"What can I get you, gentlemen?" said ZIM in a casual manner as he sat the two Johns down at a corner table.
"Black with lots of sugar," said Linnell.
"Light with more sugar than his," said Flansburgh, pointing at his friend. Both Johns had odd monotonous voices, and stared blankly into nothing as they stated their orders.

"Just a seeecond!" ZIM said as he dashed to the "kitchen" of the oversized coffee shop that he "owned". Basically, though, the coffee shop was just a complex hologram in front of ZIM's house that was directly in front of his base and giving ZIM a clear run to his labs to prepare his heinous plot.

In the kitchen, ZIM took off his disguise quickly and zipped over to his control room, so he could carefully monitor his victims, as well as do his bidding to them...which was to take their brains and taking what they know, at the same time, putting it all into good use. But first, he had to make sure his prey would not escape from his grubby little three-fingered hands.

"GIR! Get out there and serve them their poop stuff," he said, pointing to the door for his dim-witted android. "And make sure to get the other three that are still in the van outside, or NO TACOS FOREVER."

"No tacos...?" GIR said, insulted. "Forever...?" water from his hard drive cooler condensed near the bottom of his eyes, making him appear to cry. "OKAY, I'LL DO IT. FOR THE TACOOOSSSS!" he cried as he charged out the door with the large porcelain cups of coffee.

"John...I don't like this place," Linnell whispered in Flansburgh's ear.
"I know...it's too...big for a coffee shop," Flansburgh said distantly.
"I think we should just get out of this place and go find a payphone on the next block," Linnell said, scooting to the end of the seat and just about to get up when-

"STOP HUMAN!" said the green little doggy who held out a hand gesturing him to stop moving, who dropped Linnell's coffee in the process. "Oops! Uh, here, you can share this one."
"How about no?" Flansburgh said, taking Linnell by a wrist and sprinting for the door.

"How about YES?" said the voice of the other butler as the double doors that had looked almost heavenly as Flansburgh approached them, but then were encased with layers and layers of encased steel. A terrfying, cruel laugh was heard as the entire room became snowy and fuzzy like a television screen, and then becoming only but a room surrounded by tall rods with luminecent orbs on each end, and then thousands of sixty-inch television screens that showed the face of a bug-like creature laughing and intimidating the Johns.

"Buh-bye!" waved the robot.

GIR jumped onto a hovering platform and was off to retrieve the Dans and Marty as multitues of complex robotic arms took hold of each John around their heads, necks, arms, waist, and ankles. They were thrown so and attached to the dissection board in such a trice that they were both clammy and airsick. ZIM was lowered down on a hovering platform identical to GIR's to question the Johns.

As soon as he touched the ground with the hoverboard clear out of his way, the odd egg - shaped device on his back released four elongated titanium spider legs and lifted ZIM up into the air, making him ten feet tall instead of two feet tall.

"Are we having lots of fun today, you loathesome piles of cell matter?" ZIM's mouth curled sharply up into his cheeks, showing the most nerve-racking smirk that not even Draco Malfoy could pull off. "I hope so...because you have been chosen by THE ALMIGHTY ZIM to have your brains surgically removed for purposes in taking over your planet. Any questions?"

Linnell and Flansburgh looked at each other blatantly and then looked at the bug-creature who was dressed in a humourous little magenta kilt and black pantyhose.

"I don't know if I should piss in my pants from laughing or fear to have my brain removed from my body!" Flansburgh stated. Linnell nodded faintly at Flansburgh's remark and eyed ZIM precariously.
"SILENCE, YOU DISGUSTING BLOB OF COW FECES!" ZIM shrieked as he pointed a small lasergun to Flansburgh's head, making Linnell jump and Flansburgh all sweaty.

"Pardon me for this question that was just BOUND to come up, but what do you want with our brains?" Linnell swallowed after his question, trying to get rid of the stubborn lump in his throat from being so prone to having his brains maimed.

"Scans of my computer(and my general knowlege) have come to find that you are the Love Ambassadors of Brooklyn, who make music to make humans do their pitiful but highly amusing dances...I want to know the secret of your POWER to CONTROL them so EFFORTLESSLY...!" the joints in his wrists were bound to snap right off his arms from the sound of them cringing as he spit in their faces. The both of them winced at his awful breath and the spit from his mouth that was sprayed on them.

"TELL ME!" ZIM snarled as the tiny capillaries in his eyes squeezed his irises until the reflections of his eyes were completely gone and left tiny brick red pupils staring menacingly at them. His other hand that was holding the gun pressed harder against Flansburgh's temple, now thorougly moist with sweat.

"W-w...well, uh, heheh! We just...do what we want we like to do," Flansburgh said with his teeth chattering.
"M-music is our life! We've been doing it for twenty years, and-and people who always just called the...Dial-A-Song...liked it and that's kinda how we got famous," Linnell said, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Wait," ZIM said, lowering the gun and letting the expression on his face soften. "Dial-A-Song? Tell me of this contraption...Dial-A-Song. Is it some sort of wave - radiating device? How does it work? Does it have lasers or smoke machines?"

"Well, a telephone does use electromagnetic waves in a sense...for electricity, I guess," Flansburgh said with an inquisitive nod. "All you do is dial the number 718-387-6962, and the automated voice will tell you to press certain buttons so you can hear the songs we make."
"A new song every hour, we always say," Linnell said, cheering up a bit.
"But, eh, no...it doesn't have lasers or smoke machines. but hey, good thought," Flansburgh remarked.

ZIM pondered for a moment. "Where is the main database located?" he said in a firm voice. The Johns looked at each other, wondering if they really should tell ZIM where it was actually located. Who knows what ZIM would do with it...?

Linnell sighed and lowered his head as far as the bracket around his neck would let him, and then used his chained hand to point at Flansburgh.
"His apartment," he said simply. ZIM smirked and chuckled; the chuckle soon grew to a cackle, then a bellowing, blood-curling laugh. It quickly died down, and as he snickered to himself, he rubbed his hands together and zipped over to a keyboard nearby, tapping the keys with his small claw-like fingers. He was writing down his science notes...he turned back and glowered at the Johns.

"I thank you, gentlemen, for being so agreeable and helpful to my mission," ZIM said with his arms behind his back. "Perhaps if your corpses preserve well enough in these old specimen tubes, I can revive you hundreds of years from now to give you back your position as Love Ambassadors...but for now I'm gonna have some real fun-

ZIM's device that had sprouted his spider legs now let five long purple cords snake from the top pink button to almost directly in the John's faces. The snaking cords came to a halt beside ZIM's hands.
"-with THESE!" and with a broad, toothy grin and a wave of his hands, each end of the tubes beared the most mind-meltingly horrfying instruments of torture that sprung from each cord, each with their own little stains of blood from previous victims.

"Couldn't you at least clean those before you kill us!" Flansburgh's eyes were wider than satellite dishes, sweating so much that the sweat made his thick white tee-shirt nearly transeculent, with even more sweat beading at his forehead and tricking down to his nose, where it dripped onto the sterillized tile on the ground. Linnell was about the same, only he was as pale as a clean white bed sheet and sweating enough so that his cheap reading glasses were sliding down his nose. The collar of his shirt and his upper chest area were also noticably darker than the rest of his light grey cotton shirt.

As we turn our eyes away, we can hear the gut-wrenching screams and bellows for mercy as the buzzsaw, pincers, needles and pins went to work on the Johns and removing their brains...all we see is a trickle of their mixed blood running past our feet...