“I wish I had a cooler name, then people would remember me!”, The Man sat and cried from his crimson throne, his crimson morning brew sitting in the light breaking through his crimson window resting upon his royal, crimson, golden plated, diamond plastered, coated with a finishing shine, five dollar coffee table from the local thrift store. Watching the world from outside his window, Blue lavish cornfields rested below varied purple and pink skies, partly cloudly with a chance of abomitable serpent gods raging war over control for their local galaxy group (VOTE CHARLIE SMITHINGTON 1702). The Man looks out into the world, a light unsmile gliding under his shades. The Man exits his compound, down the steps, down the dirt trail, down between his love and bride, till death do they part (corn), down a right turn and down into the barnhouse. Riding in his tractor, his feet pressing down on the gas, rotation after rotation to keep speed, the single wheel wobbling, harvester being dragged behind him. The feeling of the corn being chopped is equivalent to the euphoria of beating up a group of 3rd graders, all neatly packed in a row. The Man continuing this like a pack of ants lining up to join a conga death spiral. Untill each row and column, purified of it’s corn. C5, D5, E5 , F5, you sunk my battleship! The Man content with his work for the day, he retires his tools and heads in for the night, putting on his favorite black striped, vomit mish mash coloured pajamas. The harvest was bountiful this year.

The Man steps up inside his abode, his favorite little pink bunny slippers slapping against the ground. Throwing some coffee beans into his coffee maker, the screaming of the beans as they convert the water to their cult. Ready to start his day, he looks out through the window into the world, cereal in a bowl and coffee in his left hand, newspaper in his right. “Voting to happen next week”, “Sentient grapes attack the weak“, “Misanthropic Inc on the point of brink”. The Man hears a commotion from outside and hangs his head out the window to investigate, a elf like creature with a pickaxe hacking at the face of his house, the head of the axe constantly flowing with many colours, hypnotic, kaleidoscopic. Each hit of the pick against the house causing the material to fall to the ground, replacing it with a dark black pulsating mass. The Man yells out to the other, stereotypical Mocromiain accent boasting out like brass, tubas and horns and oboes galore. Shocked, the elf in his black, baggy clothing drops his stuff and runs off. The Man walks up to the wall of his house, he places a hand into the void left behind by the intruder, the mass pulsing and throbbing, it’s warm to the touch and seemingly endless inside. He proceeds to walk up to the elf’s equipment, picking it up and inspecting it with precision. Plastered on the side of the handle, a mark of a name of an adversary of the world. “REALLY BAD INC”.

The Man wakes up as normal. He goes and does his daily morning routine, gets on (casual) clothes, makes some coffee, pours a bowl of his favorite home style cereal and picks up his newsletter for the day as he enjoys his morning brew, sitting next to the window so he can look out into the world. He notices the black blob from yesterday, still throbbing. He thinks to himself, “Maybe I could hire an exterminator?” Suddenly, from across the room into the outside he hears a knock on his door. The Man gets up from his chair, exiting comfort and empty of stride, he makes his way towards the door. A tall woman wearing a pink and white stripe victorian dress, she reaches out her arm and hands The Man a letter. The Man opens it up, lazily. He pulls the letter out of the envelope. It's from the intergalactic government. “So what are you here for?” The Man asks, snickering and chuckling to himself, “You want me to go on some sparkly rainbow adventure?”. The woman looks through The Man’s soul, empty on the inside and posioned with black licorice. “That’s right!” the twinke in her eye, bright as the sun. “You’ve been choosen-”, she twirls around, hitting a pose as she reaches the ground, lifting her wand into the air. “By government draft!”. The Man reads the letter.

“THIS IS AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THE INTERGALACTIC GOVERNMENT. You have been randomly selected to partake in a special mission, to travel across the cosmos to dismantle the infamous Really Bad Inc. Really Bad Inc has been caught in an ploy to destroy reality for internal profit. Normally we wouldn’t care about this but they have been refusing to pay sales tax and the lobbying money they usually give us and that’s kinda got us fucked up. We have supplied you with a freashly brainwashed low grade soldier (Soldier Call Number: B3313) to accompany you and free travel across the realms. Your work starts when this letter reaches you. Good luck. Failure to comply will result in permanent atomic annihilation.”

The Man and his newly acquired mind slave exits the home, the lady always keeping up a little bit ahead of him. “So what exactly am I supposed to call you?” The Man looks towards the woman. “Soilder call number B3313 at your service!” her eyes with wonder and excitement for what’s to come. “...I think I’m just gonna call you Bea.”, “Whatever you say boss!” her mind, already reshaping and rewiring for confirmation of her new name (Glory to the one and true intergalactic government!). They walk out the the farm and down the road to their new ride. It’s a nice, long, limo. Plastered back to front with a glistening shine, black coated windows for privacy with a grey paintjob. The bottom, meticalic and smooth, lifting off the ground with the newest most high class tech. The Man and Bea hop in, Bea in the back and The Man more in the front. They are almost immediately taken for whiplash by the interior of the ride, seats slashed open and faded by father time, lights that used to be lavish and discolike, now flickering and losing their touch, trash all over the floor and burn marks by distaint cigarettes smoked by a distaint man. The driver up front greets the heroes, “Well hey kids!! How are ya!!!?” his eyes strained red and his beard long and unwashed. He speaks with laughter and with a bottle o’ booze within his hand. “I bet you ain’t ready for this shit!!! Next stop!- uuhhh… where we heading to…..?” he paused for a second before having this unnatural boost of power, he presses on the gas flinging the unsuspecting passengers back into their seats as he boosts off into the sky.