Tharsh, who had recently been born of an interesting captcha but already posessed the mental and physical traits of a fully-grown adult. He then proceeded to
butter his toast with a chainsword.
"WHARRRGARBL! Toast for breakfast!" screamed Tharsh. Tharsh was cranky because he had toast crumbs inside his power armor.
The GSL effortlessly lifted Tharsh from the room and told him
that breakfast was long since over, and it was better to think about tea-time instead.
Upon alighting, Tharsh did his very best to restrain his barbarian toastly urges and engage in the tea party in a civilised manner, as was expected of him. Nonetheless, he couldn't
seem to find the sugar bowl. This misfortunate absence of a dish convenient for hiding small things like sugar or microphones caused Tharsh to
make impromptu use of his nostrils for the job, which aside from looking very silly was also terribly inefficient.
Marie Antoinette and her sister, who were also attending the tea party, were not amused. They
found that they were much more efficient at disposing bodies than giving birth to them. One of them gave birth to a body of water and created a planet similar to earth. The other stopped in her tracks and
was run over by a freight train.
Regrettably, a certain large obtuse backside was
not also killed in the accident... or was it an accident? In fact,
nobody had their eyes open during the concert, it was the coincidence of the century: everybody blinked at the same time. Newspapers
were outdated by several centuries - therefore no longer existed - and so instead,
people held large rectangular sheets of low-quality paper covered entirely in adverts. This meant that the
new planet's creation was utterly missed by the entire population of the solar system, who were too busy looking for a good bargain on shoes.
Tharsh gazed at his surroundings, as though seeing them for the first time, and saw his world for what it truly was:
an incredibly complex roguelike game made of political intrigues rather than monster slaying.
It was anal leakage in a downright horrid way.
Speaking of anal leakage, the gaseous cat was busy
being completely inconsequential, although he was sure he fit in this whole fiasco some way or another.
"What a gas!" he said as he
drifted through the window of an adult entertainment store.
Meanwhile, in the Oort cloud,
a sinister swarm of nanobots was approaching the solar system,
intent on restructuring the Earth into the shape of
a giant rodent - which their extraterrestrial employers would assuredly find very humorous.
As it approached Earth, the massive swarm resembled a
sinister swarm of nanobots.
"Stop!" said
Beady Eyes. "I'm really happy for you, I'm-a let you finish, but we have to acknowledge I'm the greatest thread hijacker of all time."
But nobody would hear him, and he then asphyxiated due to an inability to breathe interstellar plasma.
"Arf," said
the queen of
Catland. The entire population was shocked to hear such canine response from their feline ruler.
"...is what I would say if I were a wretched dog, like our sworn enemy!" she continued, flustered and desperate to recover the situation, lest her true canine identity be discovered. Fortunately, the residents of Catland were stupid enough to buy it. Actually, most of them had already completely forgotten about the whole affair and were more occupied by basking in a sunbeam.
"Anyway, I have an important announcement to make," said the queen. "It's about King Alistair Xavier Chang-Mortensen III...
--Nyaaagh!" With that undignified screech, the queen was dead. She had been assassinated by none other than
Niccolo Machiavelli, brought back to life by
the Edinburgh Cult of Undead Moé. Naturally, the citizens of Catland
were completely indifferent to the whole affair, being notoriously difficult to lead at the best of times. Most of them had never even realized there had ever been a queen of Catland, and wouldn't have cared even if they had known.
Yet this was par for the golf course of feline monarchy, perhaps even a birdie or an eagle, but then nobody was keeping score, especially not the caddy, for Catland royalty specialized in being completely inconsequential. Thus, Niccolo Machiavelli
had to concede that his political theories only really work on humans.
Disappointed and sexy, Niccolo slunk off into space to forget his problems. But his problems were just beginning.
That very second, the nanobots landed and promptly deployed their specialised
protein regurgitating apparati. Niccolo has no choice but to
throw raw bacon at them in the hopes of delaying them long enough for him to make his getaway. He silently thanked fate that he had thought to fill his pockets with raw bacon that morning in case of
breakfast. Breakfast without bacon would be uncivilized, after all.
Nanobots momentarily pacified, he ran to the only place he could think of:
Venice.
Part 4: Clandestine Cat Culture and the Carnivorous Calico Cormorant
In which Mr. Gray discovers that he made more tea than he bargained for; Barcelona encounters an unnatural wind; nanobots introduce the novel concept of marriage; a fleshy traitor witnesses an underground bowel movement; a former chairman organizes an assassin's conference; a celestial flat-chested female demonstrates the folly of flirting with fashion; felines gather swiftly in a secret salt mine; a panda and a formerly fictional nurse elope to Tijuana; internet characters interrupt the narrative with unrelated concepts; other things probably happen too but who the hell knows what is even going on anymore
"My, my. This will not do."
An old maxim once said, or at least to the best of Mr. Gray's memory went something alone the lines of, "Too much tea turns the gentlest men bitter." A profusion of whipping steam rose from his mug. Between ponderous sips he glanced to the pot, now to the tea before him, wondering whether such a statement could possibly hold true. After all, one may simply invite a guest or two to partake in the excess.
"But what, then, if it has cooled upon arrival?"
No - that would be terrible. He sipped with caution. Though the tea had come in large amounts, he steadfastly refused its unceremonious declination. Good tea is the impetus of an excellent day. Perhaps he would leave it to sit, pouring yet another serving should his thirst be so inclined.
"Indeed, I am fond of the stuff. Yet would that I took too much, and too soon, might I eventually be repulsed by its mere aroma?"
Not good. Not good at all.
Interrupting his thoughts,
more thoughts thoughtlessly thought their way into Mr. Gray's thought thoroughfare. Those thoughts were in turn interrupted by a third set of thoughts remotely related to the first thoughts. But these third thoughts were thoughtlessly interwoven with yet a fourth thought process. The fourth thoughts were thoroughly thoughtful, though Mr. Gray thought that that thought ought to have been thought through on Thursday.
Then a fifth thought interrupted all the rest: the tea was already growing lukewarm. A shiver shot through Mr. Gray's spine. This tea was going to
become cold, and that wouldn't do at all. He picked up the teapot and began gulping down the cooling tea directly from the spout.
The tea dripped down his throat like an overturned bucket of paint pouring down the side of a building. The spout smelled metallic. Mr. Gray
, in his hysteria, had completely neglected to claim his 800 GET.
Meanwhile, just outside Barcelona, a deadly
pack of desiccant
lay motionless by the side of the dusty road, just as it had done for the past eighteen years. Its time would assuredly come.
A devastating storm of flatulence was building up inside
unfortunately it could not escape unless
someone opened a window. "Whew, I'll open a window," said Mr. Gray. "It smells like farts in here!"
Predictably enough, the second the window opened,
the universe proceeded an infinitesimal amount towards maximum entropy.
The stench swept over the streets of
Manhattan New York
Whose inhabitants sniffed the air cautiously and said, "Hmm, the wind must be blowing from New Jersey today."
A young man, whom you will recall as the young boy of some preceding chapter or other, remarked that this particular ill-scented tumult was rather akin to the chaos of Barcelona - a city he knew well. But for the difference of the disaster - farts rather than storms - it was all too similar. Suddenly reminiscing upon his faraway home, he wondered (as he oft did) whether or not it was very windy there today.
As it happens, it was. Unnaturally so.
Elsewhere, the nanobot swarm had just descended upon
Midgar and
neatly arranged itself into several distinct humanoid forms, all donning garb which was characteristic of the region. One was a Rune Knight, another an Assassin Cross. Many more couldn't figure out the proper algorithm for complex costumes, and so defaulted to Novices for the time being.
As they walked through the
unending tutorial levels with benign grimaces spread across their face façades,
enticing them to dip their wicks in the great gaynus,
they realized that mere companionship was not enough to satisfy their need for each other.
For some pieces of eight, the deal was done,
they had freaky sex, and their depravity begun.
In no time, they were performing rituals to Slaanesh fit to sicken any upstanding individual.
A local priest
was quite alarmed and
hired the sexiest women he knew to seduce them:
"But they are not human" said she, and the deal was off.
Having quite forgotten their original intent, the humaniform nanobot swarm
spent their days trolling Internet forums in the brief periods between orgies. Several years passed in this manner, until
an extreme fundamentalist Christian hacker altered their programming to make them
hate fags, and hold pickets announcing it at inappropriate times and places.
One such inappropriate place was in the EPUDM headquarters, where the big fat butt was busy
taking a nasty shit, as fat butts are wont to do.
But this was no regular shit. This was a revolution.
No British cigarette hater would be safe.
Speaking of British cigarette haters, the former Honorable Chairman George Bush CXXVIII - who, miraculously, had not yet been killed off - was
miraculously killed off in a mysterious explosion somewhere off the coast of Bolivia.
The explosion had been caused by a tragic
Plane Crash, Caused by a
shocking overuse of capital letters. Shortly before his tragic and untimely demise, the former chairman convened with
Nyarlathotep
, in order to figure out the exact meaning of the word "Nyarlathotep".
Sadly, the knowledge drove him mad just in time to be mercifully exploded.
Nyarlathotep, which was a group of furry feline assassin experts, proceeded to play with string and stretch in sunbeams.
One member of Nyarlathotep uttered a discontented "にゃ〜！" at her sunbeam being blocked by the GSL floating past the window. The loli in question was wearing
on Nyarlathotep's nerves lately, because of her
Incessant singing of
Tsurupettan
and her donning of
a sukumizu, which just looked annoying and didn't reveal much. Some time later the EPUDM caught sight of the GSM and proceeded to
utilise the Galvanised Sheet Metal for constructing
whirling serrated blades of death