Not with a bang but a whimper, huh? Well that's just too darned bad. Our knuckleheaded ways shall never infest the world...
...or shall they?
Queue the Wayne's World dream sequence: dittle de doot... dittle de doot...
The setting:
It is the year 612 PE (Plutonian Epoch). Earth has long since been annexed by the Plutonian Methane Collalition and the War of 12 Planets is now 184 years in the past--both sides having taken their respective balls and gone home.
Archeologist Zingledary Bufoonerog, PHD, professor emeritus Saturn University (E-Ring campus) sputters down on his personal jetpack, landing softly on earth scorched from countless Anti-matter "tests" the Aztecs performed throughout the waning years of their empire. The region Prof. Bufoonerog choses is the Meccan District of the old Aztec Bad-Lands. An area renowned for it's tragic history, Mecca was once a central province in the mighty Aztec empire of olde earth.
Here, most scholars agree, is the cradle of modern thought. All that comprises our great Plutonian culture had its genisis in this once sovereign nation some four thousand years ago. And it is this cultural heritage Prof. Bufoonerog is most keen to study.
The problem is nearly as ancient as the great city of Mecca itself. For while it is clear Mecca's two larger-than-life leaders ruled concurrently, tragically, Pholkhero III and Rex Tyrannus the Great spoke different languages. Neopholkian Meccan, the coarse gutteral tongue of the province's useless third seems almost derived (bastardized) from the High Meccan King Rex so eloquently spoke and wrote.
Certainly we can translate the High (Rexian) tongue. His wisdown written in beautifully flowing verse has inspired statesmen for generations. Unfortunately, we have no means of understanding the base speech of Pholkhero and his decended misfits. We've no rationale for the city's collapse in 4813 BPE. For obviously time has tested Rexian wisdom. Our galaxy-spanning Plutocracy is based almost solely on the accounts of this beatific demigod. It is therefore with near certainty that we theorize the deeds and actions of the Phool of Mecca to be such absurd, mistake-riddled poppycock that even His Holiness could not overcome this handicap.
But to remove all doubt, we must find the key to Neopholkian Meccan; which is why our good professor is arrived on scene. Some days hence a ditch-digging simpleton named Knux Smif found a monolith that has recently been dubbed the Poinsettia Stone. This tablet supposedly carries three versions of the same text. One in High Meccan. One in Neopholkian Meccan. And the third in middle-era Aztecian ubber-gibberish: the first language to have a single word for "your head would look good on a pole".
With the care of a new mother, Bufoonerog removes a layer of dust and begins reading.
"For it is said:
285 score and one years,
Mecca shall near its doom.
But a lone soldier,
Bow in hand,
Shall steal forth,
Abandoning his post
When needed most gravely.
"To the lands of ice,
Far south of France,
He shall take with him
The hope of a nation.
Hidden in his pants,
A settler.
The seeds of an empire.
"The Knuckleheads shall return!"
To be continued in PR02, but we ain't telling what it's called yet.
"
