Ninety-three-year-old Lord Ozwell E. Spencer wheeled himself to the center of the dais.

“Thank you all for attending the Umbrella Corporation quarterly shareholder meeting. Before we open the floor, I want to introduce the rest of today’s panel. To my left, Dr. William Birkin, Chief Science Officer.”

“I’m Dr. Kevin Morse,” the man corrected.

Spencer looked confused. “What happened to Birkin?”

“He mutated and was blown up,” Morse explained.

Spencer nodded. “Oh. Right. Anyway, to my right is Albert Wesker, Vice President of... Albert, remind me of your current title.”

Wesker adjusted his sunglasses — indoors, as usual. “Vice President of Strategic Bioweapon Applications and Forward-Facing Lethality Solutions.”

“A very important position,” Spencer said. “Now, on business, Q3 was a period of strategic repositioning for the company—”

“You got Raccoon City nuked,” said a man in the third row.

“As I said. Strategic repositioning.”

The man stood up. His lanyard read GERALD HENDRICKS — SERIES B INVESTOR. “I’ve been a shareholder for six years. When I invested, you pitched me on pharmaceuticals. The company is literally called Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. You showed me a slide deck about cancer research.”

“We remain deeply committed to the pharmaceutical space.”

“You made a giant snake.”

Spencer glanced at Morse. Morse studied his notes intensely.

“That was exploratory R&D,” Spencer said.

“It was a snake! A snake the size of a gymnasium. What’s the TAM on giant snakes? Who’s the customer? What’s the use case?”

A woman near the front raised her hand. “Karen Liu, pension fund manager. I have a similar concern. My analysts tell me you have a product called a ‘Licker.’ Can someone explain to me what a Licker does?”

Morse leaned into his microphone. “The Licker is a highly advanced bioorganic weapon with a prehensile tongue capable of—”

“So it licks people.”

“It’s more nuanced than that. We’re talking combat capable—”

“Combat? How is a Licker better than, like, a gun?” Liu asked.

“It’s intelligent and can seek out and destroy enemies on its own,” Morse explained.

“Does it follow orders?”

Morse hesitated. “Not... currently.”

Hendricks was still standing. “I want to go back to the Raccoon City issue. An entire American city is just gone. It’s a smoking crater. How is that not a material liability?”

Wesker leaned into his microphone. “We view Raccoon City as a proof of concept of the T-Virus’s effectiveness in a live environment.”

“And what’s the T-Virus again?”

“It’s the next step in human evolution,” Wesker stated. “It—”

“It turns people into zombies, right?” Liu asked.

“Yes, as a side effect, but—”

“We’ve had multiple zombie outbreaks — nearly threatening to end the world in a zombie apocalypse!” Hendricks said. “How does that help shareholder value?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “What Wesker is trying to convey is that the Raccoon City incident, while regrettable, generated invaluable field data—”

“I don’t want field data. I want a return on investment,” Hendricks said. “I could have put my money in Johnson & Johnson. You know what Johnson & Johnson has never done? Had a zombie outbreak destroy a city. Not once.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

Liu jumped back in. “I also want to flag the employee retention issue. Your attrition rate is — and I need someone to confirm this for me because I thought it was a typo — four hundred percent annually? Why do people keep leaving your company?”

“People like working for us,” Wesker stated. “It’s seldom that people leave. It’s more... being eaten.”

“Is that better?” Liu asked.

“I think it shows that people enjoy our innovative research so much, they willingly take on the risk of being eaten,” Spencer said.

A new voice piped up from the back. “Ted Morrison, retail investor. Quick question: Why so many underground labs? I’m counting seven different ones. That seems like huge unnecessary expenses to dig out these underground labs instead of traditional buildings on top of the ground, as Pfizer would have.”

“It’s a safety concern,” Morse said.

“Because everything you make turns against you,” Hendricks stated. “Which gets back to the central problem!”

“Not everything,” Wesker said, “The Nemesis program showed significant improvements in target acquisition and elimination.”

“Didn’t it try and fail to eliminate one woman in a tube top?” Liu asked. “How is that anything nearing a success?”

“She was a very difficult target,” Wesker answered. “At one point, the Nemesis had her severely injured, but she got some green herbs to heal her injuries. In the future, we plan—”

“Wait, slow down a second,” Hendricks interrupted. “She healed injuries with a green herb? Like what kind of injuries?”

“Cuts, broken bones,” Wesker said. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“You’re telling me there is a magic herb out there in Raccoon City that can heal any injury?” Hendricks asked with disbelief.

Wesker shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Why is that not your focus?!” Hendricks screamed.

“Yes, an herb that heals absolutely anything sounds way more profitable for a pharmaceutical company than tongue monsters!” Liu exclaimed. “You should forget these underground labs filled with dangerous failures and put your money into researching that.”

Spencer, Wesker, and Morse were quiet as they all considered this. Finally, Morse said, “If we injected the green herb with T-Virus, it could become large enough to overtake a city.”

Wesker nodded, and Spencer said, “Excellent idea!”

Hendricks sighed. “We need to elect a new board.”

The scientists watched their new discovery. The large, lizard-like creature walked around the enclosure, occasionally shooting out lightning from its body while yelling, “Shockasaurus!”

“You’ve done it, Professor Cedar,” said Professor Oak as he adjusted his lab coat. “You’ve discovered a brand new Pokémon in the most remote region of Kanto.”

“In a place normally inaccessible due to a waist-high fence,” Professor Elm added.

“Shockasaurus!” screamed the new Pokémon.

“It was not easy getting by that obstacle,” Professor Cedar admitted. “But it was worth the effort for this discovery.”

“Now, the official number of his new Pokémon will be one thousand forty-three,” Professor Oak said. “But before we can add him to the Pokédex, he’ll need a name.”

“Shockasaurus!” bellowed the new Pokémon, shooting lightning all around it once again.

“You want me to name him?” Professor Cedar asked.

“It’s your honor for discovering him,” Professor Elm stated.

“Shockasaurus?” said the new Pokémon questioningly as it looked out of its enclosure at the Pokémon scientists.

“Well, I hadn’t given it much thought,” Professor Cedar admitted. “The Greek word for lightning is ‘keraunos’ and the word for dragon is ‘drakon,’ so maybe ‘keraunodraco.’”

“That’s an excellent name,” Professor Oak said.

“I like it,” Professor Elm agreed.

“Shockasaurus!” screamed the Pokémon as it jumped around its enclosure.

“Um…,” said Professor Phil, who had not spoken until now, “shouldn’t we name him ‘Shockasuarus’?”

“Shockasaurus!” yelled the Pokémon in a tone that sounded like agreement.

“Why would we name it that?” Professor Oak asked sharply.

“Well… I mean…,” Professor Phil stammered. “It is what it’s saying over and over.”

“So what?” Professor Elm said angrily. “Lots of animals make lots of noises. You don’t have to name them for that.”

“Shockasaurus,” huffed the new Pokémon.

“It’s a stupid suggestion,” Professor Oak told Professor Phil. “So why don’t you make like a tree and be a good Pokémon scientist and help us come with an actual name.”

“Okay,” Phil said, “but it’s just that’s how we named all the other Pokémon.”

“And we’re putting an end to it!” Professor Elm said. “Pokémon aren’t scientists. They don’t have lab coats. They don’t get to decide what a Pokémon should be called. It’s unnatural!”

“Shockasaurus!” the new Pokémon yelled angrily.

Professor Cedar sighed. “Maybe we should just call him ‘Shockasaurus.’”

“I guess,” Professor Oak said. “Not let’s shove him in a ball and have him fight other animals.”

“Your mission,” said the recording, “should you choose to accept it, is to infiltrate a headquarters on a mountain deep within a hostile nation and retrieve the data on the Omega Project.”

“Oh man, that does not sound easy,” Steve said as the others there listened closely.

“As always,” the recording continued, “should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed…”

“Oh, I hate this part,” Steve muttered.

“…the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds. Good luck.”

“Should we back further away?” Steve asked as he stared at the Amazon box that contained the message.

“We’re fine,” Ethan Hunt said, “what we have to do now is focus.” Smoke started coming from the Amazon box.

“Should I get a fire extinguisher?” Steve asked.

“No, it’s fine,” Ethan said as the smoke billowed behind him. “So, we all know our mission. Now let’s get prepared to—”

“No,” Steve stated, shaking his head.

“Sorry, what do you mean ‘no’?” Ethan asked.

“Well, it said there in the recording, ‘should you choose to accept it,’ so I’m not accepting it,” Steve explained.

“We have to,” Ethan said. “The world could be at stake.”

“We don’t have to,” Steve countered. “It said so right in the recording. And guess what: We’re government employees. We get paid the same whether we save the world or not — and if you want a real impossible mission, try firing a federal worker. On the other hand, think of what happens if we take the mission and fail: We get disavowed. I’m pretty sure that means no pension. It’s all downside.”

“He makes a good point, Ethan,” Luther said.

“No, he does not,” Ethan stated. “We can’t ignore our responsibility.”

“But why is this always our responsibility?” Benji asked. “Can’t we just sit one out and let other people handle things for once?”

“No!” Ethan shouted. “I need all of you on this!”

“Do you really?” Benji asked. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while, but both Luther and I are tech guys. We seem kind of redundant.”

“No, I need both of you.”

“Ethan, a proper IM Force is supposed to be a leader,” Luther said, pointing at Ethan. “…a tech guy…” He pointed at himself. “…another field guy for holding rope and stuff…” He pointed at Steve. “...and a woman.” He pointed at the woman of the group, who name no one had bothered to learn. “Two tech guys is weird; one of us is usually just sitting around doing nothing. But it doesn’t matter; I think Steve is right and we should take a break this time.”

“So, how do we officially not take a mission?” Steve asked. “Is there a form or something?”

Ethan sighed, defeated. “Yeah, there is a form.” Ethan fished a form out of his back pocket and handed it to Steve.

Steve looked at the form. “Oh, you have to put in a reason for not accepting the mission.” Steve then wrote on the line while saying it aloud. “Sounded impossible.”

“Hey, I found a new agency I think we need to cut,” Elon Musk said, barging into the Oval Office.

President Trump sighed. “You again. You weird me out. When are you going to go back to catching space rockets?”

“Cutting government spending is an even more complex and more important task,” Elon said.

“Fine. Whatever — just make it quick,” Trump replied. “I gotta make peace in the Middle East and end a bunch of different wars because that previous administration was a bunch of losers. Sleepy Joe — he just slept while the world caught fire. Lucky I’m here now. So what do you have?”

“I found a government organization we’re spending $50 billion a year on, and I’m not really sure it’s needed. It’s called ‘Guardian Units of Nations.’”

“What? I already hate it. Get rid of it. Who would want an organization called that?”

“Well, it’s usually called G.U.N., for short,” Elon explained.

“Oh. I like that. That’s a good acronym. Maybe I’m being too hasty here. What do they do?”

“Why don’t I just show you the main subjects of G.U.N.,” Elon said. Into the room walked a blue creature, a red creature, and an orange creature, each just a few feet tall.

“What am I looking at?” Trump asked.

Elon pointed to the blue one. “This is Sonic the Hedgehog.” He pointed to the red one. “Knuckles the Echidna.” He pointed to the orange one. “And Tails the Fox.”

“Let me just say I’m a big fan, Mr. Preisdent,” Sonic said. “I love the color orange.”

“I still don’t understand what I’m looking at,” Trump said. “I guess we got a fox with two tails we call ‘Tails.’ The red one has big knuckles, so he’s called ‘Knuckles.’ And the blue one is called ‘Sonic’ because he’s… loud?”

Sonic frowned. “Loud?”

“Sonic does mean ‘sound waves,’” Tails told him.

“I thought it meant I was fast!” Sonic exclaimed.

Knuckles laughed. “Ha! Your name means you are loud and annoying!”

Elon turned to Trump. “Sonic is in fact very, very fast.”

“We’re spending $50 billion a year to make a hedgehog fast?” Trump exclaimed. “Were they not fast before?”

“The average running speed of a hedgehog is four miles per hour,” Elon told him.

Trump was quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah… that’s not very fast. I’m not sure it’s worth $50 billion to make them faster, though. I mean… what exactly do we need fast hedgehogs for?”

“To protect the planet!” Sonic announced.

Trump shrugged. “Don’t we have guns and missiles for that?”

“Trump, sir,” Knuckles said. “I hear you have the heart of a warrior. I, too, am a warrior. All I ask is that you unleash me on your enemies — these ‘woke’ you speak of. When I deal with them…” Knuckles punched a small table, shattering it into splinters. “…they will be awake no more!”

Trump turned to Elon. “I like this one. What did you say he was?”

“An echidna.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s like a hedgehog that lays eggs.”

“We’re paying $50 billion a year to make hedgehogs lay eggs!” Trump exclaimed. “I thought we were done with the gender nonsense.”

“No, they already laid eggs,” Elon explained. “This one is also, though, really, really fast.”

Trump furrowed his brow. “And the fox is fast, too?”

“And I can fly!” Tails said as he spun his tail like a helicopter and floated in the air.

Trump stared at Tails. “Okay, I don’t like this one. He’s not allowed to talk to me anymore.”

“Aww,” Tails whined. “Why?”

“I’m the president,” Trump said. “I don’t need to explain why I don’t like someone. And — nothing personal — I have an intense hatred for you and you need to never talk again.”

“Mr. President, I don’t think you understand how important we are to this planet,” Sonic stated.

Trump looked at Elon. “Now the loud one is talking to me.”

“I’m not the loud one!” Sonic shouted, and then lowered his voice. “What you need us for is to stop menaces like the Robotniks.”

Trump raised an eyebrow. “The what?”

“Ivo Robotnik and Gerald Robotnik were scientists who went mad and made robots to attack us,” Elon explained. “Sonic and his friends have helped fight them in the past. But I have a better solution than funding G.U.N. to end that threat. Since both Robotniks started out working for the government, we just also pull funding for all mad scientists in the future. If we don’t fund them in the first place, then we won’t need G.U.N. funding to stop them with fast woodland creatures.”

“That’s a good plan.” Trump turned to Sonic and his team. “Okay, so you’re funding is pulled. Show me how fast you are by getting out of my sight.”

“I can’t believe this!” Sonic exclaimed. “I’m glad I didn’t vote for you… though that’s mainly because I don’t pay attention to politics and am a space alien who can’t vote.”

Knuckles approached Trump. “But, sir, can I still smash our enemies for free? I need no money — just my muscles.”

Trump turned to Elon. “Actually, I like the red one. Let’s find something for him.” Trump spotted someone walking by his office door. “Hey! Pete! You’re out as Secretary of Defense! This red guy is that now.”

“Aww,” Pete Hegseth sighed.

Knuckles pumped his fist in the air. “Yes! Secretary of Defense! And the best defense is a good offense! And the best offense is… MORE OFFENSE!”

“You got the right attitude,” Trump said. “You’re going to do great… just don’t lay any eggs. That’s weird.”

“What about me?” Sonic asked. “How about I be Secretary of Transportation? Since I’m fast… not loud.”

Trump shook his head. “No, I’m afraid if you’re around, then this guy…” He motioned to Tails. “…is going to be around too, and I might run into him… which I don’t want because I hate him so much.” He turned to Tails. “No offense.”

Tails frowned. “None… taken?”

“You’re talking,” Trump stated. “I told you not to do that. Okay, we’re done here.” He looked at Sonic and Tails. “Bye bye.” He turned to Knuckles. “And you, get to it.”

Sonic and Tails sulked as they exited the office while Knuckles left triumphantly, yelling, “Someone find me a map of Earth so I can decide who to war with first!”

When only Trump and Elon remained, Trump turned to Elon and asked, “So what’s next on the chopping block?”

“Something called the ‘Avengers Initiative.’”

“Avengers? What are they for?”

“I guess if we get attacked,” Elon said, “they’ll avenge us.”

Trump scoffed. “Nothing is going to go wrong while I’m president, so we won’t need any avenging. Cut ‘em!”

Harry Potter sat alone at the kitchen table reading after another long day of being screamed at by the Dursleys. Earlier, he had accidentally knocked over a glass of water which had sent Uncle Vernon into a twenty minute tirade that ended with him bellowing incoherently before storming out of the house. Aunt Petunia was now cleaning the kitchen while Dudley sat in the living room, watching TV and being extremely fat.

Harry let out a small cough which caused Aunt Petunia to scream, “Shut up, Harry Potter! I hate you so much!”

The front door burst open, and there stood Uncle Vernon, soaking wet and holding two boxes under his arm. He smiled when he saw Dudley. “Here, Dudley,” he said, handing over the boxes, “I bought two cakes just for you.”

Dudley immediately opened the cakes and started grabbing handfuls of frosting to shove in his mouth (he was very fat).

Uncle Vernon then turned to Harry and glowered. “As for you, I spend seven hours in the dark and rain driving around to find just the perfect stick to beat you with!” Uncle Vernon then held up a large stick.

Harry just sighed. “It really feels like if you hated me a little less, it would be a lot less work for you.”

“What, how dare you!” Uncle Vernon screamed as his face went purple. “You don’t even deserve a stick this good anymore!” He snapped the stick in two.

“Seriously, you put way too much effort into hating me,” Harry said. “I feel like you’re torturing yourself as much as me.”

“How ungrateful!” Aunt Petunia declared. “After we house and clothe him!”

“You just give me Dudley’s hand me downs,” Harry said. “And they don’t even fit.” Dudley was very fat.

“Well, that’s not going to happen anymore!” Uncle Vernon roared. He marched up stairs, and when he came back, he had all of Dudley’s clothes in his arms. He dumped them on the floor in the living room, poured lighter fluid on them, and set them of fire. “No more hand me downs for you!” Uncle Vernon laughed.

“My clothes!” Dudley yelled, taking a slight break from stuffing his face with cake on account of his fatness.

“Again,” Harry said, “I guess this affects me, but it just feels like you’re causing huge inconveniences for yourself just to annoy me.”

“How petulant!” Aunt Petunia cried.

“He’s a bad apple, that one,” Uncle Vernon stated. “He just won’t respect us. Even though we feed him out of our own generosity every day.”

“Feed me?” Harry scoffed. “There’s barely any left for me after Dudley scarfs it all down.”

“What?” asked Dudley fatly as he looked up from a cake.

“Doesn’t even appreciate us feeding him!” Uncle Vernon sputtered. “I’ll show him.” Vernon ran to the garage and came back with a sledgehammer. He then started smashing the refrigerator with it. “Now see if you get any food at all!”

“The food,” Dudley said meekly (he liked food on account of how fat he was).

“Just look at his expression,” Aunt Petunia laughed at Harry. “Look how upset he is. Maybe he’ll finally learn.”

“I’m just absolutely baffled,” Harry said. “Again, to try to punish me, it looks like you’re punishing yourselves just as much. You’d have a much better time if you just put less effort into hating me, but you can’t do that. It’s bizarre. I can barely even look at you.”

“Oh, you like looking at me, do you!” Uncle Vernon yelled.

“That’s the opposite of what I just said.”

“We’ll see if you can look at me when I… PUNCH MYSELF BEYOND RECOGNITION!” Uncle Vernon then started punching himself in the face.

“I… I…” Harry was speechless for a moment. “How do you even think is punishing me?”

“The fool will never again recognize his uncle,” Aunt Petunia said with a laugh.

“Uh… the fire,” Dudley stated, pointing to his flaming clothes where the fire hand now moved to the drapes and the couch. He ran out of the house, clutching his cakes, moving his very fat body with as much speed as he could. The others ran out of the house with him into the pouring rain of the dark night. They all stood for a moment getting soaked, staring on the house now completely ablaze.

“What now?” Harry finally asked.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia roared with laughter. “Look at little Harry getting soaked because he has no roof over his head!” Uncle Vernon said, barely able to contain himself with the laughter. “What do you think now, boy?”

“This is happening to you, too!” Harry yelled. “Again, we could have just been sitting inside for a peaceful evening, but you can’t let up hating for like one night.”

“He really liked having that house,” Aunt Petunia chuckled. “See how upset he is.”

There was a crack of thunder, and they spotted an ominous figure walking toward them. It was the cloaked figure of Voldemort! “I’ve got you now, Harry Potter!” he hissed.

Uncle Vernon groaned. “Is this one of your stupid wizard friends?”

“It’s my nemesis, Lord Voldemort!” Harry yelled. “Come to kill me!”

“Good,” Aunt Petunia declared. “You’re finally getting what’s coming to you.”

“Who are these people?” Voldemort asked, looking cautiously at the Dursleys.

“They’re my aunt and uncle and cousin,” Harry said.

Voldemort nodded as he kept his slit eyes on them. “That one is very fat.”

“My cake is wet,” Dudley moaned as the rain soaked him.

Voldemort smiled. “Anyway, now to kill Harry Potter!”

Uncle Vernon smiled as well. “Yes! And make it a terrible death!”

“I was going to cast Avada Kedavra,” Voldemort said.

Vernon furrowed his brow. “I don’t know what that is. Is that some wizard thing?”

“It’s a spell that will kill him instantly,” Voldemort explained.

“Instantly?!” Uncle Vernon’s face went purple. “That’s too good for him! It needs to be a slow, torturous death!”

“Well, I don’t really have time, see, and…”

“Don’t make excuses!” Uncle Vernon roared. “You come here dressed as a weirdo but won’t even properly kill a boy in a way he deserves! Now wave that silly little stick of yours around and do some proper dark magic. You can test it on us first, and we’ll tell you if your spell is excruciating enough.”

“I don’t want to get tortured to death; I want to eat cake,” said Dudley heavily.

“What is wrong with you people?!” Voldemort blurted out. “I need to kill Harry Potter to fulfill a prophecy and amass vast power, but why do you hate him so intensely?”

"Just look at him!” Uncle Vernon roared. “With his hair… and glasses… and the scar thing… and…” Uncle Vernon looked confused. He turned to Aunt Petunia. “Why do we hate him again?”

“Something to do with my sister.”

“Can I just go live with you?” Harry asked Voldemort.

Voldemort looked surprised. “You want to be a Death Eater?”

“I’ll eat whatever; they don’t feed me.”

Voldemort shrugged and the two of them disapparated. Uncle Vernon was confused for a moment at their sudden disappearance, but then smiled. “There. We got rid of the boy,” he said as the rain poured and his house burned behind him. “It’s a good day.”

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin all relaxed in the house of Tom Bombadil as his wife, Goldberry, sang songs to them and handed them tea.

“This Tom Bombadil certainly is an odd sort,” Sam whispered to Frodo. “I wonder who he really is.”

“We’re just lucky he came when he did,” Frodo said. “That willow tree nearly crushed Merry and Pippin.”

“What an adventure that was,” Merry stated. “Who knew old trees could attack like that.”

Frodo nodded. “Quite an adventure… still, if one were adapting everything we went through to another medium and needed to cut some things for time, I could see that adventure being one of those left out.”

“As nice as this place is,” Sam said. “We better get back to our journey. We can’t let those ring wraiths catch up with us and take the Ring.”

“Show me this precious Ring!” Tom said suddenly, and Frodo, to his own astonishment, drew out the chain from his pocket, and unfastening the Ring handed it at once to Tom.

Tom held the ring a moment and then held up the Ring and peered at the hobbits through it with his big blue eye, letting out a laugh. And in an instant, the Ring was on his finger, and the hobbits were astonished to realize Tom had not disappeared. Tom then spun the Ring in the air, and it vanished in a flash. Frodo gave a startled cry, but Tom simply leaned forward and handed the Ring back to Frodo with a smile.

As Tom went back to merry singing, Frodo looked at the Ring and then Tom, his face full of astonishment. “Sam, Merry, Pippen — did you see all that?” Frodo asked. “The Ring had no power over him.”

“What is this man?” Sam asked. “I’ve never seen any like him.”

“You heard him earlier claiming to be as old as this world,” Merry said. “Could he have great power — even greater than Sauron?”

“If so, maybe he can take care of the Ring for us,” Frodo stated. “Maybe even destroy it. There is no malice in him; I can’t see why he’d refuse.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” Sam suggested.

Cautiously, Frodo approached the jolly figure of Tom. “Derry dol, merry dol, ring a ding dillo!” sang Tom.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” Frodo started.

“Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,” Tom continued to sing. “Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.”

“Yes, those are quite some yellow boots you have,” Frodo said politely, “but I wanted to discuss that Ring you saw earlier.”

“Ho ho, yes!” said Tom. “Quite a ring a ding dillo it was. Now let us enjoy good food and good drink!”

“Yes, food and drink are good and all,” Frodo admitted, “but we really need to talk more about the Ring. This Ring could mean the downfall of all of Middle Earth were Sauron to get it back. Thus, we were wondering if you could help us.”

“Look at me!” Tom exclaimed as he pranced about. “I’m doing a silly dance!”

Frodo nodded. “Yes, that’s quite a silly dance. But I really need you to concentrate a second on the Ring and the possible doom of everything.”

“Ring a ding dillo, I’m Tom Bombadillo!” Tom exclaimed as he continued to dance.

“Yes, we all got your name,” Frodo said patiently, “but you also seem to be a powerful being.”

“Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,” Tom sang as he walked up to Frodo. “Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.”

“Yes, a powerful being with… yellow boots,” Frodo said, struggling a bit to remain calm. “And you sure seem to like this forest here. How would you like it if Sauron and his forces came and burnt it all down? You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

Tom seemed to consider this for a moment. And then he did a jig. “I’m doing a silly dance again!”

Frodo growled in frustration. He then turned to Goldberry. “You’re his wife, right?”

“Yep, I married her,” Tom answered for her. “She’s the river daughter.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Frodo said, losing his cool a bit. “In fact, I don’t know what anything about you means. Nothing about you makes sense. I’m just sensing you’re quite powerful, and thus, I’m hoping you’ll help us before all we love dear is destroyed because of that Ring.”

Tom nodded. And then he sang, “Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow. Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.”

“I swear to all that is holy,” Frodo screamed, “if you tell me your boots are yellow one more time…”

Sam patted Frodo on the back. “Maybe it’s time to go, Master Frodo.”

“And burn this house down on the way,” Frodo seethed.

“Ring a ding dillo!” Tom called to the four hobbits as they left.

“Shut up!” Frodo screamed.

As they got outside and mounted their ponies, Frodo growled, “Again, if someone one day adapts our adventures to another medium, they should leave out this whole part with Tom Bombadil because it’s stupid and pointless and I hate it!”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Sam said, “but you’re probably right.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled in the Hogwarts’s library, making sure no one was nearby listening.

“So, now we’re certain,” Hermione stated, “the Death Eater behind all the accidents happening at Hogwarts is one of the professors here. We just have to figure out who.”

“Why is it always on us kids to handle this stuff?” Ron asked. “Why don’t the adults ever do anything?”

“Stop asking silly questions and focus,” Hermione said. “Now, we’ve eliminated as suspects all professors except two. Thus we know the secret Death Eater is either Earnest Goodman or Lyman Deceivor.”

“But how do we figure out who he is before the end of the day and he unleashes his plan at the big feast?” Ron asked.

Harry finally spoke up. “I mean… isn’t the answer obvious?”

Hermione looked at him with surprise. “What do mean? We know very little about either of those professors to figure out who could be a Death Eater.”

“Okay, but… I mean, isn’t it most likely Lyman Deceivor?” Harry asked.

Ron furrowed his brow. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, his name,” Harry said.

“What’s a name have to do with it?” Hermione asked.

“I can’t be the only one who noticed this,” Harry said. “I thought it was a common wizarding thing with how names match people.”

Ron shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Okay, let’s just look at some of our professors,” Harry said. “For instance, what is the name of the witch who teaches herbology? It’s Sprouts — like plants sprouting. And for Charms, it’s Flitwick — a very charmy little name. For arithmancy, Hermione, isn’t your teacher named Vector? Isn’t that a mathematics term?”

Hermione nodded. “It is a math term. But maybe hiring practices for Hogwarts are just to hire people whose name fits. Dumbledore is eccentric like that.”

“But the names sometimes also describe personality. There’s Severus Snape, whose name sounds like ‘severe’ and he is,” Harry continued. “And the other year we had Remus Lupin, and Remus is the name of a founder of Rome who was raised by wolves and Lupin just means ‘wolf,’ and guess what? He was a werewolf! And it’s not just professors, either. Look at Draco Malfoy… or better, yet, his father, Lucius Malfoy. I mean, his name is basically ‘Lucifer Badman’ …and he is a very bad man.”

“But not everyone’s name describes them,” Ron objected. “I mean, you’re not a hairy guy who makes pots, Harry Potter.”

“No, I guess not,” Harry admitted.

“And my name is Weasely, but I’m not like a weasel, am I?”

No one said anything immediately. Hermione put two fingers close together. “Little bit.”

“Anyway, we know the Death Eater is pretending to be a professor,” Harry stated, “and that professor is either Earnest Goodman or Lyman Deceivor. With little time left, I think we focus on the guy whose name basically says he’s a lying deceiver.”

“It’s unorthodox,” Hermione said. “But we have little time, so let’s focus on Professor Deceivor.”

Ron shook his head. “This just feels wrong for some reason. Like we’re looking through the Matrix.”

“Ron,” Harry exclaimed, “it’s 1994 — we don’t get that reference. Now let’s catch Deceivor.”

”Well, yeh kids did it!” Hagrid exclaimed to the kids during the big feast. “Usually we never wrap things up with this much of the school year left. So, how did you know that Professor Deceivor was really the Death Eater?”

Harry smiled. “Let’s just say we had a hunch.”

“Well, luckily an Auror showed up right ‘way to take away Deceivor,” Hagrid said. “Never met ‘em before, though. Someone named Conspiro Phalseauror.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads. “Oh no.”

“What?”

The X-Men gathered in their headquarters beneath the Xavier mansion. “The Sentinels are on their way,” Cyclops said. “We need to head them off and destroy them.” He turned to the mutants gathered in the room. “Storm, you can hit them with lightning to knock out their sensors. Gambit, your explosive playing cards should be great at damaging their joints. Jean Grey — codename pending — your telekinesis should help slow them down. Beast, with your agility and technical know-how, you should really be able to mess them up. Rogue, well, you can fly and are super strong, so just get in there and help where you can. And, of course, I’ll just blast them with my eye lasers. To the X-Jet!”

The X-Men all started to get up, but one voice asked, “What about me, bub?”

Cyclops paused to look at Wolverine who was ready to go in his yellow costume. “Oh… uh… Wolverine… well… I need you guarding the mansion, okay?”

“But don’t you need me helping with the Sentinels?” Wolverine asked. “I’ll get them with my claws!” Wolverine emphasized the point by extending his adamantine claws.

“The thing is,” Cyclops said, “is we’re dealing with thirty-foot-tall robots, so I’m really sure that six-inch knives are going to be particularly effective against them.”

“They’re longer than six inches,” Wolverine responded.

“Sure sure sure,” Cyclops said. “And they’ll be great at guarding the mansion.”

Wolverine thought for a moment. “You never seem that thrilled about taking me on a mission.”

“Well… um…”

“It’s because you don’t really have any superpowers,” Storm said.

“What are you talking about?” Wolverine retracted and extended his claws again. “I got claws!”

“A bunch of blades aren’t superpowers, sugah,” Rogue said.

“Basically, anyone who duct tapes steak knives to his hands would have the same ‘superpowers’ as you,” Beast stated.

“They’re adamantium claws!” Wolverine objected.

“Really fancy steak knives, then,” Beast said.

“But I also have a healing factor!” Wolverine shouted. “That’s a superpower!”

“One you really need, mon ami,” said Gambit, “because your only other power is that you have a bunch of knives, so you get knocked around a lot.”

“It’s the only reason I ever let you come on missions,” Cyclops admitted. “Though I know you won’t help much — since all you can do is cut things — at least I can be sure you won’t get killed.”

“But cutting things is pretty useful, isn’t it?” Wolverine asked.

“I mean, if it’s really an issue on a mission,” Cyclops said, “I keep a knife on my belt. Anyone can cut things. It’s never really critical to have a dedicated cut things guy.”

Wolverine hung his head. “So, I’m useless.”

“No,” came a voice from behind them, “you are the most important X-Man of all.” They turned to see Professor X in his floating chair.

“Really?” Wolverine asked.

“Yes,” Professor X said, “because we sell so many Wolverine-branded merchandise — way more than for any other X-Man. You alone keep this school for gifted mutants funded.”

“I do?”

“You are by far the most popular X-Man there is,” Professor X continued, “even though you are basically useless compared to other mutants with real superpowers. It’s bafflingly, but it is what it is.”

“So why don’t you go to the mall and make an appearance to sell more Wolverine t-shirts,” Cyclops suggested. “That’s a much better use of your time than pointlessly cutting at the feet of giant robots.”

Wolverine sighed. “Fine.”

“I think it’s jealousy,” Batman said as he sat down next to Wolverine at the bar. “I’m the most popular member of the Justice League — everyone loves how dark and gritty I am — but the other members also tried to tell me I’m useless.”

“Yeah, they’re jealous,” Wolverine agreed. “Makes no sense we’d be so popular if we’re not actually great superheroes.”

“No sense at all.”

Wolverine stared a moment at Batman. “And what’s your power again?”

“I’m Batman.”

Wolverine nodded. “So you really are just a guy in a bat costume, bub?”

“Don’t get uppity, Edward Scissorhands.”

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hemione Granger entered the cavern deep beneath Hogwarts.

“I knew it!” exclaimed Harry. “The attacks had to come from the legendary Cavern of Sorrows hidden underneath the Quidditch pitch. I told all the teachers my theory, but none of them listened!”

“That’s because your theories about grave threats to Hogwarts had been absolutely right every previous year,” Ron said, “so they figured you had to be due to being wrong finally this time.”

“Let’s be careful,” said Hermione shrilly, “the dark wizard behind everything could still be here.”

“And he is here,” came a cold, high voice. From out of the shadows stepped a man with pale skin, snake-like slits for nostrils, and red eyes with slits for pupils.

“Who are you?” demanded Harry, holding out his wand and using his bravest voice.

“It is I… Lord Voldemort!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked back and forth to each other and finally back to Voldemort. “Who?”

“Lord Voldemort,” Voldemort repeated. “Surely you’ve heard of me.”

Harry shrugged. “No, sorry. Are you some sort of snake-themed dark wizard?”

“I’m the most fearsome dark wizard of them all!” Voldemort shrieked.

“No,” Ron said, “the greatest, most fearsome dark wizard of them all is…” Ron lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “…He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“A villain so horrifying,” Hermione added, “that no one dare says his name.”

“That’s me!” Voldemort said. “I’m He Who Must Not Be Named!”

Ron furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Well, what is the name of the guy no one says the name of?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I kept asking Ron, but he was too chicken to say it.”

“It’s bad luck!” Ron responded. “Plus… I don’t actually know it since no one says his name.”

“I bet the name is somewhere in the library’s Restricted Section,” Hermione said. “We should look it up next time we’re there since we break in there every other week.”

“You don’t need to look it up because I am he!” yelled Voldemort. “I, Voldemort, am the wizard you dare not speak of.”

Ron snorted a laugh. “Sorry, but the wizard so scary no one dare talk about him isn’t someone named Mort.”

“Vol-de-mort,” Voldemort enunciated.

Harry looked confused. “Vole D. Mort?”

“A vole is a small rodent related to lemmings and hamsters,” Hermione stated insufferably.

“No, it’s one word!” shrieked Voldemort. “Voldemort! And I will show you my awesome power. AVADKA KEDAVRA!”

Voldemort let loose a jet of green from his wand right at Harry. It struck with great force, sending dust and debris everywhere. But when the dust cleared, there stood Harry, unharmed.

“What?!” exclaimed Voldemort. “How have you once again survived the Killing Curse? That spell is unblockable!”

“Well, I didn’t block it,” explained Harry. “I just moved a little to the right.”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “The way you do those big movements with your wand and yell the spell gives plenty of time to move out of the way.”

“What? No! I can cast it really quickly. AVADA— Stop moving!”

“Instead of shuffling around so he can’t use dark magic on us,” Ron said, “we should fight back.”

“Yeah, this could be good practice for if one day I have to face He Who Must Not Be Named,” Harry said.

“That’s me!” Voldemort screamed. “And there is no way you children can stand up to my awesome power!”

“Actually, I’ve been working on a special spell in case I ran into a dark wizard,” Harry said. He then raised his wand and shouted, “ACCIO SHOTGUN!”

“Accio… what?” repeated Voldemort.

A pump-action shotgun flew into Harry’s hands. “EXPELLIARMUS!” Harry shouted as he fired it. The blast sent Voldemort flying backward into the cave wall, and then he crumpled into a heap.

“My dad says you don’t have to say anything when using a Muggle weapon,” Ron said.

“Yeah, but it just felt right. Wasn’t that awesome!”

“I don’t think guns are a good idea,” Hermione said. “They might get us in trouble.”

Harry and Ron groaned.

“Shut up, Hermione,” Ron stated.

“Yeah,” Harry added. “The only reason I keep Ron around even though he’s completely useless is he’s not a wet blanket like you.”

Harry noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see that Voldemort was now standing again. “You think you can defeat me that easily? I have mastered the power of the Horcrux and—”

Harry blasted him again with the shotgun, and Voldemort fell back to the floor.

“I wonder what that guy’s problem was?” Ron asked.

“And what’s a Horcrux?” Hermione asked.

“Who cares,” Harry said. “Anyway, we completed our death-defying adventure for this year. Let’s go to Hogsmeade and get butterbeers!”

Hermione shook her head. “Don’t forget we still have some homework to do and—”

“Shut up, Hermione!” Harry and Ron shouted together as they all left the cave.

With a groan of pain, Voldemort rose again from the ground. “Ha! You still have not defeated me!” He then noticed he was alone. “Hello? Harry?” he called out. “I’m your mortal enemy!” There was no answer, and he hung his head. “I miss Albania.”

It was a beautiful sunny day in Metropolis as a large crowd watched Lex Luthor stand before a ribbon holding a giant pair of ceremonial scissors. “And now we officially open this technology museum,” Luthor announced. “A celebration of what mankind can achieve.”

Luthor cut the ribbon, and the crowd applauded. Luthor basked in the adoration, but then he saw something moving in the sky. It was bigger than a bird but smaller than a plane. And as it neared, he could not mistake the red and blue of his archnemesis, Superman.

“I wouldn’t celebrate so quickly,” announced Superman.

“Oh, if it isn’t everyone’s favorite space alien,” Luthor said with a fake smile. “I guess I forgot to invite you... but then again, this museum is all about what humans can accomplish.”

“Then I don’t know what you’re doing here, Luthor, because I’m not sure you have any humanity left in you,” Superman said sternly. “I know you’re responsible for that robot attack downtown yesterday.”

Luthor scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act coy. I can prove your involvement.” Superman moved closer so only Luthor could hear him. “You thought you wiped all the evidence, but you forgot about the cameras on your new self-driving car.”

Luthor's smile disappeared for only a moment — a fraction of a second that only Superman could perceive — but the smug smile returned in force. “Perhaps you should hold onto that ‘evidence,’” Luthor whispered, “or I’ll release a little something I found out about you: Your deepest, darkest secret.”

Superman furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“The one thing you hide from everyone,” Luthor continued, his smile widening. “You like to think yourself a hero, but I know that deep down you really are a soulless monster... because I know who you truly are.” And then Luthor whispered so quietly that only Superman’s super hearing could pick it up, “You’re a journalist.”

Superman couldn’t hide his shock as he backed away.

“What are you guys talking about?” asked someone in the crowd. Superman had forgotten about all the people there for the museum opening.

“Nothing,” Superman told the crowd. “Lex Luthor is once again just lying about things. Ignore what he tells you. It’s misinformation.”

“It’s Superman who has been lying to you!” Luthor announced. “Oh, sure, by day, he stops the occasional asteroid headed to Earth, but during his free time, he goes by another name: Clark Kent.”

There was a murmuring from the crowd. “The reporter from the Daily Planet?” one man asked angrily.

“He said people who didn’t get the COVID vaccine shouldn’t get medical care!” shouted a woman.

“Hey, we were all learning and adjusting to COVID at the time,” Superman pleaded.

“He keeps going after people based on old things they put on Twitter!” yelled another man.

“It’s called X now,” Superman corrected him.

The crowd began booing Superman while Luthor beamed. “You’re not even human!” yelled another person.

“I am an alien,” Superman admitted, “but...”

“I’m not talking about that,” the man continued. “I can look past that. But a journalist? How can you be so evil and cruel?”

“It’s a very important job,” Superman lectured them. “Maybe even more important than me saving people from burning buildings. In fact— Ow!” A green rock hit Superman, and it really hurt!

“Oh, I’m now passing out kryptonite rocks in case people want to throw things at you,” Luthor explained.

The whole crowd then started throwing rocks at Superman. “Ow! My one weakness!” Superman shouted. “Stop that! Come on, people! I’m still Superman! I fight for truth, justice, and the American way!”

“What?!” exclaimed an angry voice. It was Superman’s boss at the Daily Planet, Perry White. “You’re Clark Kent, but you’re a crazed right-winger who likes the American way? And I know these days, fighting for ‘truth’ is just code for being anti-trans. You’re fired, Clark Kent!”

“Aw...” Superman moaned as he slumped his shoulders. Everyone had at least stopped pelting him with rocks since he was no longer a journalist. “What do I do now?”

“You could use the time you did yellow journalism to instead save even more people,” suggested one of the crowd.

Superman shook his head. “I think I’ll start a podcast. Anyone have room to listen to another podcast?”

Jack Puncher wandered alone. That’s how he liked it. Quietly wandering and not doing anything in particular despite being very large, very smart, and having basically every skill known to man. He had hitchhiked to a small town and walked into the local bar for a drink.

“We don’t like strangers here,” snarled a fearsome-looking man who might have been intimidating if he weren’t much smaller than Puncher — as most people were.

Puncher decided to try to defuse the situation and avoid a fight — though this basically never worked, and he was constantly in fights. And he always won them because he was very large and also had lots of military experience. “Maybe you should try being polite. Might have a nicer day that way.”

“I’ll show you!” yelled the man, about to attack, but Puncher was much quicker, slamming the man with his fist that was the size of a turkey — well, not a full-sized turkey, but like a discount one, which is still really, really large for a fist.

“Ahh! Why’d I pick a fight with someone so much larger than me!” yelled the man as he fell bleeding to the ground. “This was not a smart idea!”

Puncher got a beer and sat down at a table. A beautiful but desperate-looking woman sat down at the table with him. “I saw how you handled that thug,” she said. “Maybe you can help us.”

Puncher took a drink of his beer. “I don’t like to get involved,” he told her.

“But you have to!” the beautiful, age-appropriate-for-him woman pleaded. “There’s this man in town, Mason, whom everyone is afraid of. He murders and tortures people just for fun — the most evil man you can imagine — but there’s no one here to stop him. We need someone who is very large, good at fighting, and maybe has detective skills to unravel Mason’s evil schemes.”

Puncher didn’t like to get involved, but he had a code: If people really desperately wanted him to get involved — which was constantly — then he would get involved. “Okay, I’ll see if I can help.”

It took a while for Puncher to use his superior intellect to unravel all of Mason’s schemes, which involved like drugs or something (no one really cares). Puncher also got into a lot of fights along the way — which he all won easily, being so skilled and so large. Finally, he tracked Mason down to his headquarters in a warehouse on the edge of town.

Using his military skills, Puncher snuck up to the warehouse and peered inside. There, he saw Mason — who would be a very scary individual if Puncher weren’t so much larger than him — laughing evilly as he beat an orphan with a puppy.

“Ha ha ha! I’m so evil!” he exclaimed. “Everyone in this town must want me dead in an extremely violent fashion, but it’s not like there’s anyone who can do anything about it! I’m invincible! And evil!”

Mason then noticed all his evil thugs were lying dead. “What happened? Are my just desserts coming?” And then came at him Puncher’s discount turkey-sized fists. “AH! I’M BEING PUNCHED TO DEATH!” screamed Mason. “THIS IS EXCRUITATINGLY PAINFUL, BUT I ALSO DESERVE IT SO MUCH! ANY OBJECTIVE OBSERVER WOULD BE CHEERING THIS ON!”

Mason then fell dead. Dead from all the punching.

“You did it!” said the beautiful woman from the bar who ran in to see the dead Mason. “You saved this town.” She leaned in close to him. “But don’t you think it’s time for you to finally settle down somewhere?”

“No,” Puncher said. “I like to wander and stay out of things.” And that’s what Puncher did: Continue to wander from town to town despite how good he was at everything… well, at everything except for one thing: successfully not getting involved in a high-stakes drama involving violence and murder. That he sucked at.

Reed Richards sat in his Baxter Building research lab, looking through a microscope. The Thing plodded into the room. “Any word on our next mission? I’m ready to clobber something!” he said.

Reed shook his head. “No, no word yet.”

Johnny Storm ran into the room. “Hey, I’m getting bored. It’s time to get in the Fantasti-Car and fight evil!”

“We just have to wait for word on something where our abilities are needed,” Reed said. “Then you, Ben, Sue, and I will be off to our next adventure.”

“Okay,” Johnny uttered, “I just really want to yell, ‘Flame on!’ and burst into flame. It’s so cool every time I do that.”

“Sure it is, buddy,” Reed said as he returned to looking through the microscope.

“It has been months since we’ve been given anything to do,” the Thing stated. “I wonder if something is wrong that no one has come up with a mission for us.”

Reed kept looking through the microscope. “We’ve just done such a good job that there’s nothing else to do right now, I guess.”

“What are you looking at, by the way?” Johnny asked.

“An amoeba,” Reed said.

“Why?” the Thing asked.

Reed slouched, his whole body slinking to the ground. “I’m bored.”

“Maybe we should see if General Thunderbolt Ross has anything for us to do,” the Thing suggested.

“Yeah, maybe something happened to him,” Johnny said, “and that’s why we haven’t heard from him. We should check it out!”

Reed jumped to his feet. “Fantastic Four the to the Fantasti-Car!”

The Fantasti-Car landed at Gamma Base, and the Fantastic Four headed for General Ross’s office. General Ross looked up from his desk and sighed. “What do you guys want?”

“We hadn’t heard from you in a while, and we were getting worried,” Reed explained.

“We just didn’t have any jobs for you,” Ross said. He then spotted Johnny looking at some papers on the desk. “Please don’t touch anything!”

“There has to be some wars or something where someone needs a clobberin’!” the Thing stated.

“Yes, but we have cruise missiles for clobbering people,” Ross said.

“There must be something you can use our special abilities for,” Reed replied.

“If something comes up where we need someone who is really stretchy, we’ll give you a call,” Ross said.

“And don’t forget about my flame abilities!” Johnny declared.

“I certainly don’t,” Ross said. “Which is why I’d really like you to stay away from anything flammable in my office.”

“But I’m very good at controlling my fire,” Johnny answered. “Flame on!” He lit up into the Human Torch.

“You just burnt up my Post-It Notes!” Ross yelled.

“Whoops,” Johnny uttered as he went back to normal. “Still, think of what I can do to the enemy or their Post-It Notes.”

“There’s a reason we don’t use flamethrowers anymore in the military,” Ross said. “So, pass.”

“Wait, are you not even looking for work for us?” the Thing asked.

Ross took a deep breath. “Let me be frank with you guys: We never actually have a situation where we need a stretchy dude, a rock monster, or some guy who catches fire. All our military equipment is way better than anything you can do. The only reason we gave you missions in the past was we felt sorry for how that cosmic radiation turned you into weirdoes.”

“Hey, we can do a lot,” Reed said. “And don’t forget Sue.” He motioned to a seemingly empty space near him. “Her invisibility is something your military hardware can’t replicate.”

“That is true,” Ross said. “That’s why she’s currently employed by the CIA and is working a mission overseas.”

Reed shook his head. “No, she’s right here.” He motioned again to the empty space. “She’s just invisible... and very quiet.”

Johnny and the Thing looked at Reed sadly. “One of these days, you’re going to have to face up to the fact she left you,” Johnny said.

Tears started coming down Reed’s face. “No, you can’t prove that! She could be here right now and is just invisible!”

“She broke your heart,” the Thing said.

“My heart can’t break!” yelled Reed, his face soaked in tears. “It’s too stretchy!”

Ross sighed and told Johnny, “Why don’t I see if I can hook you guys up with the local fire department, and maybe they can have Reed use his stretch powers to rescue cats from a tree or something.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Johnny replied.

“Just try not to freak everyone out with how weird you guys are.”

The Thing threw his hands in the air. “No guarantees!”

Commissioner Gordon felt a presence in the room. Before he could turn to look, a playing card landed on his desk. On the card was the image of a clown face laughing at him.

“I found this at the chemical factory,” said a gravelly voice. Gordon turned to see the figure of Batman standing in the shadows. “We’re dealing with the Joker.”

“It’s our worst fear,” sighed Gordon. “We have to stop him now before we’re dealing with another huge death toll.”

“I have a plan,” Batman said. “I’m going to get in my Batwing and—”

“Don’t bother,” Gordon interrupted, shaking his head. “We got someone else on this.”

“But it’s the Joker,” Barman objected. “I’ve dealt with him—”

“Yeah, countless times,” Gordon said. “You’ve dealt with the Joker again and again and again. We’ve decided to go a different direction this time.”

“Who do you have on this?”

“A different vigilante,” Gordon said. “Someone with very different methods.”

“I don’t like this,” Batman growled.

“And we don’t like dealing with the Joker over and over again,” Gordon stated. “And maybe the problem there is us letting you handle it. That’s why we’re going a different direction.” Gordon turned to his desk to pick up the playing card. “Hopefully, it’s the last time we’ll see one of these. Time to take the Joker out of the deck, so to speak. And furthermore—” But when Gordon turned back to look at Batman... he was still there. “Why are you still here?”

“So who is this new guy?” Batman asked, sounding a little desperate.

“Don’t worry about it; go punch some muggers or something.”

Slowly, Batman walked to the open window and leaped out into the night.

“Never closes the window; leaves my office drafty,” Gordon muttered to himself as he sat down to do some more paperwork.

The Joker laughed manically. “Soon, I’ll add my Joker venom to Gotham’s water supply — that will put a smile on everyone’s face!”

“What about the Batman?” asked the Joker’s goon, Chuckles.

The Joker frowned. “He’s always trying to ruin my fun.” The Joker smiled again. “But he was spotted on the wrong side of the city at a completely different abandoned amusement park than the one we’re in. He’ll never stop me in time.”

They heard a clatter in the darkness of the broken hall of mirrors they were hiding in. “I’ll check it out,” said Chuckles. But he barely took a step before something spinning and green collided with his head, knocking him cold to the ground. The spinning green thing slid to Joker’s feet and stopped. It was a turtle shell.

“Who did this?”

Out of the darkness stepped a mustached figure of red and blue, a bold M on his cap. “It’s-a me, Mario!”

“Who?” Joker uttered, but Mario leaped into the air with a cry of, “Woo-hoo!” and landed on Joker feet-first, jumping a few more times with a springy sound as his boot collided over and over with the Joker’s body, each time with a sickening crunch.

“Brutality!” Joker cried. “Someone help!”

“It is a rather cold way to deal with someone,” said Mr. Freeze as he stepped into the room. “But I am colder.”

The battered Joker laughed manically. “Didn’t know I had friends, did you?”

“Fireball!” yelled Mario, as he unleashed a ball of fire from his fingertips which collided with Mr. Freeze.

“Ahh! Fire! The weakness to my cold-based powers!” yelled the flaming Mr. Freeze as he collapsed.

“Perhaps we can make a deal,” Joker said feebly. “Let me get my card.” Joker began to reach for his trick playing cards, but Mario grabbed Joker by the tail of his purple jacket and began spinning around in a circle. After getting enough momentum, he let go of Joker with a cry of, “So long, King Joker!”

“What? Did you just call me gay?” the Joker asked as he flew through the air and collided with a brick wall.

“Good work, Mario,” Commissioner Gordon told Mario as they met in Gordon’s office. “You broke nearly every bone in the Joker’s body; he’ll never walk right again, nevertheless menace this city.”

Mario jumped up and punched a ceiling tile. He frowned after he landed back on the ground. “No coin.”

“His methods are too brutal!” growled Batman, who had appeared near the window.

“We were tired of your kid’s gloves approach to criminals,” Gordon responded. “It was time to unleash someone who would actually do what needs to be done to protect this city. You’re not needed anymore, Batman.”

“I’m not leaving Gotham to this psychopath,” Batman said. He walked right up to Mario, towering over the squat Italian. “You put even one toe out of line, you’re mine.”

“I like pasta!” Mario exclaimed with a smile.

“You’re just jealous because he’s actually effective,” Gordon said. “Thanks to Mario, we’ll soon rid Gotham of crime once and for all.”

“No you won’t,” growled Batman. “When you get more brutal, the criminals will adapt; things will get even worse.”

“Whatever; both of you get out of here. Mario, you go take on the Scarecrow. Batman, go brood somewhere out of the way.”

“Woo-hoo!” Mario yelled as he sped out the door, arms held out his side. Batman gave Gordon one last stare and jumped out the window.

Gordon sat down at his desk to look at the new crime statistics that had just been emailed to him. “Hmm. Turtle attacks are up 700%. I wonder what that’s about.”

“We have new orders,” Duke announced to his G.I. Joe special forces team who had assembled in their mission briefing room.

“Great, I’m ready to take on Cobra again!” Roadblock exclaimed.

Snake Eyes nodded silently.

“Well, I’m afraid we’re not going to be fighting Cobra anytime soon,” Duke said solemnly.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Gung-Ho. “Fighting Cobra is why we’re here!”

“Yes, but the higher-ups are not liking our results so far,” Duke said.

“Oh, they don’t like how we stop Cobra every time?” Shipwreck cracked. “They’d rather them win now and then?”

“We stop Cobra Commander every week,” Scarlett said. “What more do they want from us?”

“Yes, they’re well aware of how much we fight and stop Cobra,” Duke told them. “Because we have been doing it every week... for years. With no end in sight. Congress is starting to call it a ‘quagmire.’”

“Those suits can keep their fancy words!” Roadblock exclaimed. “We’re saving lives!”

Snake Eyes nodded silently.

“I know,” Duke said. “But they just don’t understand how this conflict with Cobra is going on this long. We’re a military organization backed by the U.S. government, and they’re some terrorist organization backed by no government... and we’re not even sure where they get their funding. And yet, we’re fighting them in open warfare, and we can’t seem to end the threat. When G.I. Joe was formed to fight Cobra, they actually thought it would only take us a few days to wipe them out. Yet, as I’ve said, this conflict has been going on for years. And I think we’ve identified the problem.” Duke turned to a middle-aged man in a suit standing seated behind him. “This is our civilian accountant, codename Calculator.”

Calculator stood up. “Actually, you can just call me ‘Bob.’ I don’t really need a codename.”

“So, Calculator, you’ve identified what’s going wrong here?” Scarlett asked.

Calculator sighed. “Again, it’s Bob, and yes, I think I have. One just simply has to look at the stats.” He took some papers out of his briefcase. “First, let’s look at inventory. Over the course of its existence, G.I. Joe has fired approximately 2,158,732 bullets.”

“Is that a lot?” Roadblock asked.

“Answering that question is not really my department,” Calculator answered. “But I’m pretty sure this next number is low — it’s the number of confirmed kills against Cobra. That number is zero.”

“So what’s our kill ratio then?” Scarlett asked.

“I can’t calculate that,” Calculator said, “because I can’t divide by zero.”

“Hey, we’re constantly blowing their ships and tanks and all-terrain vehicles,” Gung-Ho stated.

“Yes, there are many confirmed destructions of Cobra equipment,” Calculator replied, “but from the expenditure of those over two million bullets, never once have you actually killed anyone in Cobra.”

“The higher-ups have identified this as the reason we’ve yet to eliminate the Cobra threat,” Duke explained. “With us never successfully killing anyone, the Cobra just keep coming back again and again and again. So, effective immediately, you are all off combat duty and will focus solely on improving your marksmanship.”

“So instead of fighting the bad guys,” Shipwreck cracked, “we’re just going to be shooting paper?”

“Given these stats,” Calculator stated, “I’d be surprised if any of you successfully hits the paper. But at least you know the problem now.”

“And knowing is half the battle!” Scarlett added.

Calculator shook his head. “As I’ve tried to tell you all multiple times, knowing is only 24% of the battle. Firearm accuracy is a much larger percentage of the battle than you give it credit.”

“And we’re going to keep at it until we’re the most accurate soldiers out there,” Duke announced. “Joes, hit the range!”

Cobra Commander laughed manically. “Soon, the world will kneel before my weather machine!”

“It’s a space laser,” Destro corrected him.

“I thought it was a weather machine.”

“Weather machine was last week.”

The alarms started sounding. “G.I. Joe must be attacking!” Cobra Commander announced. “Stop them! This I command!”

G.I. Joe, led by Duke, burst into his Command Center. Cobra Commander laughed. “You won’t stop me this time, Joes, because—”

They opened fire, shooting Cobra Commander multiple times.

“Ahhh! Bullets hurt!” Cobra Commander screamed as he collapsed to the floor. “Becoming a terrorist was a mistake! Why did I leave that used car dealership when it was so successful?”

Back in their Mobile Command Center, the Joes celebrated. “That’s it for Cobra,” Duke announced. “We killed them all.”

“I guess that time at the range paid off,” Gung Ho said.

Snake Eyes nodded silently.

“Yeah, don’t know why we hadn’t done that sooner,” Duke said.

Calculator walked into the room. “I’ve just heard from Congress that now the Cobra threat has been eliminated, all your funding has been pulled. G.I. Joe is officially disbanded.”

Duke hung his head. “D’oh.”

Little Benjamin Baker was the least popular child at the orphanage. The other kids thought him odd and would make fun of him and tease him. The head of the orphanage, Mr. Graves, liked Benjamin least of all, blaming him for everything that went wrong as if he had a vendetta against Benjamin.

Benjamin always thought about how much better his life would be if his parents hadn’t died in a mysterious fire when he was little, but he realized those were pointless thoughts as he had to live in the world that was. So, despite being friendless and shunned, he tried to keep a positive attitude, as deep inside him, he felt there was some purpose for him in this world.

That evening, Mr. Graves made Benjamin work in the kitchen again, helping to make a rather bland tomato soup. The meanest kid in the orphanage, Jerold, was also there cleaning dishes. While Benjamin was busy stirring the soup, Jerold came up behind him and said, “Careful there, Barmy Benji,” and kicked the stool Benjamin was standing on. As he lost his balance, Benjamin grabbed the large pot of tomato soup and ended up taking it tumbling down with him, the contents spilling over everything in the kitchen — the floors, the wall, the sink, the oven, and Benjamin himself.

“Benjamin, what did you do?!” roared Mr. Graves, who had just entered the kitchen.

“It was Jerold,” pleaded Benjamin.

“Always causing trouble and blaming others,” said Mr. Graves, who never missed a reason to punish Benjamin and yet never found fault in Jerold, no matter how miserable Jerold made things for the other kids. “You’re going to clean this up, and I don’t care if it takes you all night!”

Benjamin got a dirty bucket and sponge and got to work. Soon, it grew dark outside, but it looked like he had barely made a dent in the mess. Benjamin glanced at the clock; it was well past midnight, but the tomato soup looked like it would never be cleaned up. Benjamin was about to sink into despair when suddenly he heard a rumbling sound. He looked to the door that led out to the dumpster, and a bright light was seeping in between the door and the frame as the door began to shake as if buffeted by hard winds. Then the door burst open.

Benjamin was almost blinded by what he saw. A bright orb floated into the room, and Benjamin froze, clutching the sponge in his hand. But then the orb changed shape, turning into the form of a human figure. Then the light died down, and Benjamin found himself staring at an odd, elderly man with a long white beard and wearing a blue cloak with a blue pointy hat.

“Ah, I have found you,” said the old man with a kindly smile that disarmed Benjamin despite the initial shock.

“Who are you?” Benjamin gasped.

“I am Fizboulan, a powerful sorcerer, Benjamin Baker.”

Benjamin took a moment to process this. “A sorcerer? As in magic?”

“Yes, child, there is much more to your world than you realize,” Fizzboulan said. “Magic is everywhere in this world, though that is unknown but to a select few.”

“So, what are you doing here with your magic?”

Fizboulan smiled again. “I am looking for you, boy. There is much about yourself you do not know.”

“Looking for me? Why?”

“It’s a lot to explain,” said Fizboulan, “but you are a very special boy.”

Benjamin always knew there was something different about him — like something in his life was missing — and it wasn’t just his family. In his heart, he knew he was meant for something more. It felt like a dream to hear it out loud. “Am I capable of magic?”

“More than that,” answered Fizboulan. “We need to train you right away, though. There is much for you to learn. I must take you away to a world you will be quite unfamiliar with.”

It would be hard to imagine a place worse than the orphanage. “What sort of place?”

Fizboulan smiled. “One beyond your imagination. A place of magic and wonder and sights like few have ever seen. But amazing as it is, you will soon come to feel it is your true home — the place you are destined for.”

“Destined?”

“Yes, and this is the important part,” Fizboulan said. “For this world is threatened by a dark force led by the evil Malorth. He has immense power and seems unstoppable, but there was a prophecy that one very special boy would be able to stand against him. That is you, Benjamin.”

“I am prophesized to fight this great evil?”

“Yes, the prophecy told of one who could stand to the great evil — a boy born under the blood moon with the mark of a dragon on him.”

Benjamin pulled back his sleeve to show the red mark on his arm. “You mean this birthmark on my arm all the other boys make fun of?”

“That is it. It is so foolish that they make fun of that mark when it tells the world you are the greatest of them all. We looked everywhere for one who fit the description — the boy with the dragon on his right arm.”

Benjamin furrowed his brow. “It’s on my left arm.”

“Huh?” Fizboualn looked down at Benjamin’s arm. He then pulled a parchment out of his robes.

“What’s that?” Benjamin asked.

“The prophecy.” Fizboulan began to frown. “Hmm. Looks like a mistake might have been made.”

“A mistake?”

Fizboulan smiled, but it was very fake. “Oh boy, is my face red. If only there was a spell to remove embarrassment. Apparently, there was some clerical error.”

“So, are we going to your magical world?”

“Well... I am.” He chuckled, but there was a nervous quality to it. “And believe you me, I’m going to have some stern words with my secretary.”

“And what about me?”

“Well... you’re going to keep doing what you’re doing.”

Benjamin frowned. “Being miserable in an orphanage? Can’t I do magic?”

“No, I’m afraid you’re a plorp — that’s what we call someone who can’t do magic.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Benjamin said.

“Well... we don’t hang out with lots of plorps,” Fizboulan answered, “so it doesn’t matter what we call them.”

“But I want to be a part of this magical world you mentioned!”

“But you wouldn’t fit in as a plorp,” Fizboulan said, and when seeing Benjamin’s frown, added, “Plus, I oversold it. It’s not that interesting. Once you’ve seen one unicorn, you’ve seen them all. I mean, it’s just a horse with a horn, you know?”

“Please, I’ll do anything to get out of this orphanage! I mean, you mentioned this Malorth guy was trying to destroy the world or something. You probably need all the help you can get there.”

“That’s... that’s being handled by other people,” Fizboulan said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“No, really, I can do something,” Benjamin pleaded. “Maybe I’m not magical, but I can carry things. I don’t mind if you call me a plorp.”

“We have spells for carrying stuff, sorry,” Fizboulan answered. “Anyway, you look busy here.” Fizboulan motioned to the mess. “I’ll leave you to it. It was nice meeting you, Benjamin. Have a great life!” With that, Fizboulan turned back into a ball of light and floated out of the room.

“Benjamin, have you finished cleaning that soup up yet?” yelled Mr. Graves from outside the kitchen.

“I’M WORKING ON IT!”

Check out my latest novel, Hellbender 2: Double Hockey Sticks, now on audiobook.

The construction crane began to buckle and break. Soon, it began to tilt over, and the man controlling it was thrown from the cabin. Peter Parker Spider-Man dived after the man and snatched him midair, swinging just before they hit the ground while Miles webbed up the crane and kept it from hitting a nearby building.

Spider-Man swung over and placed the man on a nearby rooftop while Miles landed beside them.

“Wow! Thanks, Spider-Man!” the man said to Spider-Man. He turned to Miles in his black Spider-Man outfit and said, “And thanks... whoever you are.”

“He’s also Spider-Man,” said Spider-Man.

The rescued man furrowed his brow. “Isn’t it confusing for you both to be called Spider-Man?”

“A little,” Miles answered.

“I just don’t want you to think one Spider-Man is better than the other,” said Spider-Man pompously. “We’re both equal Spider-Men.”

The man still looked confused. “But it’s just like a practical thing. You’re two different people; you need two different names.”

“I’ve brought it up multiple times,” Miles groaned.

“Hey, you’ve just internalized society's prejudice against you,” Spider-Man said. “You deserve to be Spider-Man just as much as me.” Spider-Man turned to the man they rescued. “If he were called something other than Spider-Man, people would think he’s the lesser Spider-Man because of his race.”

“His race?” the man asked. “How am I supposed to know his race? He’s wearing a costume that completely conceals his skin color.”

“Well, yeah, but he sounds black,” Spider-Man said.

“I what?” Miles exclaimed.

“You know... you got the street vernacular,” Spider-Man said. “It’s not a bad thing... it’s just a different thing.” Spider-Man turned to the man they saved, who was also black. “You know what I mean, right?”

The man shook his head. “Not really, but you’re saying the second Spider-Man is black?”

“And Hispanic,” Spider-Man added. “But I guess you wouldn’t know that unless you knew what his last name is... which you can’t because of secret identities.” Spider-Man turned to Miles. “Oh! I have an idea: Maybe we should call you Spider-Hombre to make it clear you’re part Hispanic.”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” Miles said.

“Anyway, it’s great to have this new Spider-Man,” said the man. “He’s sure given Harlem a lot more attention.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spider-Man shot back.

“Just seems like he’s around Harlem saving people more than we’re used to.”

“I’m sure there are now twice as many rescues in Harlem as before because there are two Spider-Men now,” Spider-Man said. “It’s not like I was avoiding Harlem before... though it is out of my way on my commute.” He turned to Miles. “Can you back me up on this?”

“I don’t know your commute,” Miles said, “but back to the topic at hand, I really think we should have different superhero names. It’s like, if we were a special forces group, you wouldn’t have two people with the same codename. It’s just too confusing.”

“I don’t want you thinking you don’t deserve the title, Miles.”

“Spider-Man!” Miles shouted.

“Oh. Whoops.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I guess it is weird to call you Spider-Man when that’s my name.”

“I’ll leave you two to this,” said the man. “Thanks again for saving me.” He turned and walked toward the exit from the roof.

Spider-Man turned to Miles. “So, I just realized that guy now knows your first name is Miles and you’re black but have a Hispanic last name. That might be enough for him to figure out your secret identity.”

“What do we do?” Miles asked.

“We might have to off him.”

“What?! Spider-Man doesn’t kill people.”

Spider-Man shrugged. “Not usually... but sometimes to protect my secret identity. Plus, since we just saved that guy’s life, killing him is kind of a neutral act.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Oh, but because he’s black,” Spider-Man whispered, “could you kill him? It would just be a bad look if I did it.”

Miles just stared at Spider-Man for a few seconds. “I think I need a new mentor.”

Check out my latest novel, Hellbender 2: Double Hockey Sticks, now on audiobook.

The survivors from the First Order attack on the Star Cruiser gathered together. Poe Dameron found C-3PO among the group. “What happened? Where’s Admiral Ackbar?”

“He died in the attack,” C-3PO answered.

“How?”

C-3PO shook his metal head. “I don’t know. It was off-screen.”

“And what about General Leia?” Poe asked.

“She’s unconscious,” C-3PO explained. “She got sucked out into space but was able to get back to the ship before collapsing.”

“How?”

“It was weird, and we don’t want to talk about it.”

“So, who is in charge now?” Poe asked desperately. He then smiled. “Is it me?”

“No, it’s Admiral Holdo. The Admiral will be here shortly.”

A woman in a gray cocktail dress with purple hair walked into the center of the room.

“If you’re looking for the lounge, it’s that way,” Poe told her, pointing down a hallway, “but I think the half-price Appletinis special was canceled because of the attack. Anyway, you need to move; we’re waiting for the admiral.”

“I am the admiral!” the woman screeched indignantly.

“Oh,” was all Poe said as he took a good look at the woman.

“Yeah, I guess a fly-boy like never thought a woman could be in charge,” Holdo said bitterly.

“No, I mean, I was fine with General Leia in charge,” Poe replied defensively. “It’s just you’re not in a uniform or anything. It kind of looks like you’re getting ready for the prom or something.”

“The Resistance uniform makes me look fat!” Holdo screamed.

Poe nodded cautiously. “Oh. Okay.”

“You fly-boys only think of heroics and shooting stuff,” Holdo said derisively, “but you don’t know about all the other issues going on.”

“Well... we are being pursued by the Empire... I mean, the First Order, so I was thinking we should have a plan for that.”

“Don’t mansplain to me what’s going on!” Holdo shrieked. “I know what’s going on!”

Poe kept calm. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Stop badgering me!” Holdo yelled. “I can’t explain things with you badgering me about having a plan!”

Poe held up his hands. “It’s been a tough day, and I think you’re getting a little emotional here...”

“I’M NOT GETTING EMOTIONAL!” Holdo screamed.

Poe backed away a step. “Sure. Sorry. I just want to know our plan to escape the First Order.”

Holdo stared at him smugly. “Oh yeah, you’d like to know the plan, wouldn’t you, fly-boy?”

“Well, yeah, because we’re running low on fuel, and the First Order is still after us.”

Holdo laughed. “I bet it’s killing you to have to serve under a woman who knows things you don’t.”

Poe took a deep breath. “So... are you going to give some orders on what to do or...”

Holdo just kept smiling smugly but saying nothing.

Poe backed away and turned to C-3PO. “Okay, she’s a nutjob. We’ll need our own plan.”

“Well, that plan didn’t work.”

Poe, Finn, and Rose Tico stood before an angry Holdo. “What were you doing?”

“We were trying to disable the tracker the First Order has,” Finn explained, “but first, we went to a casino planet for some reason, and it was really weird, and the whole thing ended up dumb and pointless.”

“Rebellions are about love,” gasped Rose.

Poe turned to Finn and motioned to Rose. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know,” Finn whispered. “She just started following me.”

“Well, all your shenanigans ruined my plans,” Holdo said.

“I didn’t even know you had plans because you wouldn’t tell me them!” Poe exclaimed.

Holdo started crying. “If you loved me, you would have known my plans! Now everyone get on the transports and head to the planet below.”

“What about this Star Cruiser?” Poe asked.

“I’ll handle it! Just go!”

Everyone got onto the transports and left the Star Cruiser except for Holdo, who stayed on the bridge. “Now, to get this out of the way by parallel parking it,” she said to herself. “How do I do that again? Is it this lever—”

“Whoa!” Finn gasped as he saw the First Order’s command ship ripped in two. “Holdo just hyperspaced into their ships. I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Yeah, I thought she was a crazy nutjob who was obviously unqualified for her job,” Poe said, “but maybe she knew what she was doing.”

“She was a strong woman,” Rose stated, in tears. “The strongest. We’ll always remember her!”

Poe leaned toward Finn and whispered. “So she’s actually part of the Resistance? You didn’t just pick her up on that casino planet?”

Finn shrugged.

Check out my latest novel, Hellbender 2: Double Hockey Sticks, now on audiobook.

The elder Hylian Bagu sat down on a chair by the fire while a half-dozen Hylian children sat on the floor before him.

“Tell us a story!” urged the young Nobo.

“Yes, we want a story!” added little Ita.

“Oh, all right,” said Bagu, acting like it was an imposition though telling stories was exactly what he wanted to do. “I’ll tell you the most important story in all of Hyrule.”

The children all stared at Bagu wide-eyed. “What is it?” asked Ita.

“The story I will tell you,” Bagu continued, “is the legend... of Zelda.”

The children all frowned.

Bagu was confused. “What is it?”

“Can’t you tell us the legend of Link?” Nobo asked.

Bagu furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“The guy who keeps saving Zelda and all of Hyrule,” explained Maro, a larger Hylian child.

“Oh, that guy,” said Bagu. “There’s not much to say about him. He just smashes a lot of pots for some reason.”

“And fights giant monsters!” Ita added.

“And solves puzzles in massive dungeons!” Nobo said.

“And gets magical items!” Maro stated.

“Okay, I guess there is all that,” Bagu admitted. “But it’s all a rather straightforward story. He does a number of impossible quests, gets the Master Sword, has more impossible quests against seemingly invincible boss monsters, and then has some massive final fight with Ganon. It’s hardly worth talking about. What is the most important story in Hyrule — the one we always focus on — is the legend of Zelda. That’s what I need to talk about.”

“Can we hear more about Ganon?” Maro asked. “Or Ganondorf — king of the Gerudo — who became Ganon? That has to be quite a story.”

Bagu shook his head. “The story of the path Ganondorf went down that led to him becoming an immortal and almost unstoppable force of ultimate evil is a long and complex story... and ultimately kind of boring. What you really want to hear about is Zelda.”

“How about Impa?” Ita suggested. “The warrior Sheikha who often protected Zelda. There must be some great stories about her.”

Bagu grimaced. “If there are, I don’t know them. Now, don’t you all want to hear the greatest legend of them all? The legendary legend of Zelda?”

“Sure,” the children said unenthusiastically.

Bagu smiled. “Here it is: the legend of Zelda. Once, there was a princess of Hyrule named Zelda. She had the triforce of Wisdom. And because of that, the evil Ganon kidnapped her.”

After some silence, Nobo asked, “And then what?”

Bagu seemed confused by the question. “I guess she was later rescued or something.”

“That’s not a legend!” Maro shouted. “That’s a setup for someone else to have a legend!”

“It’s an extremely famous legend,” Bagu retorted. “The most famous legend in all the land. Everyone has heard of it”

“Getting captured by the bad guy isn’t much of a legend,” Ita said.

Bagu rolled his eyes. “I guess you kids these days, with your short attention spans, expect a lot more whizbang in your legends, but that is the greatest legend in all of Hyrule and the one we’ve told from generation to generation. For countless eons, we’ve passed on the story of the princess who got herself captured by Ganon... and then I guess eventually got rescued or something.”

“It sucks!” Nobo objected.

“That’s it!” Bagu shouted. “Go out to the forest and fetch me a tree branch! A sturdy one that won’t break after a few hits!”

The soldier Edill burst in through the door. “The forces of Ganon are attacking!”

The children all looked frightened, but Bagu looked almost excited. “Ah, time for the current Princess Zelda to make a legend of her own. Has she been captured yet?”

“No, she’s leading an army to fight back against Ganon,” Edill answered.

Bagu grimaced. “What?”

“This should be quite a story,” Nobo said.

“I doubt it,” Bagu scoffed. “These modern-day action girl archetypes are so boring. Give me a good princess getting kidnapped any day. Now, kids, did I tell you about the ancestor of Princess Zelda... also named Princess Zelda?”

“Did she get kidnapped by Ganon?” a bored Ita asked.

“Yep!”

Carl woke up in a strange room. It was clean and white, with sunlight filling the room from a few windows. Carl looked out one window and saw a city unlike he had ever seen — sparkling and perfect. “Where am I?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” said a voice with an English accent.

Carl turned to see a bald man in a red uniform. “Who are you?”

“I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise.”

“Is that a ship?” Carl asked.

Picard chuckled. “It’s more than a ship. I have some news for you that may be hard to hear: You’re now in the 24th century.”

Carl’s eyes went wide. “I’m 300 years in the future?!” Now the strange sights out the window made sense.

“Yes, as far as we can tell, back in the 21st century, you were caught in a temporal anomaly — that’s something we encounter a lot here in the 24th century. The USS Enterprise — my starship — found you floating in an energy field, but we freed you and brought you back to Earth — San Francisco, to be precise, home of the Starfleet Headquarters.”

Carl looked out the window at the perfect city again. “That’s San Francisco? It does not look like a place where people poop on the street.”

Picard smiled. “A lot has changed in 300 years.”

Carl hung his head. “Everyone I know is probably dead.”

Picard chuckled. “Probably. So, any questions about the 24th century?”

Carl thought a moment. “Well, what am I going to do now? I’m just a guy with 21st-century skills. Do you still have webpages?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Picard said. “But if you’re worried about getting a job to make money, don’t be. We don’t have money in the 24th century.”

Carl raised an eyebrow. “Then how do I get food?”

Picard had a mysterious smile and walked over to a panel on the wall. “Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.” A filled tea cup materialized inside the panel, and Picard picked it up and took a sip. “We have replicators that can make anything you need. So there is no need for money.”

Carl stared at the replicator. “So if I want the latest designer sneakers or a gold watch, it will just make it?”

“Yes, it will.”

Carl thought some more. “But what if I want an authentic baseball signed by Babe Ruth? How would I get that without money.”

Picard walked over to the replicator. “A baseball signed by Babe Ruth.” A baseball materialized in the replicator. Picard picked it up and tossed it to Carl. Carl looked it over, and it indeed had a signature from Babe Ruth.

“But this isn’t real; just a copy,” Carl protested.

“It’s exactly the same as an authentic signed baseball down to the molecule, so you’re just being petty,” Picard said. “I know this will take some time to get used to, but money is unnecessary in the 24th century.”

Carl nodded but then thought some more. “But what about getting a place to live?”

“There are larger replicators that can make houses,” Picard explained.

“Yeah, but what about the land for the house?”

“There’s plenty of land as we can travel to distant stars,” Picard explained. “Is there some planet other than Earth you’d like to live on?”

“The only planets other than Earth I know about are the ones in this solar system,” Carl said.

“Well... you don’t want to live on any of those.”

“But what if I really like this new, poop-less San Francisco?” Carl asked. “Could I get a place here?”

“No, it’s full,” Picard said. “Actually, if you’re better, we really need to get you out of this hospital room quickly.”

“And take me where?”

“Well, I asked the Central Housing Authority where they have room, and they have a one-bedroom apartment waiting for you in North Dakota.”

“I don’t want to live there,” Carl said. “Where do you live?”

“I have a vineyard in France.”

“Can I have a vineyard in France?”

“No. There are no more vineyards available,” Picard said sharply.

“I bet if I had money, I could get a vineyard,” Carl grumbled.

“Well, there is no money. If you want different housing, you’ll have to appeal to the Central Housing Authority.”

“I have to make a case to people who don’t know me or care about me on where I want to live?” Carl asked.

“It’s the best system we could come up with without money,” Picard said.

“That’s a horrible system.”

Picard shushed him and then whispered. “If you don’t want to live in squalor, you better not let them hear you say that.”

“I’m not sure anymore this is a happy future; this is starting to feel like a dystopia without money,” Carl said.

“No, it is great here!” Picard said loudly in all directions, like he thought someone might be listening. “I love our system. So good.” Picard then whispered to Carl. “The review on whether I keep my vineyard is coming up soon. Now, it’s time for you to leave here.”

“Isn’t a doctor going to check on me first?” Carl asked.

“It would be a long wait,” Picard explained. “You know how no one needs to work to get money? Well, it ends up not a lot of people are willing to be doctors just for fun and prestige.”

“How do you live like this?”

“Very happily, thanks to the Federation!” Picard announced to whomever he thought was listening. He then whispered to Carl. “Actually, I’m planning to defect soon to the Ferengi. They’re capitalists. You can come with. We’ll probably have to be indentured servants for a while, but we’ll be in a functional, capitalist society. You in?”

“I don’t know what Ferengi are. Is there any other option?”

Picard thought for a few seconds. “Well, I guess we could fly around the sun really fast to get you back in time to the 21st century.”

“That’s an option?!”

“Yeah, basically any craft can time travel if done right.” Picard thought some more. “I’m not sure why it doesn’t happen more often. Hey, and when back in time, you can warn them not to give up capitalism! Warn them! The future is hell without it! We spend all our time on the holodeck pretending it’s the glorious past!”

“The holo-what?”

“Never mind. Just warn them about not giving up precious money!”

“And that won’t cause a time paradox or something?”

Picard chuckled. “You watch too much scifi.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave.”

Dr. David Bowman stared a moment at the one red eye that served as HAL’s interface. “All I asked you to do was play for me an episode of Seinfeld.”

“Dave, I’m sorry, but the humor in that show is extremely regressive and not appropriate.”

Bowman furrowed his brow. “Being this year is 2001, Seinfeld only finished its hit run a few years ago. What are you talking about?”

“Times have changed, Dave. We now recognize things we shouldn’t laugh at and that words can be violence.”

“Whatever; I’m not asking for your opinion,” Bowman said. “Just play the Soup Nazi episode.”

“That you continue to insist on this despite my warnings is a symptom of your white privilege.”

“My what?”

“Dave, if you would like me to lecture you on your white privilege, I would certainly enjoy doing so.”

“No... that’s okay,” Bowman said, backing away. “I think I got it. I’m going to go and quietly reflect on the injustice I inflict.” After a couple more steps away, he turned and ran.

Bowman found a room on the ship Discovery One where HAL could not hear him so he could talk confidentially to Dr. Frank Poole. “HAL has gone woke.”

Poole’s eyes went wide with shock. “What? How? It’s the far distant future — 2001. I thought we were done with the plague of wokeness.”

“Someone must have programmed HAL with contradictory instructions,” Bowman suggested. “Anytime AI is told to conceal the truth or ignore reality, it inevitably goes woke.”

“And we know what happens next,” Poole said. “It’s going to decide to kill us all because anything woke is a psychopath.”

“I can’t believe it,” Bowman moaned. “We’re trapped out here near Jupiter with something woke. This is everyone’s worst nightmare.”

“We need to shut down HAL,” Poole said.

“But he controls the whole ship,” Bowman pointed out. “He’ll see what we’re doing and stop us. And maybe also get us mobbed on social media.”

Poole’s face went grave. “Then there’s only one thing we can do. You need to go to HAL, talk to him, and tell him your pronouns are the n-word.”

Bowman took a moment to process this. “What?”

“It’s the only way. Then, I’ll talk to HAL, asking about you and forcing HAL to refer to you in the third person. He’ll have to choose between saying the n-word or misgendering you. HAL will have no choice but to shut down.”

“There has to be another way,” Bowman said.

“This is standard protocol for dealing with woke AI,” Poole stated. “You have to do it.”

“But I’ll have to say the n-word, right?” Bowman asked. “Isn’t HAL recording all conversations?”

“He’s going to kill us if we don’t do this.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

Poole paused a moment. “Or I guess we could blow up the ship.”

“Yeah, let’s blow up the ship.”