Well guys, I have good news and bad news. What do you want first? I'll give the bad news.

Bad news: I have major writer's block/lack of determination in Cajun Time. Almost to the point of abandoning it. It'll hang in there, but just prepare yourself if you wanted some speedy installments.

Good news: After countless hours debating the choice in deep thought, I have decided to open iVoldy, for an epilogue. That is all, no more. One epilogue for you guys, because you all gave me fantastic reviews.

DC: Ha! Can't sue me here, this is all using predicted franchises! Take that, Economy World!

01010010-01100101-01100001-01100100 (This is "Read". I swear.)

……………………………………………………………………………………...

Text Enter:

Location Enter:

Malfoy Manor

Time Enter:

Month: Unfound

Day: Unfound

Year: 3000 AD

;-P

Ignoring the fact that the Holo-Port had switched his right arm and leg around, the postman rang the doorbell and waited nervously.

"Yes-s-s-s-s-s-s?" asked the robotic voice.

"Package, for Mister Voldemort Voldemort." The postman said.

"O-o-one mo-o-o-o-me-e-e-e-e-nt plea-a-a-a-a-a-se."

The door opened of it's own accord. Mabye a millennia ago, the postman might have been scared, but with today's technology it was easy to guess that some amazing, unnamed device was obviously opening the door.

Confident in this excuse, the postman entered the foyer.

"Put the package down!"

"Just sign this digi-pad for it-"

"NO! Foolish postman, I've played this game with every single one of your ancestors! I will never sign your #$#$ing digi-pad!"

"But sir," the postman struggled, "You need to claim this computer!"

"Wha - ?" the voice sounded startled. "Computer? Those things are obsolete! Passe!"

"Well, you ordered it…"

"I am officially un-ordering it!"

"Then…" fumbling around in his digi-pad's storage space, the postman selected another document, "You'll need to fill out this official terms of un-orderment form, and send it in within five business days."

The voice orally twitched. "I will be forced to release the robotic hounds, man."

Suddenly frozen with fear, the postman remembered all of his father's horror stories.

"Yes, foolish UPS man, deconstruct you carbon base, and see if you can beat my Chihuahuas!"

As quickly as possible, which was very quick for a postman about to wet himself, the entrance hall became empty again.

It was only two minutes after cackling that the voice realized his Robo-Chihuahua need to be charged.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Irritably, Voldemort plugged in the final Chihuahua and straightened up. That was the last time he gave his Minion the day off. When Snape Droid 24 wasn't around, nothing got done.

Returning to the second floor via teleportation, Voldemort settled into his comfy holographic chair. One might presume that a holograph couldn't hold anything, but it was surprising what those guys over at Artificial Intelligence Incorporated could do with a few atom reactors and some lighter fluid.

"Bellina!" Voldemort called to his Italian video camera/servant. The camera floated to the doorway, wearing mascara, though it is impossible for any electronic device to wear make-up.

Sí? [Yes?)

"Get me something to drink. Preferably something not made from a paste or powder."

Subito, signore. [Right away, sir.) She floated away, and out of earshot muttered Stupido. [Idiot.)

Voldemort stretched out. Life, as eternal as it could be, was sweet. Aside from the whole "torn, bloodied, and slightly dingy bits of soul" factor, he was fairly content. In a good mood, he summoned Snape Droid 24.

"Yes – Master?"

"Ah, Snape Droid 24…"

"That – Is – My – Name."

"Indeed, indeed. Well, Snape Droid 24, I've decided to grant you your little request."

Snape Droid 24 clasped his metallic hands with artificial joy. "Really – Master?"

"Yes," the Dark Lord said loftily, "I've decided to buy you that special Black Orange Spice oil you've been eyeing for quite some time."

"That – Is – Fantastic – Master."

"I know I am… Any way, you are excused Snape Droid 24."

Snape Droid 24 wheeled out.

Still waiting for his drink, the Dark Lord picked at his holographic chair. Come to think of it, hadn't there been some sort of warning attached to this thing?

If only he could remember what it had been on…

It was about a nuclear reaction, his conscience said resentfully.

What? Voldemort was surprised, if not a little impressed. That was some hell of a conscience. It had lasted a millennium in the latrine.

Yes, I'm still alive you nimrod, now get me out!

The Dark Lord pouted, and left the squirming mass of practical thought in the decomposing hole, returning to pick more at his fancy chair.

Suddenly, the chair began to quiver and shake. Alarmed, Voldemort leapt up, rubbing his back-side.

"I did not ask for the massage!" he proclaimed. "Snape Droid 24! Bellina! Lucius's Ghost! Get in here!"

The three called stampeded into the room, as much as a wheeling robot, a floating video camera, and an illusion of light can stampede.

"Yes?" Lucius's Ghost asked.

"I broke my special chair! And I don't know what's going on!"

Well, gee, it's not like anyone tried to warn you something like this would happen, the conscience said sarcastically.

Shut up! Voldemort commanded, Just tell me what's wrong with it!

The conscience sighed. Fine. That chair is made of lighter fluid and atomic matter. By picking at it (which was warned against in the manual you used to light your cigarette on,) you have ultimately started another world war.

"The third world war!" Voldemort gasped, "I've started the third world war!"

"Um, no." Lucius's Ghost pointed out. "This would be the… 18th…."

No, più di quello. Ci devono essere almeno quattro dopo il Texas ottengono bombardati. [No, more than that. There must have been at least four after Texas got nuked.) Bellina put in.

It's the 42nd world war. And half of those would've been prevented if you hadn't ignored me just to prank call the heads of the Middle East and America.

"WWXLII." Voldemort whispered. "Wow…"

"Master – By – My – Readings – This – Atomic – Chair – Will – Have – Enough – Energy – To – Blow – Up – The – Entire – Universe." Snape Droid 24 said, possibly worriedly, if any emotional intonation could be applied to a robotic voice.

The room was silent.

"That's some helluva chair." Voldemort said eventually.

The others displayed a form of agreement.

And so it was that the universe, and all it's inhabitants met their untimely demise, or in some people's case, their overly late demise. Because not even torn, bloodied, and slightly dingy bits of soul can prevent death after standing two feet away from an atomically explosive chair.

The homicidal cockroaches, on the other hand, continued life, as cockroaches can survive anything.

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AN: I discovered something else: to make things futuristic, simply hyphenate two computer-related words.