An Ignoble Defeat - an IGNOBLE story for Fairy Tale Friday, 14th November 2014
It was the smackdown to end all smackdowns. Or, more accurately, 'twas the smackdown to begin all smackdowns, given that it took place in the superheated miasma that spewed forth following the Big Bang, and therefore predated the vast majority of all things.
The combatants were two warring factions, brought to a head by literal nanoseconds of animosity. Seven friends, Helium, Neon, Krypton, Argon, Xenon, Radon, and Gisellium stood tall (figuratively, their untameable atoms being incapable of either standing or tallness) and faced down their enemies. They were the Noble Gases, and across the rapidly expanding vacuum that lay before them, hovered their anathemas: The Ignoble Plasmagorians (or "gases").
Their leader was Damnium, a fearsome adversary, his right-hand element a fetid, choking smog named Guffonium, and HIS lackey a duplicitous knave named Rogon. Filling out the wretched septet were Twatton, the annoying, the megalomaniacal Despotium, Moron the ignorant and the cruellest and most hateful of all, Torium, the stale.
They leered at their foes, inviting them to unleash their pent-up might and visit upon them the full brunt of their limitless power. But it was not to be, for at that moment Gisellium ended the stand-off and hurtled into the netherspace between them, just as Moron broke ranks and did the same. Their erstwhile comrades watched aghast as the two deserters met in the infinite void, and combined, creating a compound of pure, unadulterated love.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then, incensed by their brazen display, Damnium led the charge, sweeping across the vastness of the infant universe, his five remaining goons in tow, and loosing hell on the happy couple, shattering their covalent bonds into nano-motes of infinite nothingness, and delivering them unto oblivion.
The remaining Noble Gases were shaken from their stupor, and, enraged by Damnium's brutality, let battle, well and truly, commence. The war raged for millennia, claiming innumerable star systems, sucked into the fray no sooner than they had been formed, and spewed out as a fine, cosmic dust. The War of the Gases seemed fit to wage for eternity, when Helium, with his last ounce of strength, delivered a final, mortal blow to Damnium, nutting him on all his nuclei at once. Damnium recoiled, and fell, evaporating in a puff of defeatism.
Helium looked up at Damnium's depleted horde, and uttered one simple command:
"Run."
The Ignoble Gases didn't need telling twice. They fled to the far reaches of the universe, never to be heard of again.
Helium beckoned his bruised and bloodied brethren near, and said:
"We've lost a dear friend this night, but our enemy is vanquished, and harmony happily restored. Rest you, you kings of matter, you elemental sprites, for our work here is done. We shall from this day forth, be known as the Inert Gases. Never again shall we stir to breech the peace which we've fought so hard to win these millions of years. For now, rest you, I pray."
Then he farted.
Gassy fucker.
THE END.
The combatants were two warring factions, brought to a head by literal nanoseconds of animosity. Seven friends, Helium, Neon, Krypton, Argon, Xenon, Radon, and Gisellium stood tall (figuratively, their untameable atoms being incapable of either standing or tallness) and faced down their enemies. They were the Noble Gases, and across the rapidly expanding vacuum that lay before them, hovered their anathemas: The Ignoble Plasmagorians (or "gases").
Their leader was Damnium, a fearsome adversary, his right-hand element a fetid, choking smog named Guffonium, and HIS lackey a duplicitous knave named Rogon. Filling out the wretched septet were Twatton, the annoying, the megalomaniacal Despotium, Moron the ignorant and the cruellest and most hateful of all, Torium, the stale.
They leered at their foes, inviting them to unleash their pent-up might and visit upon them the full brunt of their limitless power. But it was not to be, for at that moment Gisellium ended the stand-off and hurtled into the netherspace between them, just as Moron broke ranks and did the same. Their erstwhile comrades watched aghast as the two deserters met in the infinite void, and combined, creating a compound of pure, unadulterated love.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then, incensed by their brazen display, Damnium led the charge, sweeping across the vastness of the infant universe, his five remaining goons in tow, and loosing hell on the happy couple, shattering their covalent bonds into nano-motes of infinite nothingness, and delivering them unto oblivion.
The remaining Noble Gases were shaken from their stupor, and, enraged by Damnium's brutality, let battle, well and truly, commence. The war raged for millennia, claiming innumerable star systems, sucked into the fray no sooner than they had been formed, and spewed out as a fine, cosmic dust. The War of the Gases seemed fit to wage for eternity, when Helium, with his last ounce of strength, delivered a final, mortal blow to Damnium, nutting him on all his nuclei at once. Damnium recoiled, and fell, evaporating in a puff of defeatism.
Helium looked up at Damnium's depleted horde, and uttered one simple command:
"Run."
The Ignoble Gases didn't need telling twice. They fled to the far reaches of the universe, never to be heard of again.
Helium beckoned his bruised and bloodied brethren near, and said:
"We've lost a dear friend this night, but our enemy is vanquished, and harmony happily restored. Rest you, you kings of matter, you elemental sprites, for our work here is done. We shall from this day forth, be known as the Inert Gases. Never again shall we stir to breech the peace which we've fought so hard to win these millions of years. For now, rest you, I pray."
Then he farted.
Gassy fucker.
THE END.
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