“Hey, Mecha-TwiSpike?” I started, noticing my corporeality suddenly collapsed to one state for the first time in aeons.
“Yeah, Super Magnificent Excellent Wonderful Bounce House Trebuchet Trampoline Springboard?”
“I think something went wrong. I think this chapter got misplaced.”
“What makes you input that?” responded the 57.6æ-tall dual-headed cyborg.
“Well, our brain harmonizers are outputting EA-576LL Equish, a dialect that’s been dead for centuries, and I snooped around the information segments (which as you may recall were once called chapters) before and after this, and I’m not seeing any mention of the Great Bugbear Uprising or the Flurry Purges, to speak nothing of your mecha-fusion integration celebration.”
“Huh, yes, it does certainly appear we are both temporarily temporally and certainly cartesianally discombobulated, adrift in the sea of dimensions as it were.”
“Well,”
I transmitted, “as they say, when in Space Roam, do as the Space Roamans do.” Shall we entertain the priminoid creature currently siphoning this information with some nostalgic soundscapes from its era, specifically one particularly pertinent to our present predicament?”
“I do say,” Mecha-TwiSpike vocated, “that sounds like a positively gay time. I do enjoy this era’s quaint electronically dubbed stepwise tunage. Please, sir, drop that bass-infused bump.”
So I did:
“Ah, yes, The Perennial Grave Marker”. A perennial favorite of mine as it’were,” they responded, bobbing their heads to the beat.
“Say, Mecha-TwiSpike,” I suddenly vocalized, “do you want to make out?”
They considered this a splendid idea, and we almost immediately locked exterior proboscides in phosphorescent bliss.
Regardless of where I am in the history of the universe, making out always has been, always is, and always will be one of my many special talents.