Blast

"Hamburgers!" quoth Fnarf, who, being monarch of Floofville, was wearing his traditional robes. They were pompously adorned with embroidered peaches. Seeing this, he was highly cheerful, and his handlebar mustache perked up slightly.

"I see," said Tim. He was fiddling with his computer, which was busily opening a vortex to the 847662902nd dimension. "And how does that make you feel?"

"It makes me giddy."

"Oh dear."

Tim did not say "Oh dear" because Fnarf was giddy, but rather because he had accidentally nullified a vital property of the universe, making it a continuum of singularities. All the matter in the universe was suddenly replaced with zero-dimensional points of nearly infinite gravity. Because of the infinite condensation of infinite gravity sources, space-time distortion was infinite in all places where matter existed in the universe. A corollary to this was that each infinite distortion attracted every other infinite distortion infinitely, drawing infinite infinitely small distortions into an infinitely small space. This caused infinite stretching of space-time, but, since space-time distortion may only approach infinity, space-time was pulled beyond its limits and snapped in a great blast of dimensional death.

When they awoke, Tim and Fnarf found themselves to consist entirely as dimensional memory imprints in the fabric of the atemporal transcosmological matrix.

"What has just happened?" inquired Fnarf. If a random fluctuation of the substance of an abstract concept could eat peaches, Fnarf would have been devouring them by the bushel. Instead, he had to devour the random fluctuation of a peach embedded in the matrix.

"Don't worry," Tim said – rather, as close as a random fluctuation can come to speaking. "I may be able to restore the third dimension. But I will have to travel to various other dimensions to do this."

"Hum?" Fnarf inquired.

"Unfortunately, the destruction of the third dimension causes the fourth, fifth, and subsequent dimensions to become highly unstable. If they haven't collapsed, they will soon." They were suddenly joined, in the atemporal transcosmological matrix, by a dimensional memory imprint of a four-dimensional being. "See? There goes the fourth dimension."

Fnarf contemplated a bit. "Look," he said, "we could just appeal to the Author to remedy this."

"You don't get it, do you?" Tim screamed. "I just caused the death of the universe and at least forty-four octovigintillion life forms! If we appeal to the Author, he could find me guilty of über-ultra-mega-manslaughter and sentence me to over four hundred septillion years in prison!"

Fnarf, as was his custom, contemplated a bit. "You know, I'm pretty sure the Author is the one who allowed you to destroy the universe."

Tim, following Fnarf's lead, contemplated a bit. "I wouldn't be shocked if the various inhabitants of our dimension gave us a little hassle about not only killing them but altogether nullifying their reality.

Quite unexpectedly, the universe returned to normal.

"Sorry about the delay, fellows," said the Author, "but I had to reboot the universe after you wiped a key drive."

Tim fidgeted a little, but what else would one do after killing over forty-four octovigintillion people?

"So, what now?" Fnarf asked the Author.

"I really don't know. Why don't I destroy the continuity of the universe?"

"No, I don't think that would be quite proper, or healthy for my health," said Tim.

As they were sitting around on the distant planet upon which they had been deposited at the rebooting of the universe, Tim and Fnarf suddenly realized that the Author had been kidnapped. Strangely, this was not in the least disconcerting to them.

"Wait!" cried Fnarf as a thought struck him. He recovered his composure and struck it back. It left his mind indignantly. "Why aren't we distressed at the sudden disappearance of the Author?"

Tim explained it to him gently. "We still exist, right?"

"I should think so."

"Therefore there must be someone performing the Authorial duties in the real Author's stead."

"I fail to see the logic."

"We haven't died yet, have we?"

"Not as far as I'm aware."

"If the substitute Author was evil, he would have killed us by now."

"I fail to see the logic."

"Really?"

"Actually, I do. I'm just trying to make it seem like I'm a bigger ignoramus than I really am."

Tim stapled Fnarf to the ceiling, which is a very difficult thing to do outdoors, but Tim is obviously a highly-skilled ninja.

Suddenly the Author realized that, three hundred years from now, one of his descendants will invariably discover the manuscript of this document, rotting in a box, or whatever they use for storage in those days. In that case, he has only one bit of advice: don't panic.

But anyway, suddenly a human fell from the sky and landed directly in front of Fnarf and Tim. He introduced himself as Andrew.

"Hello, good sirs!" said Andrew.

"Top o' the morning," quoth Fnarf.

"What year is it, good sir?" Andrew requested of Tim.

"It is, at last reckoning, the year of our Lord one score hundred and ten."

"That's highly useful," Andrew remarked. His sarcasm went entirely undetected by the other two.

Suddenly, Tim found a longsword, with which he tried to lop off Andrew's head. This was slightly disgruntling to Andrew, but the Author intervened at the last minute. The longsword left them, became a Franciscan monk, and wrote chants in obscure languages no human has ever spoken. This was unexpected, so Fnarf wrote the longsword's biography.

The Author really couldn't think of anything else to write about, but he resolved to finish the paragraph. But, he thought, he could have ended the paragraph at the last sentence. And he has no clue why the text, in the manuscript, is interrupted by a giant sketch of a cube (which is not exactly easy to place in an electronic document such as this one), which is highly difficult to write around. The Author doesn't even care about what happened to Tim and Fnarf, abandoned on a remote planet. Therefore the Author thinks it would be best if he ended it now.

The End.