A man dressed in the motley attire of a jester – a jester gone bad – stood at the top of his tower and cackled at what was left of the world. He'd conquered all who had opposed him, from that crummy excuse for an emperor to that band of self-righteous do-gooders who wasted all that time climbing through his fortress of horrors. The do-gooders managed to smash his goddess statues, and for a minute, the man had been worried that they might take him down with them, but in the end, he had absorbed enough magical power from the statues to crush them like the bugs they were. They didn't sound quite so much like pages from a self-help booklet when they were in the throes of death, did they?
For whatever reason, though, the man atop his tower felt like his victory of the world was slightly anticlimactic. What was left? Nearly all of the world's cities were rubble. Everyone brave or stupid enough to try to end his reign of terror was dead. Even his adoring cult of worshippers was getting to be a little too stale to excite him anymore. The world felt, for the first time and surprisingly so, empty. It was as if there was nothing left to live for.
That's probably why, when the blue portal opened over the edge of the tower, evil's clown prince hardly had to think before leaping in, desperately in search of some greater meaning or, failing that, more people to kill.
XXX
Even for a maniacal octopus with a limitless imagination and enough of an ego to turn anything he was doing into the most important task the world had ever known, the life of a receptionist was unsatisfying. Octopus royalty did not belong at the front desk of the Coliseum. No, octopus royalty belonged in the arena, at the least, fighting alongside Master Chupon, or maybe out getting revenge against those pests who bumped their raft into his head oh so many years ago. He had managed to eat the culprits, but wouldn't revenge be even sweeter if they had families who tasted almost as good? He mopped his brow with a tentacle.
For the first time ever, he was an octopus with no ambition. He had only been truly happy in the past when he was jamming up an opera or facing down little girls with magical paint sets and eating them or watching Chupon sneeze all over his enemies. Sure, he had a steady job and he was only a couple of decades away from being out of debt, but he missed having a real purpose in life. Signing people in did not quite fit the bill. Something exciting just had to happen. Something had to shake everything up, didn't it?
And then something did. A blue circle etched itself, probably magically, onto the floor under the octopus's chair, and he found himself swallowed up by a deathly bright light. The mundane world of the Coliseum faded out faster than he could shout, "Don't tease the octopus, kids!"
XXX
Red, white, and blue shorts and boxing capes had lost their allure. All the parties, floozies, flunkies, and wild nights life on top had to offer had become something of a chore, now that the most popular of the pretenders to the World Heavyweight Title had been deposed. All the idiots in the crowds chanting for Rocky, Rocky, Rock-y! had been silenced. Their hero would never make it as a boxer as long as his trainer was idiotic enough not to teach him basic techniques for defending against blows to the head. Heck, Rocky would be lucky if he ever walked again, much less fought in the ring.
Still, something about the fight showed the Champ what was missing in his life. He had to ask himself why he was fighting. Sure, he knew that he enjoyed what he got out of the fights, if by that he meant the women and the money. What bothered him, though, was that he knew his greatest glory was past him. He would never have a fight like those Rocky bouts again, and even during those, he found that he was the one learning the lesson about what is means to be a true warrior. Whatever Rocky had in his heart, it had kept him going against impossible odds. It had kept him alive. It had kept him hungry.
The Champ didn't have the eye of the tiger. Now, he didn't have much of an eye for anything. He couldn't even take out his anger by beating up on Rocky anymore.
With nothing better to do, he found himself slipping away to the gym in the middle of the night, going a few rounds with the punching bags. The bags took punishment a little better than Rocky had, and he found that he could hit them repeatedly without obsessing over them.
After a few rounds, though, the Champ saw the room light up, eerily, as if the floor had turned into a giant movie projection screen. He saw his feet swallowed up by a funny blue light; then his knees, then his thighs, and then the rest of him.