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My crime-fighting dog and I got to the bottom of the most sordid complication known to humankind. In other words, we cut the gordian knot of the central conspiracy. 

So we rewarded ourselves for a good day’s work by stopping at an Italian deli and ordering sandwiches. This may not sound fancy, but it was: 

I myself ordered the Eggplant Parmigiana Wedge, and my dog ordered the Sicilian Muffuletta. We also invited our wives, who dressed up and wore jewelry. 

I almost forgot to tell you what our wives ordered for dinner. My own wife had something called a Reubenelli (pastrami, provolone, vinaigrette, hot giardiniera); and my dog’s wife ordered a sandwich whose name I’ve forgotten, but it consisted of a pork and beef patty between two slices of bread, drenched in marinara sauce and topped with melted mozzarella cheese.

After dinner, we went to a dance club and swayed to an endless song that was like a solid wall of sound.

Then we all bought new shoes for ourselves and got our hair teased. A woman from the audience presented me with a gift of cufflinks; and, on a whim, my wife passed a global law requiring anyone who cares about anything to wear lime-green shoelaces. So now we can easily separate the wheat from the chaff.

At this point, softly in silence, the snow descends from the heavens. It covers everything.

“Whoa, look at the parking lot,” sez my crime-fighting dog’s wife.

So we start to shovel. As we’re doing so, the mailman plunges his motorized vehicle into the snowy expanse and almost gets stuck, but I help him succeed: he ends up delivering all of his packages in a timely manner.

Next I take my dog for a walk. We visit some aliens from outer space — or maybe I should say that some outer-space aliens visit us. (It’s unclear who provoked this meeting-of-the-minds.) They teach us various secrets. We thank them heartily; then we get the fuck out of there.

We now discover that the sun is a capsule whose top and bottom halves unscrew to reveal a surfeit of glowing spheres — like ping-pong balls that are too hot to hold in your palm or paw. (That’s approximately their size.) We cause these balls to spill out into the surrounding atmosphere, and then we divvy them up to anyone who wants a souvenir.

So that’s how the sun got destroyed. Yet again, you can send your thank-you letters to me and my dog.

Now, when most people procreate children, they make offspring who are younger than themselves; and they do this by way of physical coupling, and they use some orifice of their physicality to complete the transfer. But my dog and I were each, on our own, able to achieve the state of pregnancy without resorting to fornication; then we gestated our spawn and performed natural birth purely mentally; not a single cavity of our bodies needed to be violated: that is, we THOT our ancestors into existence and thus produced two healthy sets of grandparents. (I emphasize that they were not infants.) These respective double-pairs of newborn elderly humans and canines were eerily similar to the grandparents on either side of our actual biological families; yet they were subtly askew. Science has labeled this an improvement.

Several generations later, we bought some asparagus at the grocery store and fed it to the aliens whom we had met eons ago; for, after bearing our own grandparents intellectually we returned to visit the extraterrestrials whom we befriended earlier; or rather they chased us down.

We then shucked corn for a while, because that’s fun and interesting. “Instead of being obviously spilled upon the nighttime sky in a haphazard fashion that nobody planned or cared out,” asked my dog, while we were working in the cornfield, “would you find it more or less unnerving if the stars were clearly arranged in a rational order?”

“Every possible iteration of this prison that we call our universe is equally terrifying to me,” I answered my dog.

My dog stared at the grass for a while, after I spoke that classic line. Then we continued to work in the field.

When the dinner bell rang, we dashed to the manor house and enjoyed Chicago style roast beef subs. This was a case where the food that was being served matched exactly what we desired.

People in the vicinity now began to engage in acts of warfare. My dog set down his sub sandwich and said “Fellows, comrades, friends, stop killing one another!” But only the Good Folks gave ear — the Bad Folks wouldn’t listen; therefore the bullet shots rang out all night and thru the next morning. The bombs kept bursting in air. Thank God, however, that both the Good and the Bad side’s flags were still standing, the last time I looked. Although the atmosphere was foggy from the smoke of the cannon blasts, I could still see the colors and patterns of each gang’s symbols relatively well. 

I just hope that nobody gets hurt. Think about all those troops on either side, in any battle: every mercenary is some progenitor’s child — and I know how much a mother cares about his or her baby-doll (“flesh of my flesh! bone of my bones!”) since I myself willed a version of my own grandparents into existence; and so did my dog.

What happened is that the Bad Folk eventually won the war, as is always the case. But that’s not as bad as it sounds, even tho the Bad Folk are literally bad — for, after an epoch passes, the Bad Folk expire and their heirs take command; and these heirs look out over their kingdom and say “Why is everything so ugly?” And their intuition hints to them that their precursors ruined the world via greedy decisions. So these heirs try their best to repair what remains, and they fail because the aftermath is unsalvageable; however, since atoms cannot age or die but are vampiric, eventually Paradise finds itself rebuilt. Then it falls forthwith, and slowly rises again. See also: RHYTHM.