— 2022 —
Hush Little Ones -
Yes, yes I will tell you of the great underwater crab. It’s true that it has broken free from the ocean floor to dance and parade in the streets. But my darlings, the story begins well before that. Snuggle in.
Long ago, our seasons were measured not by snow, rain or the shortening of days, but by apocalypse. Long winters they were, chaos reigning, the world in a constant state of upheaval. Back then, the repeat destruction of the world was a result of an ongoing conflict between Fat Uncle and any who rebelled against him. There were many worlds at the time, my sweethearts, and so many catastrophic events. I won’t spoil the ending just yet, but know this (in case you fall asleep before I finish), we are here today because our ancestors were lucky, but also resilient, adaptable, and (most importantly) innovative in all manner of celebration. Our ability to drink beer and whistle at the same time, build with all things corrugated, operate heavy machinery while impressively intoxicated are proof of the same. Our glittering mutations - prehensile tails, sparkling claws, half-wings, double butts - offer evidence of our fantastic beginnings.
Enough of us. These things you know. I’ll start - not as far back as our history goes, but far enough - in the realm of Sky. It was another rebellion. The authoritarian rapture initiated by the Great Rehabilitation and later carried out by Fat Uncle saw long periods of what was called peace, however, there were always those who wanted something more colorful, more exciting, more fun. Rebels took to the skies, delighting in beautiful, debaucherous party-powered anarchy. They were joined by other creatures of the air and they found a kind of paradise there. That is, until their fete ran out of fuel (they had neglected their ship’s needs in their revelry). The Sky came crumbling down - pieces of once-garbage-made-genius fell from storm clouds like a brilliant metal rain, accompanied by all kinds of rusty, katzenjammered, avian machine artists.
What they didn’t know, my little darlings, is that another rebellion had started on the ground. It was a twinkling unicorn spectacular, spreading like a magnificent rash across the land. The neon, pegasine world was happier than happy - like a plasticine smile spilling across continents, painting forest, mountain, and desert in rainbows, stars, kittens, and inspirational quotes. Fat Uncle tried to stop it, but was no match for the polychromatic blight.
Whatever cult-like mentality infected the people, it was strong indeed, but boredom (or the attempt to escape it) proved more powerful in the end and history always repeats itself. My little loves, even under water, our sky heroes had a hand in the next turn of season.
It was a combination of whatever paint was used to change the landscape into the colorful mural it became and the antimatter fallout from the bombs Fat Uncle used (in vain) to fight it, that eventually seeped into the Ocean and transformed the sky rebels. Over the seasons, they had gone through many metamorphoses, but this gave them the ability to breathe underwater. After falling from the stratosphere into the depths, they did not cease their celebration. No! They recruited other sea-dwelling mutants to participate in the sloppy merriment.
Meanwhile, on land, parts of the sky vessel were being discovered. The dry-landers (now under the spell of the rainbow utopia) came across chunks of an owl-inspired ship. It was broken and bent beyond repair, but covered in a thick film of iridescence that was especially attractive to these lovers of all things colorful and shimmery. They bent down close and, without meaning to, inhaled…
It was the residue of the most amazing party in the world and it seeped into them with insidious pleasure. They immediately wanted to celebrate - ready to let loose, dance, smoke party cigarettes, and drink something other than strawberry milk, to make bad decisions, stumble around, parade! Where were these impulses coming from? After further investigation, the group pieced the story together.
All those exposed to the ship’s remnants were similarly affected by the party fumes (cured, some say, of the monotonous rainbow) and decided to join the effort to find the fallen rebels. Word spread throughout the land and the drunken sailors of the sky became venerated heroes of legend and sought after. The people built a giant musical crab to travel deep into the ocean in an attempt to attract any surviving rebels and bask in their glory. By now, they had found caches of old beer and whiskey, other relics from the crash, and had studied the sky ship enough to understand what it meant to throw a party.
This part you probably know Sweet Ones, but I’ll tell it anyway. The crab found the pretty mutants, who, while enjoying themselves as usual, missed the sound of music above the water and so were easily convinced to break the surface and join this other world in a great parade of bibulous slosh.
So this is how, Little Dears, the Dystocean Paradise began. Lucky you, that you may play in this, our most recent (and beautiful) apocalypse. Sleep well, for tomorrow, there is much to celebrate...