The metal bird streaked the pallid sky with a thick onyx trail of chem, permanently marking the planet's atmosphere with a chart of acrid gridlines. Edward Culinary, famed TV chef and former vampire, now heavily pregnant with child, checked his watch. Thirty-seven hundred hours, Celesteday the Forty-Fifth. A good year. But not for Edward. In the seat adjacent, Sailer's Mauden, Edward's only friend, was playing his trombone with impassioned vigor, such that indigo flowers were beginning to sprout from the notes Sailer's was conjuring, allowing themselves tangible form as they drifted from reality to reality and nestled themselves over in the aisle in front. Sailer's ceased playing, and Edward reached over and lapped up all the flowers for himself, snarling but with all the guttural menace of a toy kitten whose batteries have started to melt after years of wear and unconditional childly love, and is now resigned to a faint distorted mewling that symbolises eerily the slow decay of childhood wonder. Edward began to suckle upon the sweet petals of the deadly and enticing outgrowths of his companion's primal melodies. They made him drowsy.
Edward Culinary slumbered then. He dreamt of omelettes.
Just then a crackling disembodied voice announced listlessly that they were experiencing some "unexpected turbulence". The voice was that of the pilot, who was a glowing orb with trendy shades and a Bachelor of Pansexual Bat Studies, for which he was still twenty thousand SpladeCreds in debt.
The ethereal ghost of a recently deceased giant phoenix had latched onto the mechanical sky-skirting vehicle, and was making clumsy love to it in one last triumphant exertion of excess - the kind for which the flaming bird had been almost legendary in life - before it continued upon its trudging ascent to the heavens.
The pl*ne shuddered violently.
Edward Culinary slept on, blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounded him. He was still dreaming of omelettes - of forging a perfect omelette from the h*eckflames of Durisszi, a city Edward would now never have the chance to visit.
Sailer's whispered a resigned prayer to his pantheon of Vauri gods, who were said to live and ceaselessly jam together in a concert hall in an entirely different dimension's heaven:
"The Drummer provideth the rhythm and the Harpist the melody and the Singer the words of this world. Whyfore then must we drown these in the static of modernity? Be we so fearful of the Rhapsody of Existence? Farewell, my slumbering chum, and rock on."
"Omelettes..." murmured the half-conscious Edward, glazed eyes gazing still at their shuttered fleshy lids.
Just then the deceased phoenix's spectre climaxed violently. Reality was rended in twain.
And that, babies, is how the glistening city of Fawkes, Arizona was founded.