So there I was on the Starship Aenigma, cruising along the edge of the universe at just seconds under the speed of light. My companions were a robotic Donald Trump who spouted off disgusting comments about the womanly figure of a nearby nebula, the revived Hillary Clinton with cryofluid pumping through her veins ready to take on Robot Trump, and my hand.
This hand exited the viewdeck window on my accord, pushing through the membrane like it was cotton candy. This deepest space was neither too hot nor too cold. It was like Baby Bear’s porridge both in temperature and constituency.
And I began poking holes in it.
I wanted to see if I could create a tear in the space-time continnum. Robot Trump and Semi-Frozen Hillary told me to stop, but I informed them that the buffet was downstairs and they had free privileges. They rushed down as I saw eternity spill out of one of the holes. It was a purplish-blue colour with tiny little specks of black. It reached out and tried to grab the ship, which understandably sped away. The entire security crew burst onto the deck and I was faced with no option but to jump.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The air was quickly sucked out of my lungs while I resigned myself to the inevitability of my death right there. That wasn’t going to happen though. Eternity swallowed me whole and now I work as a cleaner at an Earthmart on Mars.
Man, I miss the old days, I say as I hear Cleanup in aisle 42! That’s Clive Milford to aisle 42!