Guardians of the Trump Galaxy

*The Guardians’ ship has just crashed onto a forested planet after a mysterious figure in an egg-shaped ship destroyed the Sovereign drones that were pursuing him. The Guardians emerge, their leader, Slum Lord, in front. He looks like Jared Kushner.

As they watch, the egg-shaped ship lands and a door dilates in one side. Out steps a figure with distinctive hair. He addresses them, Slum Lord in particular*

Figure: I’ve been looking for you for a while. I’m your father in law. My name is Ego. Come aboard.

Three of them board the organic ship. The door irises closed behind them, and it lifts off. There is a large-eyed quiet woman with them.

Ego: When I heard that you held 666 fifth avenue in your possession, I knew you must be my son-in-law. This is Mantilia. She helps me sleep.

The Egg-ship comes to a gaudily colored planet and lands. a ramp extends onto a platform, which flies off with them all.

Ego: This is Ego World. It’s all mine. I made it all, believe me. I have the best stuff here, the very best! Would you like a steak? A vodka? Wine? How about spring water? It’s the best. I serve it in all my hotels here. I even have my own University, over there. And this is my home – Ego Tower. Inside, in these dioramas, I tell the story of my life. You can also buy the book – The Art of the Ego. But let me tell you, making a world like this is nothing. I want to control whole galaxies, and for that, I need you.
How would you like to be in charge of making peace between the Kree and the Skrulls? I’d like you to be in charge of Innovation here, too. Maybe you can talk to China and Mexico for me, too. It’s a big galaxy.

“Sire!”

King Ego’s aide Toadeetwat comes running up, carrying a huge pile of papers in his 4 arms, some scattering before the four winds as he breathlessly shudders to a stop at the feet of his liege.

“What is it now, Toadeetwat…” The King intones wearily. “I have an important round of Gorp to play this afternoon-get to try out my nice shiny new Frumulenter on the gibbering hordes-I just love it when the go “Purk!” when I shoot them.”

“The Goobernurks demand an audience! You promised them 10,000 slave females in exchange for 5,000 tons of the opiate Hurlumex, but that was 3 months ago, and needless to say they are NOT happy at the non-consummation of the deal.”

“How many times have I told you, Toadeetwat, that interstellar diplomacy requires a deft touch. You promise them the universe, and simply keep insisting whenever they ask that the check is in the mail, the bride is in the box, and the illicit weapons simply need some more ‘testing’. Now, bother me no more with your idle concerns, I am going to go and put on the new battle gear that I ordered last week-the prismatic eye implants should allow me to run up my score quite nicely.”

King Ego’s trusty advisor Ban-Non slimed his way up to the galactic ruler. Years of hard living had transformed him into a pitiful creature. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken into his bloated face, his cheeks were puffy from a poor diet of unhealthy foods and too much alcohol, his corpulent belly shivered forward and back as he moved like some bowl filled with a fowl and odorous almost-alive gelatinous creature. King Ego normally berated his underlings when they did not meet his standards of dress yet Ban-Non and his grease-soaked shirt and foul pants somehow escaped such scrutiny.

“I do not trust this Slum Lord,” Ban-Non heaved. “He looks like a cluck.”

King Ego looked upon his advisor and pushed his own fleshy jowls together into a sphincter-like pucker. He raised his undersized hand on a stumpy arm to address Ban-Non.

“Nonsense,” he rasped back. “Slum Lord is the best. I know people have been talking that he knows things and he is yuge. He does the best things. When I was elected in a landslide as king, I won in all the polls. So I know the best when I see it and he’s married to my gorgeous, sexy, daughter, so he’s the smartest.”

Toadytwat approaches The King as he snores up a storm on his throne, drool and spittle issuing forth from his mouth.

“Your Magesty?”

<Snzzzk…Whaa?> “Oh, it’s you.” He blinks a few times, wiping the emissions from his quadruple chins. “How many times have I told you not to interrupt my daily naps, TT? I was having a lovely dream where I was whipping the Queen of Byzarp to within an inch of her life, as she begged me for more…”

“Perhaps Your Highness has forgotten his lunch appointment with the Ambassador of Elegarth, so as to secure a trade agreement? Recall he does not speak our language…”

“Ah yes, that miserable feckless excuse of an alien. But, not to worry my minion, as I have fully mastered all aspects and subtleties of Elegarthian, thanks to this translation phrasebook I got off of WeeBay, written by a ‘M. P. Ython’-so not to worry, I am fully prepared!”
After his shower, involving a dozen different automated wire brushes that vigourously scrubbed all filth from him from head to toe, the King donned his finest liveries for the upcoming meeting: a long sloping hat with a huge orange feather, orange robes, a gigantic ruby on his breast. Toadytwat drives him in the royal scooter to one of the Capital City’s finest restaurants (The Phat Phuck Noodle Bar), a full detachment of the King’s personal guards in a single file procession of vehicles (Ban-Non in the one behind The King’s). Heads turned on the sidewalks to behold the great man as he is propelled forward. Oh, how they do so adore me, he smiled.
They enter the restaurant (after his detachment fully sweeps the place, looking for any and all sundry of illicit devices, and in fact found 3 bugs and 1 IED under one of the tables…), and Ban-Non introduces The King to the Ambassador.

“Your Highness, may I present the Ambassador of Elegarth, Diatomeous Blendsplittle.”

“Ah,” replies The King, then proceeds to furiously flip through his phrasebook.

“Heriana defiosk breapens donker liness, caularra!”

I am no longer infected, darling!

At this the ambassador seems a bit taken aback. But the two parties then take their seats, a virtuous feast of victuals arranged on the table.

The King observes the wriggling food items in one dish…flipflipflip…

“Mmm, partenemis scarneradiets entiphas nessimpeakerns!”

My hovercraft is full of Rigellian Slime Eels!

The ambassador seems a bit puzzled.

The King, after gorging himself on a few handfuls of the eels, then directly addresses the Ambassador (flipflip):

“Ganiativalle desitaws batteranid, autorsions bitroes stifies?”

If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?

At this, The Ambassador’s pale green face turns a deeper shade of viridian.

“Viction publaculys Sho Wretopial, hornips scadve costbration!”

Drop your panties, Sir William, I cannot wait till after lunchtime!

The Ambassador starts to shake, a even deeper shade of green filling his face. His two mouths now both droop open, his face frozen in a shock of horror.

“Ni canagetayls spotia comming reciphrank!”

My nipples explode with delight!

At this The Ambassador’s head explodes, sending green ichor flying all over the restaurant.

“Good thing his species’ heads will regrow in a week or so. Come my minions, our work here is done! I am such a clever diplomat, aren’t I, Ban-Non?”

“Yes, Your Magesty,” he replies resignedly.

“Isn’t it utterly magnificent, Ban-Non?”

The King and his minions beheld a very awe-inspiring sight indeed.

On the viewscreen of the King’s Imperial Starship the UTC [United Trump Conglomerate] Av-a-rys was a huge grey ribbon, so long that it slowly dwindled into seeming nothingness on both ends.

The King continued.

“20 light years long, made of pure neutronium, which NOTHING of course can pass through or penetrate. My crowning achievement. A Wall so massive and undefeatable that not a single solitary alien parasite of any sort can ever enter our realm to trouble our citizens with their filth and lies ever again!”

“It is truly an amazing achievement, My Liege,” intoned Ban-Non.

“Of course it is amazing-I designed it and I built it myself! Well, that, and 2.5 quadrillion slave laborers of course…”

Just then a beeping noise commenced on the panel of the ship’s science officer, Mr. Splooge. On the viewscreen an uncountable multitude of tiny but brilliant lights were swarming above and below the wall and then making a straight beeline for the Capital Planet (Trumpopolis).

“What is happening?”

“Sire, I detect innumerable tiny spaceships passing above and below the wall and streaming towards our capital!”

“Wha? I do not understand. Explain!”

“They are apparently making use of that arcane and discredited notion of a “Z” Axis so as to bypass the wall and its defenses!”

“That’s preposterous! We all know that there is no such thing as a third dimension! All our Imperial Science instructors have been fully indoctrinated to disseminate the Truth to our pupils to make them passive but useful tools for our Empire!”

“Yet the proof of the Z Axis is right there on the screen!”

“Poppycock! Balderdash! Horsehockey!” raged The King. “We all know this third dimension nonsense is just a leftist heresy! Shoot them!”

“There are too many! Some are already beyond the range of our Fhallic Torpedoes!”

Just then a distortion appeared in the Wall.

“Now what?”

Splooge scans his instruments.

“Apparently there is a massive nearby gravitational distortion which is affecting the Wall!”

“Find it!”

The Wall continued to buckle and twist.

“Scanning…”

“It is on this ship! A massive singularity!”

“A what!? Here? How?!”

“As I said, a hugely massive gravitational point…” He scans his instruments one more time, in total disbelief.

“THERE!”

He points at The King as all heads swivel towards the great and glorious Emperor, all eyes wide with shock.

At this point the screen freezes-except for Splooge, who approaches the camera.

“The now-discredited crank physicist of the 253rd century, Albert Frankeinstein, once postulated that any sufficiently massive agglomeration of matter will always form a singularity, unless opposed by some outward pressure (be it fusion, electron degeneracy, or neutron degeneracy). Apparently The King has some sort of Degeneracy unique to his own person that prevents himself from collapsing completely. We now return to the story…”

[He returns to his seat, and the action resumes.]

The Wall (or rather, its remnants) is now looming large on the viewscreen.

“Full reverse warp speed, helm!”

“Yes, Sire!”

The ship retreats out of range as the Wall now proceeds to collapse slowly in upon itself.

“I will personally execute every last person responsible for this outrage! Third dimensions-bah! I will be in my Royal Quarters.” He waves to them all dismissively as he enters the turbolift.