The Reality Supremacist cohort, a violent group that promotes objective reality and punishes imaginative people, has recently commandeered a biker bar in Bondsville to be their headquarters. They hold “daydreamers” prisoner there while they scheme, drink, rant, and rave. So loud was the rowdy crowd that it drew in a hoard of vocal cord-ravaging “noise moths” from a nearby mountain top quarantine. The result was deadly.
Beforehand, the Reality Supremacists had been watching videos of skiing accidents, car crashes, and other terrible happenings on the bar television, drinking whiskey and muttering to each other something like “wow, now that’s a dose of reality” each time they witnessed something brutal.
A grotesque broken leg — “That’s what they get for straying from life’s most direct path.”
A kid’s thumb cut off in a garage door — “Young adventure-worshipper shouldn’t have been so curious.”
The Reality Supremacists kept the windows open even during the Winter. “The cold reminds us of the harsh realities of the world,” one member said. “That’s why the southern hemisphere is jampacked with daydreamers. Everyone should live in the North, at least in New England and preferably in Canada.”
When shit hit the fan, a slough of starving, biting noise moths flew through the open windows and into belligerent babbling mouths. They bit deep into people’s vocal cords. Victims fell to their knees in agony screaming. The screams attracted more moths, who devoured the reality supremacists from the inside out.
In his last words, an inebriated man claimed, “the inability to speak, now that’s some good reality”, before doubling over in painful silence, shoving his hands down his throat, trying to extract the biting noise-moths from his esophagus.
People fought back, slapping moths with cheeseburger plates and barstools, but it was of no use. The onslaught was vicious and without relief. Supremacist after supremacist dropped dead or muted from the noise moths. Bystanding farmers and bikers were caught in the crossfire as well.
But, on came a glorious blast of green, stinky lasers with strands of pubic hair trailing behind them. Guns blazing, the headmaster of the Reality Supremacists emerged from the safe room. His followers cheered. He had the STD ray gun duct-taped to a trident as he masqueraded about, launching blasts of liquid disease at the hoards of noise moths, knocking them down and impaling them like shish kabob.
When hit by a blast, the noise moths would drop to the ground. Upon gathering themselves, they would no longer be interested in noise. They’d fly frenetically in all directions, preoccupied with internal struggles. The fight dissipated.
In the wake of this ambush, the reality supremacists were weakened enormously. All but their leader lost their vocal cords, and many innocents were infected with sexually-transmitted diseases.
We are glad to say that some imprisoned Peripheral Intelligence Agency agents were able to escape during the ruckus.
The Reality Supremacist headmaster rounded up the remaining prisoners and his now-mute squadron. With no vocal cords, the supremacists clapped and grumbled. Their leader tied them all together with a strand of rope, so that he could lead them by pulling instead of speaking.
“Words are imaginary. We are more real without them. I will lead. You will follow. Let us live the realest life.” His followers shook with excitement. “We must leave this place, for it is soiled now. These bugs are infected. Let us go to the mountain caves”. And so they went, dragged by a rope, led by a trident with a weighty noise moth impaled on its end, into the caverns of Mount Tom.