You’re scavenging in the wasteland. You’re fighting with a rat over a Zagnut bar. The water all tastes of uranium, or the Super-Smallpox Strain, or Cthulhu urine. Everything sucks.
Hey, it’s the end of the world. You expect nothing more.
And then you see her.
Or maybe it’s a him. Who knows? Who cares?
She doesn’t. He doesn’t. It doesn’t.
(But “she” is convenient for your human tongue.)
She emerges from the vapors of heat, a dress made of solar panels clackity-clacking as she goosesteps toward you. Her hair, black as the Devil’s seed, is sculpted into something that looks like a dolphin and a shark wrestling, with lasers coming out of their eyes, crossing, forming a red ‘X.’ Her lips smell of pomegranate. Her breath smells of plastic.
Behind her, an armed guard of dildo-headed robots. The dildos that comprise their heads are purple, sparkly, wobbly. They do not carry weapons. They do not need to.
You stand in her shadow.
And yet, despite the darkness cast across you, you feel it: her light.
She exults in your exaltation. You have been chosen.
She tears away her solar dress, unfurling it away like a pair of mighty metal bat wings reflecting the harsh glint of an uncaring sun, and beneath her dress is a second dress. It is a dress made of babies. They are real babies. Living, not dead. They do not squall. They do not squirm. They wriggle only a little, and they wriggle with glee, for they are the future. They know what it means to be chosen. They are familiar with good fortune.
And then the wasteland goddess touches you on your brow with a magic wand made of old cell phones and bound with braided whip leather, and you feel yourself shrinking inside your clothes. Your hands go tiny. Your hair is sucked back into the follicles like spaghetti through eager lips. If you have balls, they crawl back up inside of you.
She handles you easily — after all, you only weigh nine pounds, maybe less. She finds the blank spot on her baby dress, a spot on her lower back, and that’s where she puts you.
The dildo-headed robot guards applaud. It is a clanking sound. clank clank clank.
She takes you and your other goo-goo-gah-gahing brothers and sisters, and she carries you toward her spaceship, which materializes out of nothing. The air shimmers when she touches the diodes upon her chartreuse fingernails, and there it is: a craft that looks like a Winchester lever-action rifle, covered in sequins.
You enter through the ammo chamber.
The lever cocks.
The rifleship levitates.
It is time to go home.
You are the future.
Lady Gaga is your master, now.