Chapter 1

 

Chapter 1: The Brand New Big Ass Atom Smasher

Dr. Miranda Pestilence adjusted her radiation goggles and cackled with the refined madness that only comes from seventeen years of theoretical physics and a steady diet of methamphetamine-laced energy drinks. Around her, the Brand New Big Ass Atom Smasher hummed with the sort of ominous vibration that typically preceded either groundbreaking scientific discovery or the complete obliteration of spacetime.

"Fire it up, Jenkins!" she shrieked to her assistant, who was busy updating his suicide note on his tablet. "Let's see if we can punch a hole straight through to next Tuesday!"

Jenkins, a pallid man whose life force had been gradually drained by years of watching humanity's increasingly creative attempts at self-annihilation, sighed and pressed the big red button labeled "DEFINITELY DON'T PRESS THIS UNLESS YOU WANT TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS."

The year 2042 had been particularly festive in terms of impending doom. The Great Climate Wars were in their third season, nuclear powers were playing an increasingly spirited game of "Who Blinks First," and social media had evolved into actual weaponry. Humanity had achieved such magnificent heights of self-destructive creativity that alien civilizations were reportedly selling tickets to watch Earth's finale from a safe distance.

The atom smasher powered up with a sound like God gargling antimatter. Particles began their dance of mutual annihilation at velocities that would have made Einstein weep both tears of joy and existential terror. Dr. Pestilence rubbed her hands together gleefully, anticipating either a Nobel Prize or the heat death of the universe, whichever came first.

Instead, she got something far worse.

The air above the particle beam began to shimmer like a mirage made of cosmic indigestion. Colors that had no names and shouldn't exist began bleeding through reality's fabric. The shimmer expanded into a tear, then a gash, then a full-blown cosmic sphincter that dilated with a sound like the universe passing gas.

"Well," Jenkins observed, updating his suicide note to include this latest development, "that's new."

Through the wormhole stepped - or rather, oozed - a creature that looked like what might happen if Jabba the Hutt and a petulant toddler had a baby, then fed it nothing but pure entitlement and cosmic radiation. It stood roughly eight feet tall, with skin the color of spoiled mustard and eyes like dying stars. Tentacles writhed from what might charitably be called its head, each one adorned with tiny crowns made of what appeared to be crystallized despair.

"MORTALS!" the creature bellowed in a voice that sounded like a black hole having a tantrum. "I AM EMPEROR CANNIBALUS THE STARVELING OF THE INFINITE REALM OF THE FAR FLUNG HUNGER! AND I REQUIRE... LUNCHEON!"

Dr. Pestilence blinked. In all her calculations about particle physics potentially ending the world, she had somehow failed to account for interdimensional food service demands.

"Did... did it just ask for lunch?" Jenkins whispered.

"SILENCE, PUNY MEAT SACKS!" Cannibalus shrieked, his tentacles flailing with the sort of dramatic flair typically reserved for soap opera villains. "I HAVE TRAVELED ACROSS ELEVENTEEN DIMENSIONS AND THE VAST EMPTINESS OF THE VOID BECAUSE I SENSED THE DELICIOUS AROMA OF IMPENDING APOCALYPSE WAFTING FROM YOUR PATHETIC LITTLE PLANET!"

He gestured grandly at the chaos visible through the laboratory's windows—the mushroom clouds on the horizon, the cities burning with the enthusiasm of a species that had given up on subtlety, the general air of magnificent self-destruction that hung over the world like a fine seasoning.

"YOUR SPECIES' EXQUISITE DEDICATION TO SELF-ANNIHILATION HAS CREATED A MOST APPETIZING BOUQUET OF DESPAIR AND STUPIDITY! I SIMPLY MUST SAMPLE IT BEFORE YOU FINISH YOURSELVES OFF!"

Dr. Pestilence found herself in the unusual position of feeling insulted by an eldritch horror. "Now see here, you cosmic gastropod," she snapped, "we've put a lot of work into destroying ourselves, and we don't appreciate some interdimensional food critic barging in to -"

"SILENCE!" Cannibalus interrupted, producing what appeared to be a menu made of screaming dark matter. "I REQUIRE A SEVEN-COURSE MEAL OF PURE EXISTENTIAL DREAD, SEASONED WITH THE TEARS OF THE INNOCENT AND GARNISHED WITH THE HOPES AND DREAMS OF YOUR MOST OPTIMISTIC PHILOSOPHERS! YOU HAVE ONE OF YOUR EARTH HOURS TO PREPARE THIS FEAST, OR I SHALL CONSUME YOUR ENTIRE PLANET AS A LIGHT SNACK!"

Jenkins looked up from his tablet. "Should I add 'catering to cosmic entities' to my résumé, or just skip straight to the part where I list my next of kin?"

_________________________________________________________

Chapter 2