Rev. Ken DeVries
the only next-to-last sequel to EVERYTHING

Übroain's cell hurt. It was the only thing left of his body after thousands of enhancements, and he wore it where his face would have been if he'd had a head. The needle of pain from his last cell was the only thing he'd felt for eight hundred years, and the more he thought about it the more it hurt. The more it hurt, the more he liked it.

Phylang's screaming roused Übroain from his reverie. The coffin-sized Control control chamber from which all controls of the Ultiversal McKillerator were controlled rang with the piercing nasal whine of Highest Transcriptivator of King Pain.

"Go butt yer dick, dickbutt!" Phylang shrilled to and about everything.

Dr. Yowlmangler bobbed and nodded and began a fading string of platitudes with, "Now Vaulmer..."

It was all so fapping pitiful, tragic, nauseating, Übroain thought. If only they hadn't busted Jesus 17 out of the Dimension L Hellplate, everything would be perfect. Famp, everything was perfect and always had been, and they all hated it, at least since the G'giggie Reinvasion. Hundreds of the Ulvafeeb Twins were dead and for what? For a brain the size of God, a brain so big it couldn't even think of thinking. It was the IRONY of it that got him. If the Carbonari's Dimension Gate had only been a scalcosecond faster, or slower, the Wartubs of the Garduna-Camorra Combine would have found nothing but smoking bugshells.

Übroain's clamps toggled Control controls rapidly, rechecking the triplechecked doublechecks again. Everything had to be perfect at the perfect time, for once. This time it would have to work. They couldn't keep failing forever. Yowlmangler didn't have much useful life left. Übroain centered a viewer on the Docster. The poor sorry Head-On-A-Stick bobbled and babbled, its whole body worn away over eons. Phylang's elbow popped onscreen, jabbing savagely at Yowlmangler's empty eyesockets.

"Vaulmer!" Übroain clanked, "Perform your Function!"

Phylang's hideous, weasely, pinched-up excuse for what should have been a face smooshed itself against the Visitron. "Bowel you, ya sweatnode! Yer butt's a dick of snot!" Phylang was stupid, inept, the ugliest thing living, and the worst cusser that could ever be imagined, but he was the only one crazy enough, in a universe of the insane, to pilot the McKillerator out of this hell of a paradise.

Übroain churned his Voxator. "We're coming up on one mintinac to first countdown commence. Make sure Jeeperdox is chained down."

"Crotch you, that sperm's a hell in the earwax!" Vaulmer shrilled, but obeyed, hobbling to the Jeeperbox and bumping into or tripping over everything on the way, even things on the ceiling, adding more blood and grime to the grungy film of pus, grease and smegma that coated every one of the millions of protruding objects, devices, units, and controls that cluttered every surface of the unimaginably cramped, sweltering, stinking Ultrakill machine, the deadliest Mechanical Murder Monster of all, EVER.

G.G. Jeeperdox buzzed in his Ultraglas boxful of pure 'N, the legendary drug so powerful it doesn't do anything at all. Two hundred inconceivably advanced entire alien races had been squashed like grapes and their fluids refined into this one boxful of 'N in which Jeeperdox hung vibrating, repeating, "Lemme eat the bone, Wilmer, Ah won't kill the Gurlthang agin," forty-three times a second as he had for a thousand years. Jeeperdox was of no conceivable help or use, but he was a good pal.

Vauler kicked the padlocks of the Jeeperbox, yelled dickbutt, and tripped bleedingly back to the needlepole. As the Hellscope dial neared black, Übroain popped a "FordoX bob'ster's" block into the reader and played his favorite, "Nose Up My Wheelhead, Professor Gik, Or Why," and countdowns began that same moment as the chrous of "Whose eyes are they, anyway." A hundred robovoxes blasted a hundred random countdowns as sirens thundered and whirling red lights glared from every spot that wasn't a display, control, or vent.

The McKillerator's fifty Grommler Snake-engines began gearing up and Dr. Yowlmangler neared consciousness as the mechnet's shining tubes shoved data into his stiff and crusty brain.

The countdowns reached zero, three or eight at about the same time, and Übroain honked, "Let's do it, Docster." Yowlmangler mentally clutched as Phylang crucified himself on the steering blades, and the doc popped the transy right into eightieth.

Blood spurted from Vaulmer's thumb as he pierced it with the knife that sent the signal to open the first of fifty thousand-mile-thick solid goldarnium garage doors. The sirens seemed to fade as the clatter of forty thousand spiked wheels on the frolenium floorplates rent the fabric of reality as the blast of fifty planet-sized engines and two million moon-sized sub-engines killed and revived Satan. The McKillerator doubled the speed of time in an instant and flashed down the first endless corridor toward the second door.

Again and again Phylang pierced himself with control blades controlled by Übroain, opening door five, nine, twenty, as Yowlmangler shifted to thousandth, billionth, skillionth gear, then kicked in overdrive with a roar that killed the dinosaurs again and made God's ghost into a woman built of fleas.

Phylang stuck a tamplon into the vagina on his forehead and yelled "Sputum!" as the cottony, absorbent alien was crushed between the three rows of teeth behind the pink, nubby lips. As his brain ate the tamplon he felt like he might feel if there were such a word as "good."

With a sound that split the universe in two twice, a million more louder sirens and klaxons drowned out even the unsurpassable sound already filling everything, and flashing red lights glared where there couldn't even be any. "Flink!" clanged Übroain, "The last door! It's jammed!"

Yowlmangler blinked empty sockets and wobbled on his stick. "Are we out of souls again?"

"Dick the buttsweat!" Vaulmer screamed, cutting his hands off with the door fifty control knife. They were nearing the impenetrable door faster than the speed of speed and when they hit they'd kill the God that made God, and they might even die again themselves. Übroain's cell turned inside out in terror, its mitochrondria and blastules whiring like blanks in a chainflailer.

Beneath all the sound beyond sound, an unnoticable buzzing changed. Yowlmangler's yellow lips cracked and split in a nightmarish rictus. "Whatchassy, G.G.?" he rasped uglily.

"Good Ploip!" Übroain creaked, "It's Jeeperdox! What's he saying, Docster?"

Phylang beat himself on the head with his squirting stumps, coating Yowlmangler with hot, steaming blood.

"He says.." Yowlmangler mumbled.

"Buttpoke the dickpore!" Yammered Vaulmer.

"He says... the..."

Übroain smashed a clamp against his shell. "The Head! Of course!"

They were meemoseconds away from the very smashing doom of all dooms themselves when Übroain yanked the Unbleedable False True Head of the World Champion Three-Dee Chess Player out of the Emergency Gold-Plated Velvet-lined Headbox Casket, slammed it into the breech of the Omnibore Hunktosser and rattled "FIRE!!!"

Phylang rammed his eye onto the fire blade and the Head blasted into the impervious door ninches ahead of the Ultiversal McKillerator's front grinders. With a sound that killed death, the door shattered into chips of time and emotion, leaving the way clear to freedom at last.

"We made it!" Übroain warbled.

Phylang yeebered madly on his spikes and jibbered "Sweatbutt! Buttdick the hair!!" like an anthem. Dr. Yowlmangler kicked the overdrive over into over-over-drive and rasped "...Head..." as if nothing had ever happened since Adam.

Far more suddenly than it had started, everything stopped. The McKillerator was instantly silent, dark, and immobile.

Vaulmer glanced into the for'ard vidisplay and wailed "Anus!!," tearing his head off with his stumps. Before Übroain could switch to a forward periscope he heard Jeeperdox, miles away on the other side of the vehicle, blast a massive fart which shattered the unbreakable Jeeperbox, turning himself inside out and dissolving Yowlmangler into living dust.

Übroain's claws chattered against the control switch. The forward display blinked up before his visiceptors and a moan tumbled out of the Ubrovox.

The last cell of Übroain's old body died of shame as it sensed what he saw. There, of course, was "Bob" again, waiting to take them back home.