There is no real way to forget one’s problems entirely. One may, however, imbibe such a large volume of scotch and soda that one’s mind (and liver) become sufficiently warped so as to view the problems in the light of happy accidents rather than depressing mistakes. Once one is drunk enough to disassociate from one’s problems, one may venture out of the saloon, into the road, sing a few bars of “How Dry I am” and get pulverized to a fine paste by a passing Lincoln Continental. Not passing by, you understand, passing through. Through you, if that wasn’t clear. Or rather, in this case, through Larry Finebaum. May he rest in paste. While this senseless tragedy would normally be marked up to a lapse in judgement on Finebaum’s part, and slight carelessness on the drivers, in this case the situation one such that Finebaum’s death bore investigation. Because, before being pureed by fate, he was the bearer of some rather important information from Jonathan Aeigh (To be pronounced “A” as in the letter) to Jonathan Bea (Also like the letter, not the letter “B” though, the same letter as before.) and if this information did not reach its intended recipient, it was all about to hit the fan. Not all as in, you know, all of the stuff pertinent to our little anecdote here and all the characters within, but rather just all. As in, everything. Ever. Because, the information the extremely intoxicated Larry Finebaum was carrying with him was not the location of a mob boss’s daughter, or a hidden treasure/cash cache, but instead the abort codes to a recently-and-by-recently-I-mean-twenty-minutes-ago-launched nuclear missile. And not just any nuclear missile either, because in the world of this particular story, the president, in the grip of an intense fever, had ordered all nuclear warheads to be merged into the same nuclear warhead, to be codenamed Sam, and given a small home in northern Mississippi, ever vigilant, should its services ever be required. So Sam sat, until this morning, or rather the morning of the day that the story you are reading takes place on, because really that’s all this is. No need for real alarm. It’s all harmless. Don’t look behind you. It’s fine. Anyway. This morning, what could be described as the Mother of all bombs was launched out of northern Mississippi, all though it would be incorrect to describe it this way, because, not only are bombs genderless, but also because instead of being so great so as to be comparable to the progenitor of every single explosive device known to man that will ever or has ever been created, it is a merging of all those bombs to make one extra-special-super-mega bomb. Like somebody had waited until they only had 1500 life points left in their last main phase and at that crucial moment decided to play polymerization to fuse every single american nuke into one big one and attack their opponent, but in doing so irradiate their own duel disk, and in fact the entire playing field, thereby rendering themselves and all their monsters infertile and mutated, possibly with cancerous illnesses. For those of you who have never played Yu-Gi-Oh, maybe come up with your own analogy, maybe involving Chess, or Half-Life, or Mission Impossible 4: Ghost Protocol, directed by Brad Bird, who also directed both Incredibles movies, or whatever you fancy, cultured heathens who don’t play Yu-Gi-Oh think of when you think of sticking a bunch of crap together and throwing it at someone. In the case of Mission Impossible 4: Ghost Protocol, this refers to the scene Tom Cruise sticks together a bunch of scenes of himself running to and away from things including but not limited to a sandstorm, enemy spies, and the inevitable passage of time, along with a bunch of scenes of fast cars doing things cool-ly and throwing it at cinemas and calling a movie. Run on sentence aside, if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably grown used to run on sentences. I haven’t once hit the enter key to make a new paragraph and you can be sure as hell that I’m not going to proofread this son of a

But I’ve gotten off topic. The fact of the matter was that Finebaum, and excellent agent by all accounts, was dead, liquified by the cruel fates, and with him so too was his vital, world saving information. Under any other circumstances, the White House would have sent out a crack-team of super-spies to intercept the enemy and disable that missile at! all! costs! The only problem with this plan is that Finebaum was, in fact, the last of a crack team of super-spies sent to intercept the enemy and disable that missile at! all! costs! Unfortunately for the entire gosh darn dag0blasted planet, his club soda at the bar he had been waiting to pass off the information to a fellow operative at had been spiked. Of course he had been drinking club soda, because imbibing such a ridiculous volume of scotch and soda whilst (Oooh. Whilst. Aren’t WE fancy?) on duty for the president his-or-her-we’re-not-really-sure self was a ridiculous notion such a stalwart, brave, and professional agent like Larry Finebaum would never have entertained even for a second. But it had happened that the enemy had spiked his drink with a poison that, when ingested gave very clear warning signs, signs Finebaum was able to recognize almost immediately, and was able to counteract with a scotch and soda. Unfortunately this was an issue, because, while the soda was necessary because without the scotch lacked the ability to cure the poisoning without the added sodium and H-little-2-0 of the Club Soda, it was also exceedingly detrimental, because the ENTIRE soda supply had been spiked, not just the glass Finebaum had been been drinking originally. The result was, Finebaum was unable to counteract the poisoning with just one drink, and, ignorant that the reservoir had been tainted, although he really should have been able to put two and two together, he just kept knocking ‘em back, until he was in such a state to waddle out of Dusty Bill’s Low Price Saloon like a constipated penguin on dental painkillers and go the way Olaf the Snowman in Frozen II: Olaf’s Reckoning, by which I mean he was, as previously stated, liquified. Shortly after Finebaum’s death, the agent who was to receive the information stepped out of his Lincoln continental and was immensely confused to find that there was nobody there to meet him. Instead of calling his superiors, he proceeded to enter the saloon and become immediately plastered, after all, Thomas Smith was not nearly as stalwart an agent as Finebaum, and, rather than calling his superiors, proceeded to become SO inebriated that he called his old boss in the CIA janitorial department and told him that he still loved him and had always loved him and then they went and got married the very next day. Or I assume they would have. Because they were both immediately vaporized as the force of every single nuclear warhead the great 48 and equally great but not continental two could muster slammed hard into the sands of a small, community beach in Northern Mississippi, because, after all, it would be physically impossible for such a missile to be able to go for more than a few measly miles before savagely rushing back to the Earth from whence it came. Thereby destroying not only the immediate area, but also literally everything else on the planet. Except for the potato crops in eastern Idaho and Southerly Russia. These seem like places one would grow potatoes, but I’ve honestly got no clue, and I’m not doing research for this hulking monstrosity of a TeenInk submission. Also, side note, is it weird that “teenink” and “Teenink” get spellchecked, but TeenInk is fine? Makes you think. About what, I’m not sure, but it does make you think, doesn’t it? Anyway, the warhead(s) wiped out everything on Earth besides some potatoes and those potatoes proceeded to take over the world. Not through any violence or aggression, but rather through just, you know, being the only thing left on it. They more usurped the world than took it over. Yeah, usurped. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Ha hahahahahahah what the hell was I thinking when I spent like, forty-five whole minutes writing this? It’s a beautiful day! I could be outside right now. It’s a beautiful day! The sky is still blue enough to be recognizable as day, but the first golden tints of evening are creeping in, but not really creeping, because they’re entirely welcome. More like butter on popcorn, but if the popcorn were blue. And the sky. And also so was the butter, but still the same color as butter. But it was also the sky. J***s, you know what? It’s really nice out. Make sense of this if you want, I’ve spent too much time on it not to submit it but… Jeez, you know? I’ve probably used more hyphens in this one essay (story? Naaaah.) than ever before in my entire life. I’ve probably caused a shortage. Whatever. have a nice day, I’m going for a bike ride.