The Great Imp-pocalypse Prank-ening

John Egbert was pretty sure this was the best day ever. Not because he had just unlocked a new level in Sburb, or because his dad had finally bought him those weird-looking candy corn-flavored jelly beans he’d been pestering him about for weeks. No, it was because Dave Strider had just shown up at his door wearing a full-body cardboard robot costume, complete with tinfoil antennae and a speaker that played a tinny rendition of the Imperial March.

“Dave, what the hell?” John laughed, leaning against the doorframe. “Is this part of your ‘ironic cosplay’ phase? Because I’m pretty sure that’s just a refrigerator box.”

“No, no, this is serious, man,” Dave said, his voice muffled through the cardboard. He struck a pose that was probably meant to be intimidating but just made the box wobble dangerously. “I’ve been monitoring the imps’ movements, and they’re planning something big. Something… cheesy.”

“Cheesy?” John raised an eyebrow. “Are we talking about Gouda-level threat, or more of a Parmesan situation?”

“Full-on Limburger, dude. They’ve been stockpiling pizza ingredients in the medium. I think they’re trying to build a giant pizza-themed weapon of mass destruction.” Dave’s tone was deadpan, but John could see the corner of his mouth twitching under the helmet’s cardboard visor.

“Okay, first of all, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Second, why are you dressed like a robot?”

“Because it’s my secret identity, obviously. I call myself… The Ventilator.” Dave paused for dramatic effect, but the only sound was a faint fart noise from the speaker. “Okay, that was the cat. But seriously, we need to stop them before they unleash the Great Pizza of Doom.”

John sighed, but he was grinning. “Alright, fine. Let me grab my hammer. But you’re explaining this to Rose when she inevitably yells at us for messing up the timeline.”

They entered the Medium through John’s Sburb client, landing in a patch of obsidian plains. Sure enough, a horde of imps was dragging suspiciously circular objects toward a massive structure in the distance: a towering, volcano-shaped oven, with a giant pepperoni on top like a flag.

“I stand corrected,” John said. “That is definitely a pizza-based weapon.”

“Told you,” Dave said, striking another pose. This time his costume fell apart, collapsing around his ankles. He stepped out, adjusting his shades. “Uh, preliminary strategy: I distract them with my incredible dance moves, you smash the oven with your wind powers.”

“Your dance moves are just you flailing around to trap beats, Dave.”

“Exactly. It’s so bad it’s good. They won’t know how to react.”

Before John could argue, Dave was already running toward the imps, doing what he called the “Irony Breakdown.” It looked like a seizure. But somehow, the imps stopped what they were doing and stared, their beady eyes tracking his jerky movements with confusion.

John sighed, summoning his hammer. He took a running start, pumping the air with a gust of wind that propelled him toward the oven. The imps noticed him too late. He swung the hammer downward, crackling with wind energy, and smashed the base of the oven. It toppled with a satisfying groan, sending a cascade of pepperonis rolling across the landscape like boulders.

“Victory!” John shouted, pumping a fist.

But then the pepperonis started to glow. And pulse. And then they exploded, sending cheese and sauce everywhere.

John landed splat in a puddle of mozzarella, while Dave was knocked off his feet by a flying piece of crust. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t victory,” Dave said, wiping sauce off his shades. “But it was definitely awesome.”

From the rubble, a giant imp emerged, wearing a chef’s hat and wielding a pizza peel larger than a car. It roared, flinging a disc of dough at them like a frisbee.

“New strategy!” Dave yelled. “You distract, I do the smashing!”

“That’s the opposite of what we just did!” John retorted, dodging the dough frisbee.

“Exactly! They’ll never expect it!”

John groaned but pulled out his hammer again. He charged the imp, creating a whirlwind of condiments and spare toppings. The imp swiped at him with the pizza peel, but John ducked under it and hit the imp’s leg with a gust of wind. The imp stumbled, and Dave saw his chance.

He pulled out his sword, which he’d just been using as a back-scratcher, and ran up the imp’s back, leaping onto its head. With a dramatic slow-motion (mostly because he tripped), he drove the sword into the chef’s hat. The imp froze, then deflated like a balloon, leaving behind only a spray of parmesan dust.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Dave said, brushing off his hands. “Another victory for the Ventilator.”

“You’re such a dork,” John laughed, shaking his head. But he was smiling. “Come on, let’s get back. I think I have pizza sauce in my hair.”

As they walked back toward the portal, Dave pulled off his shades and looked at John. “Hey, for the record, that was fun. We should do this more often.”

“What, fight giant pizza monsters?”

“Yeah. Or just hang out. I mean, you know, without the impending doom.” Dave shrugged, a rare moment of sincerity.

John grinned. “Sure, Dave. But next time, leave the cardboard robot at home.”

“No promises, Egbert. No promises.”