As with all good wars, a martyr was needed. One good Floyidian had been slain by the Blue Legion during a routine curb stomping. The Legion’s chirurgeons quickly provided evidence that Floyidian had actually died from a pre-existing heart condition that was compounded by his stomping but the barbarian hordes would not be soothed, even though all secretly agreed that the stompings should continue. The minions of the Black Lord’s Master demanded a blood price: for every able bodied man a flat screen television; for every unmarried woman (which was basically all of them) a cheesecake. Only then would the looting and burning of the countryside end. As for the corpulent night-weirds of the Anti-Father, all knew that paying them a blood price was useless. All they desired was destruction.
God Emperor Trumpian ordered his Centurions to defend the cheesecakes to the death, preferably the barbarian’s, yet by the time the order had travelled most of the cakes had long since been consumed. The Key Warriors, always the first line of defense in such things, stood up and pointed out that Floyidian had wanted to protect the countryside from such happenings. In response the barbarians simply conjured up their own Floyidian, one sympathetic to their cause. The actual Floyidian, with all his nobilities and complications, was simply not useful enough.
And so were the cities of Americana set aflame. The blue-feathered Corvid Lords squawked and moralized: the real perpetrators of this crime were supporters of the Orange Emperor; how dare Trumpian call for war over cheesecakes and televisions, just give them what they want; the Empire deserves to be destroyed anyway; my wife’s boyfriend has got us a new flatscreen. But as long as the marauding hordes would observe social distancing rituals for the Covid season, all would be forgiven after the Black Lord’s Master triumphed over the Orange Emperor.
It was as Americana’s cities burned that our hero knelt to consult his spiritual tortoise. His keyboard, worn from many a long campaign, still had some working LEDs. Beneath his black hoodie his smirk never faltered; none had ever seen it leave his reddened cheeks. But today even he was shaken. He had deported shills all throughout the day, burned shadow-xirs with the lights of truth all night, yet their numbers seemed endless. Fatigue and the blows of their ban hammers had taken their toll. Whispers claimed that the Alabaster Throne itself was under siege. What was he to do now?
“You will do what you always do,” the lines in the tortoise’s shell seemed to say. “You will shitpost.” Another possible reading was “squirtle squirtle" but this seemed irrelevant and so he ignored it. Divination was a skill.
Meanwhile, a howling night-weird of the Anti-Father was being squirted in the face with a peppery concoction, of a type favored by the secret wizards who guard the Alabaster Throne. It fell writhing before the white pillars, screaming for vengeance. A cloud of magic gas that could invoke tears wafted over the hordes but xir were no stranger to tears; rubber bullets proved more effective. Standing undaunted before the Alabaster Throne, the Orange Emperor shouted defiantly at the thronging horde: