THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Quantum Spaghetti
Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions had gone to his bedchambers at the end of a hard day in the office pretending to be the Montrealaise clerk Gregiore L’Erreur and staving off apocalypse at the last moment. An average sort of job, but he was quite exhausted. Far more exhausted, he reflected, than he ought to be. Far more exhausted than usual. His last instructions for the day were to sign up to the various competitions of the next cycle, but at as he sat at his dressing table, took off his rings and glinting things, admired his aging visage in the mirror, and sipped on a bedtime Trapezoidaltine, he wondered how he would ever muster the energy for another round of story-making.
No need, said a voice from behind him – and from the inside of him, concurrently. He spun around on his chair, and there was – who? At first he thought it was the troublesome writer Jimmy Costello, who’d been messing around with quantum shizzle and nearly brought the house down. But as he looked, the image before him changed, and it seemed to the omnipotent sentient reality bubble manifesting as a vaguely theatrical pirate sort of fellow that the image of Jimmy Costello became first a two-headed eagle, and then a writhing worm inside a humanoid shell, and then a woman not unlike Olivia Newton John (pre-surgery) whom Búa had thought a Newtonian Olive, and then the Mitrin Vega, the Mother Star, who had given him several scars and a lot of happy memories from that famous S&M session out in the Andromeda galaxy, and then the worm again, and Jimmy Costello again, and finally, a figure much like Mehdi Ouzaani attempting to look like The Basileus.
It was Leviathan. Kronos of The Void. The Oneiromancer.
It was enough to turn any stout heart to jelly. Búa grinned widely, nodding. Well met, says Búa, welcome to Wight Spit my schizophrenic beast and friend. I hope you are not here to smash the place up again?
This is not Wight Spit, said Leviathan, one Adversary to another. Búa saw that the place had changed, which was peculiar, because he was usually in charge of things like that around here. It was still his bedchamber, but different. Somehow a little greyer. Somehow, abandoned. Forsaken.
Where are we? he says.
The Rejected Realms, replied Leviathan. You have been cast into the abyss.
Oh, well, says Búa, ever so slightly perturbed and not a little disappointed, that’s rather rude, all things considered. Still, I am not wholly surprised. Nothing a little bit of omnipotence couldn’t put right.
Perhaps, replied Leviathan, perhaps not. The Conglomerated Tribes are back, an infinite horde of infected Roman Catholics – at this Búa screwed up his face and made a small sound of disgust – and they are set to overrun you. And then there is this:
Leviathan took out his iPad.
Is that an iPad Air? asks Búa, impressed.
The King of Uncertain Dimensions and the Beast proceeded to have a rather nerdy discussion on the new iPad, and iOS 7, and Mavericks, and how much they both wanted a Mac Pro for Christmas even though they didn’t think much of Christ. When they were done Leviathan showed Búa a message from Nellie.
Wight - every ounce of my being will be devoted to making sure Audio FIX!es the group draw so that the Nellies will be in the same group as Wight so we can retcon your %$#^ back to the pre-whateverthehell era.
What does that even mean? asks Búa.
Well you know Nellie, explained the Reaver of All Things, she never makes much sense at the best of times. Anyways, King of Uncertain Dimensions, your blessed meddling and my coming here are what you might call The Tea Party At The End Of The Multiverse, and I propose we Go Back, Way Back, Back Into Time. And on the way, why don’t we show that cheapshot RMB dominatrix what a proper retcon is, and maybe she will shut up for five minutes and give everyone a break from the Nellie-drivel.
That sounds tremendously final, says Búa, but why not?