October 13th | Frances Turner

 

Galaxies throughout the universe celebrated the demise of planet Earth. But on the sunburnt planet Dorta, in the benevolent Mercilian galaxy, the mood was dark.

Dortans marvelled at Earth’s exotic bounty and regarded Earth worth preserving, but they were discombobulated by the humans.

Seeking an intergalactic agent of mercy, they sent an urgent request to Make Earth Great Again (MEGA) headquarters.

Just as the Universal Hope Barometer sunk deep into orange territory, matching the skin of one of Earth’s most twisted leaders, Marvog’s dispatch orders arrived.

On the journey through the galaxies, the in-flight entertainment system streamed a relentless tsunami of video reports and news articles — the insanity on Earth was reaching catastrophic levels.

Marvog cleared Intergalactic Immigration, checked his Booble watch and stared up at the Washington Monument, the giant stone pencil from which he’d just emerged. Famished, he pulled up Earth Advisor and whispered, “food near me” into his wrist. The Intergalactic Sandwich Bar was just across the road, underneath the Internal Revenue Service. Marvog spied a vent in the pavement; when it burped a cloud of steam, Marvog stepped into it, dropped through the vent and entered the underground diner.

Behind the cash register, a large purple creature was snoring on a chair. Marvog rang the cowbell on the counter. One of the creature’s five tiny heads jolted upright. Eight eyeballs of varying sizes rolled around in their sockets. Marvog watched, while bile clawed at the back of his throat. The creature’s eyes did one final loop and then consolidated their focus on him.

“Welcome to the Intergalactic Sandwich Bar,” it said. “I’m Flob the Sandwich Slob, from planet Zantha.”

Marvog flashed his MEGA badge.

“I’m Marvog, planet Dorta.”

The creature’s numerous lumpy cheeks lit up like flashing lights on a Christmas tree. “Are you here on a mission?”

“Sure am. I’m here to exterminate the blabbering buffoon in the baggy blue suit. But first, I need some fuel. What’ve you got?”

“I have quite a selection, I cover the galaxy,” said Flob, excitedly. He handed Marvog a menu. “And today’s special is the Supernova Sandwich.”

Marvog scanned the options. “I’ll have the special,” he said, firmly.

Flob shuffled into the kitchen on seven of his legs. He returned with a tray balanced on three of his longest arms. He carefully placed a tall, clear glass on a table and covered it with a funnel in which nestled a stack of meats, vegetables, cheese and bread. He sprinkled golden glitter over the stack, struck a match and the sandwich exploded in flames. The resulting white dust disappeared through the funnel and into the glass, which turned black.

“Black hole!” Flob cackled, emptying the glass onto a clean plate and passing Marvog a straw. “Snort it!” He chortled, flailing his five arms.

Marvog beamed. “Ah, just the hit I needed.”

Flob roared.

Marvog gave Flob a high-five, then burst like a raindrop on a windshield and whizzed through the portal to Lafayette Square.

The President stood on a podium, pumping his fat little fist in the air, shouting, “it’s a hoax!” while thousands of red-capped humans holding placards, waving flags and wearing assault rifles, chanted in unison demanding their rights to a haircut.

Marvog took aim, fired. The President shattered into a million tiny pieces and the crowd went wild.

Marvog reclined on a bench, amidst the fevered frenzy. He consulted his Booble watch. The Universal Hope Barometer glowed a vibrant treefrog green.