Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2: The Emergency Session

President Maximillia Doom-Harbinger III (née Susan Williams, but she'd had it legally changed during her campaign) stared at the live feed from the Brand New Big Ass Atom Smasher and wondered if this was actually an improvement over their previous predicament.

"Let me get this straight," she said to the assembled cabinet in the Emergency Bunker of Last Resort, "we've got an alien entity threatening to eat the planet unless we cater a lunch for him?"

Secretary of Defense General Buck Blastmeyer nodded grimly. "That appears to be the situation, Madam President. Our intelligence suggests he's from the eleventeenth dimension, which our scientists inform me is 'like the regular dimensions, but more pretentious.'"

"And he wants what, exactly?"

Dr. Cornelius Brainfart, the Secretary of Existential Affairs, consulted his hastily scribbled notes. "A seven-course meal of pure existential dread, seasoned with tears of the innocent, and garnished with philosophers' hopes and dreams. Our culinary team estimates we can source most of these ingredients domestically."

President Doom-Harbinger rubbed her temples. Six months ago, her biggest concern had been whether to launch the nuclear warheads at 3 PM or wait until 4 PM for better prime-time coverage. Now she was dealing with an interdimensional restaurant critic.

"What about our ongoing apocalypse schedule?" asked Timothy Misery, Secretary of Creative Self-Destruction. "We've got three wars, two plagues, and a really spectacular economic collapse lined up for this week. The ratings have never been better."

"I'm afraid we'll have to put the apocalypse on hold," the President sighed. "Apparently, we've got bigger problems than mutually assured destruction."

General Blastmeyer cleared his throat. "With respect, Madam President, perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone. What if we use our arsenal against this... Emperor Cannibalus?"

"You want to nuke the cosmic entity?"

"It's what we do best, ma'am. We've got enough firepower to crack the moon, and some of our newest warheads are specifically designed for maximum existential dread output. We could probably cater his lunch and destroy the world simultaneously."

President Doom-Harbinger's eyes lit up with the sort of manic gleam that had gotten her elected in the first place. "General, that might just be crazy enough to work. Or crazy enough to make things infinitely worse, which at this point might be the same thing."

_________________________________________________________

Chapter 3

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Chapter 3

  Chapter 3: The Culinary Corps Chef Magnifico Deathwish had cooked for dictators, war criminals, and food network executives, but he'd never been asked to prepare a meal for a cosmic entity with the emotional maturity of a spoiled toddler. He stood in the hastily converted cafeteria at the BNBAAS facility, surrounded by ingredients that defied both physics and good taste. "Okay, people," he addressed his team of volunteer chefs, most of whom had been recruited from the ranks of those who'd already given up on living anyway. "We've got forty-three minutes to prepare a meal that will either satisfy an interdimensional god or result in the consumption of our entire planet. No pressure." His sous chef, a woman known only as Madame Guillotine, raised her cleaver. "Chef, I've managed to source the tears of the innocent from a nearby daycare center - I told them we were canceling Christmas. But I'm having trouble with the philosophers' hope...
Read more

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...
Read more