History Is Unclear of Certain Events but Who Cares About Historical Significance or: How to Destroy the Universe with a Pancake
Author's Note: This piece is inspired by Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. It is supposed to be somewhat dumb.
Theme song: "Sleepyhead" by Passion Pit
Original Character Name Pronunciation:
Phoach Hinmore (Po-ack Hen-more)
Chapter One: Your Food Is Ready
It was a Sunday, or perhaps it was Tuesday, for history cannot be sure of this, when the world, specifically speaking, Earth, or in some social circles nowadays, The Planet in Which the Idiot is From, was destroyed into tiny micro-bits.
Considering that there are boundless idiots in the universe, and considering the known fact that pancakes will most definitely kill you, we shall try, and fail, to focus on one particular idiot that decided to eat breakfast one morning. His name, Is Not Important Right Now. Literally. However, for the sake of sanity, let's call him Phoach Hinmore, and for clarity's sake, let us turn the clock back to seven seconds ago…
Rocket, who was piloting the Milano, sniffed the air a bit and looked at Phoach as if he were an insane person.
Phoach, who sat behind the weapons specialist with multiple fetishes for the human body in an extremely uncomfortable and squeaky chair, ruffled his hair and stood up to stretch. "Pancakes."
Even though Rocket had no idea how pancakes were made, he had the slight supposition that starch patty plus microwave would not equal the heart attack that people seemed to love so much. "Um, I'm no connoisseur, but I'm pretty sure that's no how that process works."
Hinmore scoffed as he walked downstairs to the common area of the ship. In the corner was the poorly maintained and dismal looking microwave, which sat dutifully, but honestly, the microwave wished that it weren't so duty-bound. For it sat alone next to a full garbage can and the intoxicating fumes that come off from beer cans, pizza boxes, and half-full soda cups always reached the air vents. It was a most unpleasant existence to have absolutely no one give a shit about you, because the microwave figured that if you are reduced to heating up and putting small amounts of radiation in a starch pie of death and live next to the garbage on a ship that is basically a little above that then you are either in a nightmare or in Microwave Hell. Unfortunately for the microwave, it was in the latter.
A green digitized marquee on the microwave's face read, 'FOOD IS READY'.
Phoach Hinmore opened the microwave and pulled out a golden brown, fluffy, deliciously simplistic, and beautifully luscious, almost perfect pancake. Resting on the last Dixie paper plate, the edges of this almost perfect pancake were frayed and black, like a burnt piece paper. Phoach, not necessarily caring about the appearance and more focused on the apparent taste and texture, placed the pancake and the plate on which it rested on a foldable table next to the full garbage can and upon this, noticed the microwave's complaint.
"Ugh," he said, "someone needs to take out the garbage."
The microwave beeped to let Phoach know that its door was ajar but really it was grateful that someone took its predicament to heart. Finally someone cares about the microwave. Yes, the microwave thought, the amazing wonderful machine that heats up meals and provides a service is rightfully receiving the attention that it deserves. All that needs to be done to make aforementioned wonder of human hands content is to take out the garbage. The overflowing annoyance that is probably just as neglected shall be rid of and perhaps things can get-
Phoach crossed the room, completely ignoring the microwave's beeping (and its internal sentience) to a small cardboard box that had pre-cooked pancakes and two bottles of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup. Grabbing the nearest one, for both of them were full, Phoach walked back to the table and sat it next to the plate. He hummed a little tune to himself and unscrewed the bright yellow cap off the syrup bottle. He peeled off the plastic seal, re-screwed the yellow cap and began pouring syrup- extremely slowly.
It was so slow in fact that the microwave thought that if he were pouring it any slower than time would move backwards. The syrup inside the bottle travelled through the curves of the smiling and motherly woman that the plastic so loyally portrayed and exited through the small hole of the yellow cap and allowed gravity to take control. Phoach moved the bottle in a back and forth motion, covering the evil sadistic plotter of absolutely no nutritional value in sweet wonderful nectar.
At the moment, Peter walked into the room from his bed, finally feeling rested after a long miserable night of drunk stupidity and yuker. The shipmaster smiled in greeting at the Idiot when he noticed that pancakes were being made.
"Oh, you brought pancakes with you too?"
"Yeah." Phoach answered, turning around and noticing Peter standing near the cardboard box with the syrup. "I sort of had it with me when you guys picked me up. Thought it would be something different."
"Well, it's appreciated." Peter answered as he crossed the room to the microwave and finally shut the door. He looked down at the garbage situation, rolled his eyes and grabbed both ends of the garbage bag, lifted it up and tied it. The microwave displayed the time, 8:30 AM, for it wanted to remember the exact time in which someone did something for it. The only other time it could remember was 3:03, the time it was first manufactured roughly forty-seven years ago.
"So, where was it you said you were off to again?" Peter asked, noticing that his boot was untied and kneeled down to tie it again.
"Sylas," Phoach answered as he returned to his syrup pouring, which was still coming out at ridiculously slow speeds. "I had a small shipment that needed to be delivered there."
"Did the shipment have anything to do with pancakes and syrup?" Peter asked, standing up again and laughing a bit.
"Good one," Phoach replied with a smile. He shook the syrup bottle a little but alas, the syrup was stubborn, or rather, Mrs. Butterworth was. "What is up with this syrup?" Phoach continued, as he patted the bottom of the syrup bottle viciously but to no avail.
Peter shook his head, not sure if he had seen a more hopeless human being in his life besides himself. Watching Phoach struggle with something so simple made Quill laugh inwardly and frankly, if the microwave had a voice it would be to. The only one who wasn't enjoying this besides Phoach was Mrs. Butterworth, who was developing a massive headache and was pretty sure that she was dying from massive syrup loss. She slowly began to write her will and pray to the Big Syrup Bottle in the Sky that her sin of being so ignorant to fall into the hands of the Idiot who will most inevitably destroy the universe would be forgiven.
"Here," Peter said, "let me see it." Phoach passed Mrs. Butterworth to him and Peter gently maneuvered it but still the syrup came out at a snail's pace. After about a minute or so of trying, Peter shrugged and sat the bottle upright on the table and unscrewed the yellow cap.
"Maybe something's blocking it." Peter continued, and upon seeing that nothing was in the cap, almost put it back on when he noticed something inside of the bottle. An octahedron shape that according to Mrs. Butterworth, was the sole bane of all existence next to every single pancake ever eaten in all of history. Bulbous and covered syrup, the octahedron slowly began to wonder what creature it was that was inspecting it, for it had never really been looked at before and to be place in a mass of syrup was even odder. One moment this octahedron was comfortably sitting in the safe confides of a pants pocket and the next it was inside of a woman whose whole being consisted of sap, sugar, and knowledge of cholesterol.
"Well," Peter said, "that is interesting."
"What's interesting?" Phoach asked.
"Something's inside there." Peter stuck his right index finger in the hole and reached as far as he could go and felt a glass object. "Is that, glass?" He removed his finger and sucked on it for a moment, realizing that some syrup had stuck to his fingertip.
Phoach rolled his eyes and walked over to the cardboard box with pancakes and syrup and fished around for a box cutter. It was a blue one with complete loyalty and worth ethic, so when Phoach reached for it and pulled it out of the clutter, it was extremely glad to be of service again. The Idiot that would most inevitably destroy the universe walked back towards the table and began to cut the Mrs. Butterworth bottle. If someone were to ask Mrs. Butterworth what her greatest accomplishment in life was, she would say syrup and high cholesterol. The box cutter, who realized that it was a box cutter and not built to work under such strenuous conditions, punched the clock out too early and stopped cutting. Fortunately though, the hole that was managed to be made was large enough for Phoach to peel the plastic back and like a roll of Lifesavers candy, began to slowly but surely unravel the Mrs. Butterworth bottle, not caring if syrup exploded onto the table, himself, and the floor like Mount Vesuvius.
Peter bulged his eyes and let his mouth hang open like a surprised moron who just understood the quantity of the world's most simplistic mathematical equation- cake plus cheese equals cheesecake. "You're cleaning that up." He said.
"Yeah, I know." Phoach replied, "But will you look at this for a second?" He said as he picked up the octahedron.
"What is it?" Peter asked upon first glance.
"It's an octahedron," Phoach answered, "and it was in my syrup."
Quill rolled his eyes, "Thank you Captain Obvious."
"The weird thing is," Phoach said, placing the octahedron on the table, "I think I've seen this before. Help me clean it off will ya?"
Peter nodded and walked to the bathroom. Phoach meanwhile looked at the object again and noticed a very familiar sequence of numbers on the side: 3030471342. Instantly, the Idiot who will most inevitably destroy the universe rushed upstairs to the cockpit and breathed asthmatically as he quickly took his seat again.
Rocket, who was still driving, looked around and laughed, "What's the matter with you, did your pancake explode?"
"No," Phoach said, "but the syrup might. You need to get us to the nearest fueling station pronto."
"Wait, you made syrup explode?" Rocket asked, "Why am I intrigued?"
Phoach shook his head, "No, you don't understand, there's this octahedron and if we don't do something about the syrup then the universe is going to explode."
The raccoon sighed, put the ship on auto pilot and turned his chair around. Upon looking at Phoach, Rocket noticed that he was shaking and his skin was somewhat pale as if he were dead. His pupils were enlarged and an unhealthy amount of sweat came from his forehead. "Are you taking something that I need to know about?"
Peter came up the ladder and into the cockpit and overhearing the conversation said, "I don't know what you're talking about, but Phoach, you got some explaining to do."
"Why what happened?" Phoach asked.
"Mrs. Butterworth wants to have a word with you."
Phoach rolled his eyes, cursed himself, and followed Quill back downstairs. Rocket meanwhile looked around for any sort of alcohol and began throwing it into the garbage making a silent vow to himself never to drink after eight.