Twenty years had passed since the Foodening began—that is to say, the planet’s inhabitants perceived the passage of twenty years. It was quite the shock to everyone when the planet’s mass began to expand into something less resembling a singularity and they found that, in the eyes of the outside world, only a year had gone by.
Smik was fiddling with the engine of an old space taxi undergoing repairs at a garage when the planet once again took on its normal structure. He was thrown off the ground and hit the ceiling like a ragdoll before crashing back to the ground, disoriented, bewildered, and in a fair amount of physical pain.
“That was rude,” he informed the floor before the announcement was made over the speakers across the planet.
“ATTENTION FOODCOURTIA,” blared a voice in a nasally monotone. “THE FOODENING HAS NOW ENDED. PATRONS AND TOURISTS ARE WELCOME TO RETURN TO THEIR HOME PLANETS. DRONES ARE TO REPORT TO THEIR SUPERIORS FOR REASSIGNMENT. Uh… Oh. I’ve just been informed of an anomaly in the space-time continuum within the gravitational field of Foodcourtia over the course of—”
“DRONES?” Smik leaped to his feet, his spindly knees nearly giving way and causing him to topple over again. Peering from the window, the academy reject spotted his “coworkers” trudging sadly back to their posts. “This is a travesty… Yes, an injustice! Today is a holiday!”
“…so due to the confusion regarding, uh… time… and its complexities, it seems today is NOT Thankstallest after all. Time is a fickle mistress! It ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes like the stages of our six moons, except much less predictably, and without ketchup…”
The voice continued, though Smik no longer paid it any mind. He backed away from the window, fists clenched tightly in his gloves. “No,” he murmured aloud. “NO. I won’t be subjected to another round of this humiliating game. The blood of the Tallest runs through my veins! I’ve been planning this for twelve theoretical years! I can’t back down now! I will escape this nightmare of menial labor… No more thankless hours serving garbage to UNDERLINGS. I will… escape my place of ‘voluntary employment’! ….Today!” Jutting his chin out indignantly, he leaped into the space cab and adjusted his eyes. “Let’s see if I still remember how to do this…”
The ship was old. Naturally. Everything on Foodcourtia was old by the time the Foodening ended. Despite the space-time rift surrounding the planetary sludge pit of grease and shmiggles (a staple of Foodcourtia’s bile-summoning cuisine) technology had not been a subject of concern for the unfortunate inhabitants trapped beyond the fatty event horizon that swallowed them up. No spacecraft was capable of pulling free of the planet anyhow; at least, not during the Foodening. But even by Foodcourtia standards, the taxi was outdated.
So, several failed attempts at hotwiring the vehicle later, Smik sighed in resignation and slumped down into the seat. Moments from giving up completely, a glint of something shiny in the cupholder caught his eye.
“THE KEYS! Yes, yes, yes—AHA!”
With an unhealthy groan, the engine sputtered to life. Carefully, gently, Smik pulled on the controls…and the cab smashed through the ceiling of the garage, taking its rather startled passenger with it.
“Destination,” the taxi gargled in a robotic voice.
“Destination,” Smik echoed dumbly as onlookers outside glared up at the taxi, which had scattered roof debris all around the surrounding area. “Uh, oh, um, hm, well…”
“HEY!” an angry, six-legged blob of an alien threw a chunk of concrete at the taxi, causing it to wobble. “THIS IS A NEW SUIT! Y’GOT IT ALL DIRTY WITH YOUR ROOF SMASHING!”
Smik glared daggers back down at the creature and hissed in reply. “Who cares about your sssssstupid dirty suit? It was dirty before!”
“Destination,” the taxi repeated.
“WHASSAT SUPPOS’ TO MEAN? YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU DIRTY, MATE?”
“That won’t be necessary! I’m looking at you right now, yes, and you are the EMBODIMENT OF—”
“Confirmed.” The taxi’s windows automatically rolled shut. “Destination: Dirt.”
Smik barely had a moment to utter a, ‘Wait, what?’ before the taxi shot off into the sky.
“SHIP,” Smik screeched as they hurtled out of Foodcourtia’s atmosphere. “WHERE IS DIRT? Is that even a place?”
Smik glanced around unhappily as the ship’s computer nearly overloaded itself. The cockpit was beginning to heat up when the ship finally responded. “Unable to locate target: ‘Dirt.’”
“Related search: Earth. Target located. Continue to ‘Earth’?”
“Earth?” Smik murmured, scratching his head. Why did that name sound so familiar…?
“Confirmed. Destination: Earth.”
