Busy week, busy week. Avoided matchmakers, done more work on the robot, thwarted another plot by Cercopagis, AND had a bit of a party. Things got a bit hot and sweaty, in other words.
First off, I got to get my hands back in the game. It almost makes it seem like I’m not doing anything useful if I’m not hands-on, though I suppose that’s the downside of being Emperor of Earth. That, and The Claw’s taken it on himself to insist, according to his duty, that I need to work on having an heir as soon as possible. He even knows a few likely candidates. The crazy Japanese crime boss who murdered her own parents and holds her own against the Yakuza by sheer ferocity almost sounds like a winner, but something tells me she’s not the domestic type. Then again, I don’t know what I want in a woman beyond not betraying me. I suppose actually caring about her as a person would be nice for a change.
I don’t trust The Claw to arrange me a baby momma anyway. I knock up some woman, and then I die under mysterious or, hell, inevitable circumstances. Claw claims that the baby has a right to rule, and he uses the baby as an excuse to grab onto the power. Ya know, holding onto it until the kid is old enough. If he even let the kid stick around, he or she’d just be a puppet.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m getting enough offers from the public. There’s plenty of people attracted to wealth, power, infamy, and “that hot, evil ass,” to quote someone. I’m half-convinced that was Technolutionary continuing to obsess over me.
Unfortunately, more than a few people have noticed my tendency to bring things back around to Venus. She would not be amused by the lookalikes emailing me their photos, wearing masks and little else. I think I recognized a couple of them. The boobs, I mean. The women had masks on.
That doesn’t mean I’m not getting any male attention. I got dick pics out the wazoo, and a few pictures of male wazoos, too. It’s just that there’s less pressure on me to get involved with them due to the whole “founding a dynasty” thing.
It’s weird, it takes up too much of my time, and they’re all only begging for my baby juice because I saved the world. Believe it or not, most of them don’t care that I upped the ante and almost crashed us into the moon. That’s just one of those crazy people things. Sadly, I’ve received no interest from Andreja Pejic, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Beth Riesgraf or Felicia Day.
Enough about love. I mentioned earlier my hands were busy, then went on a tangent about women sending me dirty pictures. In retrospect, this may have given people the wrong image about me. I meant to talk more about getting my hands dirty assembling pieces of my robot and its armament. This planet isn’t as far along technologically as the one I came from, so it’s been almost impossible getting the factory teams to churn out a good electro-rifle. I had to settle on shoulder-mounted Tesla Coils instead. Aiming them is a simple matter of manipulating ions.
On the plus side, the goo spewer is functioning perfectly. It fires a mixture of gunk that ignites after a couple seconds of contact with the air. The ammunition’s a bit tricky to make and store, but I know a thing or two about chemistry. After all, I’ve got people sending me naked pictures. And again, if anyone over there is considering it, breeding age is important. Even if I was a cougar hunter, post-menopause means no heirs!
Yep, diving in and assembling my giant robot helped to put me at ease, especially once I ignored the cries and pleas of my subjects. All inquiries were to be formally logged with either zone representatives or a member of the Thirteen Electric Eyes.
It’s been so long since I had the joy of throwing a giant foot together. Hell, even my armor is formulaic. Stagnant. I need to upgrade it as well. I’ll never have the time if I have to constantly worry about threats like playing moon chicken or solving global warming.
Ah, yes, that brings me to the other attempt by Cercopagis Lysis. I have, on a whim, looked at plans for reversing climate change. It’s one of those major problems I always thought proved the folly of mankind. Even the ones with enough sense to admit its happening sometimes claim that there’s no proof mankind had a hand in it, then somehow use that to reckon that there’s nothing mankind can do about it.
In fact, I just took a moment to order in a pair of grabber drones. Like a claw machine, the great hand of his new god has moved to pluck him out of the detritus…and they are flying to drop him off on an iceberg. No, wait. I’ll redirect them toward polar bear country. Poor bastards have already lost enough of their land, might as well throw the bears a bone. Or an entire skeleton, why not?
So I have had it in the back of my mind that that’s one of the things I needed to fix, but I’ve avoided doing anything about it with all the other concerns, like expanding Earth’s food resources to accomodate continued population growth or handling Earth’s energy needs.
Here’s what happened. Cercopagis’s moon base fired a large laser that burned brief but intense. It flashboiled part of the ocean north of Russia, but that’s not all it did. According to some people who don’t get paid enough to put up with all this shit, as anyone who looks into research grants would know, that rapidly melted a huge layer of permafrost on the seabed and released a lot of methane.
“However he did it, it’s incredible he didn’t set it all off!” the fellow told me over the phone.
Hmm. Have to file that idea away under “Scorched Earth,” for whenever I get booted off my throne.
Such a rapid escalation in greenhouse gasses was set to have a pretty big effect, but it got worse when additional beams struck from the moon over the course of the next few hours. The calls of the climatologists got frantic until, my last time, they didn’t pick up at all. Surveillance showed they’d degenerated into an orgy. For scientists measuring something that could have a catastrophic effect on humanity, that’s a bad sign. That’s the literal “Fuck It,” level of danger.
I needed a solution, fast. Gradual wouldn’t do it. That idea some people had, to float a hose and pump sulfur into the atmosphere? Too small scale for me. I needed a hell of a lot more than that. I needed…bombs.
You know that quote about a room full of monkeys pounding randomly at typewriters and the works of Shakespeare? I needed a bunch of monkeys to pound away at a series of devices built quickly and to my specifications.
Take an F-Bomb and make it bigger, heat resistant, and louder. A hell of a lot louder. Forget shattering skyscrapers. These things are practically nukes of the sonic bomb world. I built thirty all across the world. Again, this took away from building parts for the giant robot, but I can’t use a giant robot to stop the rapid increase of global warming. Laser-induced permafrost farting got me into this mess, but it’d take more than just breaking wind to get the Earth out of it. To save the world, I needed to break the earth. In a good way. At least, in a survivable way.
I bombed several active volcanoes around the world to open up holes. Then, I flew in the Earth Breakers. Not me, myself, personally. I had lots of helicopters. Some for the Earth Breakers, others were firefighting copters loaded with just water. I dropped in the Earth Breakers next and let them sink away.
Then came a series of blasts that were very much not silent, but still quite deadly. Along with creating an opening, the bombing runs messed with some of the pressure on the magma. The Earth Breakers loosened up a lot more rocks, opened up pathways to more magma, and formed bubbles. Then came the firefighter helicopters that flew in and dumped water into the same holes the Earth Breakers fell through.
The pilots didn’t wait around for my orders to get the hell out of there, not that I blamed them. The timing in how I did things isn’t an exact science, but things paid off quickly enough that they were likely grateful I assigned them brown pants with yellow stripes for mission uniforms.
All around Earth, in almost all of the volcanoes I bombed and watered, wonderful seeds of salvation bloomed. Or should I say, eruptions. Boom, bitch, get out the way!
And that, dear readers, is the recipe for Psycho Gecko’s special, most realistic Volcano Cake. Don’t try it at home, unless you don’t want the home. I don’t recommend eating it unless you need more sulfur in your diet. And all it required was a drastic increase in aerial particulates to absorb or reflect sunlight so it can’t reach ground level and become trapped on Earth.
Sure, a lot of doom-sayers came out of the woodwork over the combination of rapid methane release and then huge volcanic eruptions around the world, but my administration has been a boon for anybody profiting from such things. Gun stores, churches, televangelists, gold sellers, survivalist profiteers, and all that mess. Joel Osteen ought to name his latest private jet after me, if he even bothers naming them anymore. I am the anti-Christ, according to some people. Then again, religion’s full of the kinda people who think the others are evil for taking the wrong day of the week off. It doesn’t particularly scare me to be called such. If anything wants to smite me, it knows where I’m staying: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s a big, white house.
The climatologists got back to me on another phone call, out of breath from their apocalyptic sexual escapades, and confirmed that I did, indeed, save the world again. From both alien-made climate change and man-made climate change. So, having done yet another good deed through an act that otherwise would have been something to ransom the world with, I set about throwing a little ball.
Y’all know me. I like holding balls. And this one wasn’t for charity or for fancy dress. No, this time I held my ball for pleasure. It was a good way to let off steam. Ya know, for people, since the planet just let off a lot of steam. Besides, some people were beginning to catch on to the fact that I’m unlikely to do anything to kill myself, which at least hints at the possibility of their survival.
So I got washed up, tossed some stuff in my armor to work on the smell, and went out to have myself the first get-together in the White House Presidential ballroom that ever featured AC-DC since Nancy Reagan brought all those pot brownies. The things you learn with access to all those confidential files.