Just Desserts? Just Deserts! [Part 3]

[Read Part 1 Here]
[Read Part 2 Here]

 

When we last left Brutus the Barbarian, his entire Kingdom of Doom was doomed… at the mercy of a take no prisoners, know no boundaries pestilence. That bloated, 250kg/550lb egomaniac, desperately ISO even one survivor (uh… beyond the one he admired, hourly, in his mirror) had taken to waddling about his palace… first inside… next outside. And he wasn’t having much luck. Not paying attention to where he was going, he had just taken a bellyflop into the royal pigpen’s mud puddle! And owing to a nearby passel of piglets, these oinkers’ “end product” had, little doubt, “bio-enhanced” that muck.

It was then and there that Brutus had his muttered “Oh sh…” interrupted by a big booming voice from above… way above! From the intonation, alone, there was little doubt someone was tsk-tsk’ing him, too…

“Brutus… Brutus… Brutus… just how the Hell am I to deal with you?”

The mentally muddled, muddied and mucked up monarch could not even correctly place the locale of that scolding voice. Despite his disorientation, belligerent Bru bellowed…

“Do with me? DO WITH ME??? Who the HELL are you? Dropeth down from yonder sycamore tree and presenteth yourself for punishment! NOW!! I COMMAND THEE!!!”

“YOU COMMAND ME? Let’s get one thing straight, my wayward son! I COMMAND YOU!”

While struggling to park his fat Fascist fanny upon the somewhat firmer, drier, adjacent soil, Brutus’ bluster… for the moment… had kinda, sorta upgraded itself to bewilderment.

“Wayward son you say? That’d be impossible… Dadsy was dead and buried the year just prior to the new millennium.”

“How dense of you… you, who pass yourself off as a Christian… to not know who speaketh to you.

“Haven’t got a clue, mister.”

“And how typical of you, too, to try pivoting our discussion away from your dense drama-cloaked character deficits… your incompetence, indolence and instability… all of which prevented you from dutifully defending the Kingdom of Doom from a deadly attack. It is indeed, stunning, how an insufferable tyrant… a totalitarian such as you… would not jump at the chance to totally wipe out a mere microbe!

“Moi? A tyrant? That’s faketh news! Every last damned one of my subjugated subjects worships the very poop I flush down my royal commode… or else! They LOVE me! They do LOVE me! They really, really do LOVE me! And DON’T YOU DARE even try to tell me otherwise!”

“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”
“SHUT The F UP… my son!”
“I WILL NOT, YOU A-HOLE!”

This wholly unproductive “Father-son chat” kept going on and on and on… and at a rapid-fire pace that even a Mac’s command C / V key function could barely keep up with.

Brutus, who believed the entire Universe revolved around him, was obviously oblivious to the fact that he was engaging in a ferocious shouting match with his Maker. More to the point, Bru had so pissed Him off that it left the Almighty little choice but to wind up His pitching arm and sling, Earthward, a warning lightning bolt… ZAP!!! Upon striking the ground within mere millimeters of Bru… the multiple-millions of volts had singed his dyed blond, mangy mane and brows… ruddied the tangerine tone of his frowning, fanged visage.

However, having now amply demonstrated who still had the upper hand, The Voice had now taken on a decidedly testier intonation…

“Originally, my son, my intent had been to give you a second chance. Why, with the snap of my fingers I could’ve easily brought all of your subjects back to life.”

“Even Stormy Stephanie?”

“Not even in your most perverted fantasies!” But do shut your pie hole! Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Upon my having just judged you, up close and personal, well… I now ask… Why would I? Why should I resurrect the dead just to satisfy you?”

“Because by subjects need me!?” Brutus half asserted / half asked.

“Need you? You flatter yourself, you narcissistic parasite!”

“HOW DARE YOU CALL ME THAT!”

“THAT DID IT! I NOW PUNISH THEE!”

“YOU PUNISH ME? WTF DID I EVER DO TO YOU? DON’T YOU DARE EVEN TRY!”

The Creator of the Universe, accepted his challenge by lobbing another lightning bold… C-R-R-R–A-A-A–C-C-K-K! That near miss caused Brutus’ jawbone to tingle… so much so that it had left him momentarily dumbstruck.

With omniscient glinting eyes and smug ear-to-ear grin, God had finally meted out Brutus’ punishment.

“Commencing from this day forward, your kingdom shall be barren of all mirrors, reflective surfaces and pools of calm, standing water. Gone, too, will be your human toys… namely… NO servants to prepare fast food sludge to sate your hunger! NO handmaidens to gratify your own deeply perverted, carnal hungers! NO sycophants to, hourly, stoke and stroke your massive ego and refuel your malignant narcissism.”

So what! I can always find new subjects!”

“You think so, huh? Good luck with that, my son! From this moment forward, you are the last man on Earth. And since you fancy yourself a god, I have deemed it fitting to render you virtually immortal.”

“Virtually? Why not totally?”

“Because you will die, someday, when your Sun enters the Red Giant Stage and, not unlike your effed up fat head, expands beyond your planet’s current orbit.”

“Don’t you dare foist off fake science on me. But… uh… just for the Hell of it… how soon do ya suppose is ‘someday’?”

“7.5 billion years from now.”

“OMG, I cannot go 7.5 seconds without fawning fans who’ll idolize and suck up to me!”

“See ya in 7.5 Billion Years, Sucka!”

“Don’t go God! Now more than ever, I need thee!”

Brutus ceaselessly pleaded while standing up, once again, in the vicinity of pigsty’s mucky mud puddle.

“Just deserts, my son… just deserts!”

“Doncha mean desserts? Chocolate cake maybe? Make mine a yuge slice… hell, let me pig out on the whole goddamned cake!”

“Pig out on this, instead!”

Once more, at the snap of the Creator’s fingers, Brutus the Barbarian suddenly lost his footing and bellyflopped, face-down into the piglets’ “bio-enhanced” muck!

 

THE END?

 

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