Conor smiled warmly, staring off into the distance as he basked in the triumphant knowledge of a villain, smote. And yet, despite the vivid memories he had of that bloody battle – memories which he relived on a daily basis with a proud half-smile, a head nod, and an imagined fist pound with Jesus and Lady Luck – inside him an alarm was sounding ominously. Maybe he was ignoring it, or maybe it was being drowned out by the gleeful giggles of his relatively obese daughter as she ascended to dangerous heights on a swingset that could have the structural equivalent of a brain aneurysm at any moment. No matter what the agent, Conor had become deaf to the voice that was wailing inside him like an global warming protester, except less annoying and concerning a threat that was actually real.
“Conor, can you hear me?!” It pleaded desperately.
“Conor! Ugg boots have risen!”
He could hear the voice loud and clear in the back of his mind, almost as if it was behind him. Weird, he thought to himself, My inner monologues never sound that real.
Suddenly Conor’s head jerked and he stumbled forward, nearly falling down. “Hey! Douche. Listen to me.” It was the voice, now somewhat exasperated and aggressive. “This is for real. The One Ugg is glowing, and if it is united with the Dark Mini Skirt of the Harlot, a portal to hell will open up!”
“God? Is that you?” Conor asked, looking up.
“No you jackass, it’s me – Zac.”
Conor turned around, and there stood his curly haired comrade, his friend, his brother.
“Dude, you just missed the weirdest thing. I could hear my conscience, like audibly. Then it hit me in the back of the head! I wonder if I’m high? But without narcotics somehow?”
“You should never have reproduced,” Zac said, shaking his head. He was, of course, referring to Giovannia, Conor’s unexplainable, lardy 17 year old daughter who was born and raised in one year. He also had no wife or girlfriend. She was Conor’s little miracle. As if God sought to provide some kind of cosmic proof for Zac’s statement, behind them the chains of the swingset snapped, sending Giovannia’s mighty frame hurdling through the air. She landed on a nearby slide, destroying it almost entirely.
“Whoa, feel that? Little earthquake,” Conor said, continuously oblivious. “Giovannia!” he screamed over his shoulder, “Stop swinging and go get yourself a Twinkie out of the trunk.” He took her silence as an affirmation, when in reality it was unconsciousness. Zac shook his head, fighting off the urge to find another partner in the battle against this great monster. No one knows how to navigate this darkness better than him, he thought. And I definitely can’t do this alone.
“She’s something, isn’t she? A real peach,” Conor said, still not looking back at his now barely conscious, groaning daughter.
“Yeah. Right. Look man, we’ve got to talk. Uggs are back, and I mean big time. We thought we had killed them, but we didn’t. I think we’ve got to take the battle to their wretched, hellish birthing place. We have to go to Australia.”
“No… No, this can’t be… You mean, we’re going to Australia? With Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman?”
“Yes. Yes. Exactly.” Zac said, unwilling to fight the uphill battle that an explanation would be.
“Alright. Let’s go,” Conor said nonchalantly.
“What about Giovannia? You can’t just leave her there.”
“Oh, she’ll be alright. She’s a big girl.”
Zac held back his comment and patted his friend on the shoulder because, God help him, he just didn’t get it.
Just as they were about to turn around to leave, there was an explosion, knocking them both to the ground. Zac’s Prius had blown up, but this wasn’t some freak hybrid battery accident…
They were under attack.
To be continued…