Four silhouettes took shape in the fog. Trudging slowly forward, Dr. Pants came into view, oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, masks over their faces.

“I know this is serious and all, but am I the only one struggling not to make Darth Vader noises?” asked Dustin. “Not telling each of you that I’m your father is killing me.”

Kenneth snickered.

“My mom does think you’re handsome,” he said. “But I just don’t see it working out.”

David held up his hand, signalling them to stop talking and stop walking. Crouching to the ground, he peered through the green-blue vapor that had displaced the air. The oxygen was almost totally gone. In its place: nitrogen and argon, among other things. And through the mist, he thought he could see the loping shadows of the 17-legged beasts that had colonized the Paseo.

He pulled back into line and drew his croquet mallet from it’s sheath. The others followed suit. Kenneth with a cricket bat. Dustin a 2X4. Devin a pair of sharp wooden claws that were usually employed when he made a Caesar salad.

It was upon them all too quickly. It’s green legs turned black with fury as it jumped at them, eye a blazing orange fire, but it crumbled to the ground like a whithered white piece of styrofoam when Kenneth knocked it out of the air.

“I told you wood would do the trick,” said Dustin.

They trudged up the hill. The atmosphere was so dense, it was easy to forget the buildings roping them in on either side. Would anyone survive, they wondered? How many had escaped? Would Sauced ever open on a Monday? Because sometimes you just need a slice of pizza and it doesn’t make sense to be closed on a weekday like that.

Below their feet, the pavement had changed. Something crunched under the weight of their steps. Without speaking, the band shared a glance. Nothing they would see under the cloudy cover would make them feel better, so they pressed on.

An unearthly chittering faded in from the silence. From the left. From the right. And above. They wanted a Gas Planet, not just to live, but to breed. And their spawn were itching for a fight.

“Guys…if we don’t make it out of this…” Devin said. “It’s been fun.”

The wails grew louder. The crunching came from everywhere. Weapons raised, Dr. Pants faced out into a blank canvas, hiding an army of attacking colonizers. If they had a chance to win the day, it was a slim one.

But nobody — NOBODY — terraforms Oklahoma City into a gaseous wasteland. Especially not at Picasso’s. Especially not during Happy Hour.

(Written by Greg Elwell)