Clipped to Gritt’s 200 oz. steak of a thigh was a stick of space-grade dynamite—the kind they used for mining on the moon colonies. He fetched it with his jalapeño-flavored pork rind-slicked paw and pressed down firmly on the detonator. He tossed it into a pile of used condoms near the entrance of Shark’s humble dwelling, and plugged his ears. In seconds the bomb exploded into a billion pieces, birthing an apocalyptic nut-busting sound that echoed across the dead land for many miles. Gritt’s buttcheeks undulated like a Jell-O casserole in zero gravity; he was deeply pleased by his own mayhem.

In the time it took for Gritt to inhale a single labored breath, the door to the brick house swung open violently. Gritt was sure he heard the guitar solo from “Freebird” erupting from deep within the dark void when a shirtless ten-ton goliath lurched into view. The man’s colossal body—whose individual parts had been carved from Satan’s obsidian throne, and glued together with meatloaf water and Cheeto dust—glistened sweetly now in the cold autumnal moonlight. It was Shark “Iron Gate” Gladitor, Gritt’s old war buddy and best friend.

Shark examined Gritt’s beautiful body. Battle-scarred, to be sure, but the old bastard was still in good shape for his age. Shark was silent for a moment. He considered that the man who stood before him now was potentially an elaborate hallucination who often visited him in dreams. Thinking he had nothing to lose, he addressed the ethereal fart cloud whom he missed so dearly.

I am about to publish something that is absolutely insane