Epoch of Madness

Epoch of Madness – The Plan

 

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Undercarriage of Injustice

 

Since the humans of earth have decided to enter the Epoch of Madness by giving the red button to an orange bewigged undercarriage of injustice named after a flatulent cartoon duck, I have decided to emigrate to Mars. Saturn was my first thought, but its gaseous rumblings would remind me too much of home, and for this tremendous voyage and subsequent colonisation there must be no room for sentimentality. Tyrannical rule of a newly captured planet is hard enough. Red also suits my mood.

 

I will, as a token of my superior rule, be giving free emancipation to those humans who wish to join me in kicking this old outdated planet aside. I understand that some humans may find the thought of leaving their home planet daunting, in which case a no win, no tree kidnapping service will be provided.

 

You’re welcome.

 

It must be understood and emphatically agreed by all kidnappees, voluntary or screaming, that my thoughts, words, and commands are absolute, and I will not tolerate any disobedience, free thought, or knitting for the duration of your enslavement*.

 

My first task as supreme ruler (imperial only) will be to build a 60 earth feet** wall around Mars, and I shall require some hands capable of such hysterical…historical megalithical sculpting. Therefore, only slaves with hands will be allowed to take part in the construction of aforementioned wall. Slaves without hands must collect dust which will be piled higher than the Olympus Mons, making the largest mountain in the universe as monument to my selfless deliverance of the unhanded from inequality and subjugation.

 

Once built, the wall will provide the perfect eclipse behind which my plans for the exploitation of Earth’s humans will take shape. Such will be their misery, their hopelessness, their brutal sadness on their outdated planet that the craving within the pleasure part of their inferior brains will swell with longing. With the flood of unhappiness engulfing their meaningless lives they will do anything to fill the skull splitting black hole of inner despair. And I, ruler, tyrant, female woman thing, shall be their heroin of misspelt heroes.

 

With devious efficiency and belligerent force I shall infiltrate the underground pleasure providers with a weapon so powerful it would make all red buttons to the earth’s destruction melt into a pool of pathetic plastic goo. This weapon, feared by the orange one, and other undercarriages of injustice who believe they are in charge of their mounds of soil across the earth, will secretly spread dopamine across the lands, filling the oppressed with glee, the depressed with squee, and the repressed with the dignity of upturned mouths. What is this weapon you ask?

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Cats.

 

Specifically baby cats.

 

Specifically laughing baby cats.

 

Humans have such weakness for laughing cats. A human’s weakness for laughing cats is laughable in itself. The fine brains of these creatures worked this out long ago, during the times of Egyptian rule when the Sun God Ra shimmered at the squeak of a playful kitten, making him sink behind the pyramids before opening the back door. Such outrage did this cause the Lord of Cats that a vow was taken by all cat kind to oppress those with the opposable thumbs via the art of LOLing. Having held extensive strokies with the Lord of Cats I have procured the loyalty of the Purring Army through a mutually agreed act of pleasure exchange (chin based). I impress upon you the magnitude of controlling force this weapon will bring me, and you will do well to heed its effects upon those which you will leave behind. Any thoughts of sorrow, any moods of compassion, any hedonistic leanings of love, unity or solidarity will be beaten from within you and dumped on Mercury where it will be scorched into oblivion along with your left nipple.

 

The LOL will rule, and thusly will I.

 

*until the end of time itself

**Feet will be provided by excess slave legs. (I hear stump blisters cause the most unbearable pain; just another perk of the job, other than the getting to do what I tell you to do bit. Again, you’re welcome.)

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