is this?”
Drinky Crow burst through the RV door, wings flapping. “It’s a reckoning, Marvin! You took away our nectar! Our lifeblood! Our fermented joy!”
Uncle Gabby followed, dramatically tossing a bottle of kombucha to the ground. “This is what you’ve reduced us to. Kombucha, Marvin.”
Marvin sighed. “I knew you’d come. I’ve seen your kind before. Booze pirates. Rum romantics. But I had to do it. I had to stop the cycle.”
Cornell stepped forward. “You could’ve just gone to therapy.”
Marvin’s eyes narrowed. “I did. For years. But every time I passed a bar, I felt the pull. So I made Walla Walla a safe zone. I convinced Jenkins it was for the kids. For the future.”
KY raised an eyebrow. “You lied to him.”
“I protected him,” Marvin snapped. “He’s weak. He’d be drunk on power and Pinot Noir if I hadn’t stepped in.”
Captain growled. “You don’t get to decide for everyone. That’s not leadership. That’s tyranny.”
Phoebe Bird flapped her wings. “We’re not here to shame you, Marvin. We’re here to restore balance. Let people choose.”
Marvin looked around at the support group, who were now watching the confrontation like it was a live episode of Succession. He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I went too far.”
Uncle Gabby leaned in. “So you’ll repeal the ban?”
Marvin hesitated. “I’ll talk to Jenkins. But only if you promise not to burn down any more community centers.”
Drinky Crow raised a wing. “No promises.”
The next day, the crew returned to Walla Walla. Mayor Jenkins was hosting a press conference in front of City Hall, flanked by banners that read “Clean Living, Clear Minds.”
Cornell stepped up to the mic. “Mayor Jenkins, we have something to show you.”
Phoebe Bird handed him a folder filled with Marvin’s shell organization documents, hacked emails, and a photo of Marvin drunkenly hugging a bottle of Fireball from 2009.
Jenkins blinked. “Marvin… you lied to me?”
Marvin stepped forward, sheepish. “I did. But I thought I was helping.”
Jenkins looked at the crowd, then at the Jelly family, then at Drinky Crow, who was already sipping from a flask labeled “Emergency.”
“I hereby repeal the alcohol ban,” Jenkins said. “Effective immediately.”
The crowd erupted. Uncle Gabby popped a bottle of champagne. KY filmed the moment for TikTok. Barry and Debbie hugged Cornell, proud of their son’s investigative work.
Drinky Crow raised his flask. “To freedom. To fermentation. To the madness of choice.”
Captain nodded. “And to never trusting a whale with a clipboard again.”
That night, the Jellies family hosted a backyard party. The goo pool was filled with spiked punch. Uncle Gabby DJed using a turntable made from a ship’s wheel. Phoebe Bird danced with KY. Cornell sat with Marvin, who sipped a ginger ale and watched the stars.
“I’m sorry,” Marvin said.
Cornell shrugged. “You tried. That counts.”
Marvin smiled. “You ever see Leaving Las Vegas?”
Cornell nodded. “Yeah. Sad movie.”
“Exactly,” Marvin said. “Let’s not end up like that.”
Drinky Crow flew overhead, trailing streamers and shouting, “I regret nothing!”
And for one surreal night in Walla Walla, jellyfish and birds, humans and monkeys, all danced together under a moon that looked suspiciously like a bottle cap.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
The morning after the repeal of the alcohol ban, Walla Walla was buzzing like a shaken soda can. The streets were alive with celebration—streamers, jazz bands, and food trucks offering everything from rum-infused churros to absinthe slushies. The Jelly family, still recovering from the previous night’s backyard bash, sat on their porch sipping electrolyte smoothies and watching the town transform.
Barry Jelly adjusted his reading glasses. “I haven’t seen this much excitement since KY won that jellyfish spelling bee.”
KY groaned. “That was rigged. ‘Cnidarian’ shouldn’t have counted.”
Cornell, still wearing his “Legalize Liquor” hoodie, scrolled through his phone. “We’re trending. Uncle Gabby’s TikTok has 2.3 million views.”
Inside the RV, Uncle Gabby was passed out in a hammock made of caution tape. Drinky Crow was perched on the roof, sipping from a martini glass and singing a slurred version of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Captain stood nearby, polishing his monocle and muttering quotes from The Hunt for Red October.
Phoebe Bird, ever composed, landed beside Cornell. “We did good. But something’s still off.”
Cornell raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Phoebe looked toward City Hall. “Jenkins may have repealed the law, but Marvin’s influence runs deep. He’s still running that support group. Still preaching the dry gospel.”
Cornell nodded. “Damn. So what do we do? Cancel him?”
Phoebe smirked. “No. We invite him.”
That evening, the Jellies and the Drinky Crow crew hosted a town hall in the bowling alley Marvin once burned down. It had been rebuilt with neon lanes, disco lights, and a bar shaped like a pirate ship. Marvin arrived reluctantly, clutching a ginger ale and wearing a shirt that read “Sober But Salty.”
Cornell took the mic. “Tonight isn’t about revenge. It’s about reconciliation.”
Uncle Gabby leaned in. “And karaoke.”
Marvin stepped forward. “I’ve spent years trying to control my urges. I thought banning alcohol would help others avoid my mistakes. But I see now… I was just projecting.”
Drinky Crow flapped his wings. “We all project, Marvin. I once tried to marry a bottle of rum.”
Captain nodded solemnly. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
Marvin chuckled. “Maybe there’s room for both. For choice. For moderation.”
Phoebe Bird raised her glass. “To balance.”
The crowd echoed her toast. Marvin smiled, then turned to the karaoke machine. “Anyone know Hotel California?”
In a dimly lit speakeasy beneath the bowling alley, Doris—the diner waitress—wiped down the bar and lit a cigarette. A shadowy figure approached.
“You knew Marvin’s secret all along,” the figure said.
Doris smirked. “I know everyone’s secrets. That’s why I serve fucking decaf.”
The camera panned out, revealing a wall of photos: Jenkins, Marvin, Drinky Crow, even KY. Doris poured herself a shot of espresso and whispered, “Walla Walla’s just the beginning.”
Cue dramatic music. Fade to black.
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