The bass rattled everything.
Stars pulsated more intensely, meteor fields shook with every 808. Somebody had patched an old NASA satellite through to the soundboard. The party could be heard anywhere within a lightyear of Pligar Six. Stereophonic scenescapes sprawled out in every direction from the center of the nebula. Hoards of fluorescent ravers swayed rhythmically with the most current in astro-hop.
Sylver Sterieaux made his was through the crowd of ragers and ravers, looking for something.
His was a household names around Pligar Six, notorious. Sylver, along with a few other riotous partiers had caused the “dormant” volcano on Pligar Three to erupt incandescent lava at the peak of one particularly extravagant bender. Sylver had been close party buddies with all 27 sets of Rok and Ravebotts back before Bottuia imploded. That had come as a shock to everybody.
Bottuia was said to have been indestructible.
RAGE! RAWR! GROWL! Barbaric gurgle…zombie spit. None of my existential pontifications could restrain the blood rage. None of my soul searching insights could keep me from lashing out at whatever hunk of metal it was that had resuscitated my undead body back to un-life…
RokBott 10o had never personally encountered a zombie before.
RokBott10o’s internal programming had alerted him of a zombie infection present as soon as the saliva projected from the zombie’s mouth landed on the bott’s shiny exterior…however, a rare lag in processing caused the information to go unnoticed by Rok until the heat of the moment cooled. His self-defense software did recognize the all-too-obvious “zombie lunge maneuver” though, and swiftly switched on a series of precise counter blocks and blows that rendered Zombeatnik useless for the foreseeable future. At least the humanoid was in one piece and breathing now.
Progress was being made.
Grok had seen enough.
Somehow, one last, primal, intrinsic, survival instinct had white-knuckled it’s way through the cosmic trip and was now demanding it’s refund.
The ancient man gathered up his energy and with all his might roared…
Neither the strange metal, fire-breathing warrior nor the blood-crazed man seemed to pay him any mind.
Urogk jumped awake. Some far off, barbaric belch had snapped her out of post-coitus comatosis.
She had slept in past the rising of that holy golden orb that brought life to her existence…past the chirping of the birds, chattering of the animals, blossoming of the flowers, symphonic movements of the wind…she had slept in through all of heaven on earth as it unfolded without her for the first time during her short, profoundly wonderful tenure on this wonderful planet.
She had been missed…
….by whom, you may be asking…
“Dr. Sterieaux, genius mastermind behind BottCo’s founding invention, the Dimensional Wave Projectile Cannon has publicly apologized for inventing ‘Pandora’s Cannon,’ as it’s now commonly called.” Headlines all over the intergalactic news reels circulating throughout the many realms of this known universe read similar stories.
You see, the BottCo. (Inter)Dimensional Wave Projectile Cannon became the bane of Dr. Sterieaux’s existence the very moment he invented it. Albert Einstein would probably say he could relate…relatively. The cannon emitted a frequency that rippled out and created static between dimensions, tearing the time/space continuum and, in theory, dissolving whatever it was aimed at into another realm of existence entirely.
The UN had commissioned the invention and then aimed the cannon (albeit the prototype) up into the black underbelly of the cosmos and fired it at a chunk of space rock the size of Brazil that was on a collision course with earth.
The blowback caused the hairs on the back’s of every neck in the world to stand on end.
“The earth will completely pass over the meteor in the safety of our own dimension, our own reality undisturbed…”
Dr. Sterieaux hoped this would be the outcome of his cannon’s use.
Buuut…it wasn’t the outcome…not by a long shot.
Grok and Urogk lived back in the time of the last Golden Era…the age of the gods.
Powerful sentient beings walked the earth freely with their creation.
Urogk had been loved by the likes of Apollo, had been the sparkling twinkle in the eye of Dionysus, and, probably most notably, was the favorite baby mama of Thor. That’s right, lassies and lads, Urogk had birthed a child by the god of thunder.
Had Grok known about this?
Nope…he just liked to watch her bathe in the nude under her waterfall.
I woke up in RokBott’s spaceship.
RaveBott1Xx lay beside me, unconscious. This was now an ambulance spaceship.
Rok was smoking a joint when I came to, his feet kicked up on the dash of the intergalactic cruiser.
He was playing “The Horizon Has Been Defeated” by Jack Johnson.
“…and people are just animals with too many tools to build all the junk that they sell…”
Grok, still in fourth (or higher) dimensional frequencies, was really losing his shit now.
He ran straight through RokBott10o and Zombeatnik, and although RokBott’s extra-dimensional frequency detection softwares registered activity and “bleeped” and “blooped” a few warning signals, neither the bott nor the zombie were phased in the slightest.
This is finally when Grok remembered the large, god-awful tasting mushroom cap that had been stuffed down his throat. He knew that certain varieties of fungi were lethal. He had watched his uncle Griylch keel over and die after swallowing a mouthful of bright green mushroom caps.
Grok assumed now that he was, in fact, dead.
“I wouldn’t wish scientific prowess on anyone…we should’ve all just kept climbing trees.”
-Dr. Quincey Sterieaux to his kitty on a particularly bleak night.
Soon after the DWPC was fired at “Brazil Nut”, the nickname given to the now quantum phantom meteor, strange things began happening to life on planets elsewhere in the galaxy. This newest tear in time and space had shifted, moving moisture into dehydrated galaxies in remote corners of the cosmos. Planets began the slow germination process that would lead to sprouting alien nature, alien life…aliens…
Grok hovered silently beside RokBott10o and Zombeatnik, now barely paying them any mind. His own mortality had seized his mental processes.
Grok most definitely believed in the existence of ghosts and the spirit realm. In the Golden age, this information was widely known, accepted and assimilated into daily life as common knowledge, as say, sidewalks are commonly accepted as good pathways to walk on. Grok had witnessed several hauntings by his dead uncle, like the time when his good ol’ uncle Griylch made all the bats in Grok’s cave fly out in a fit of rage mid-day while Grok was doing some cave cleaning. Ol’ uncle Griylch had been quite the prankster in life, and, as it seemed, in the afterlife as well.
So now it was his turn to do some haunting of his own. He snuck into RokBott’s spaceship just as the cargo doors were shutting. He could have simply passed through the doors, but Grok was still getting used to this whole ghost business…he’ll get better at it eventually.
Grok heard the smooth tones of Jack Johnson wafting through the corridors of the spaceship’s cargo hold…
Earth also was affected by this audacious display of mankind’s (or at least the very rich, the UN and BottCo.’s) will to live on….affected by strong, sudden shifts in gravitational pulls, in tectonic plates rubbing together too roughly, the planet having been drained of all it’s oil…oil burned and spilled, polluting the water, oil manipulated into substances more foreign to life than the new moss growing now on Pligar Six…affected by the intensity of the sun’s rays, after burning off what was rest of the atmosphere with nuclear war…yes, nuclear war took place after Dr. Sterieaux swore to dismantle the DWPC, incinerate all parts, plans, drafts and sketches of the project and to devote his life to restoring a balance in life.
Nations sought the power attached with possessing the dimension bending cannon, as did mafias, cartels, radical religious sects and renegade mercenaries of all kinds. They killed each other in the process of getting it.
By the time, “Symbol In My Driveway” began, RokBott realized that I was sitting upright, staring blankly at the strange scene before me.
“What the f@#k are you?”
Instead of answering, RokBott10o simply extinguished the roach in his hand, pointed at the small inscription on the bottom right corner of his torso which said in etched lettering, “RokBott10o.” Then he flicked the roach at me, turned towards the navigational panel of his starship and hit the big red button that said simply “GO!” and we were off…blasting through the atmosphere of this once beautiful planet.
“…got a phosphorescent secret…don’t you tell nobody else…”
Sylver Sterieaux finally found what he was looking for…the keys to his all-platinum-everything BottCo. PanGalactro2000 space cruiser.
He had to get to earth…fast.