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It’s a total cliché, to be sure, but Heatwheezy needs this wormhole in his head like he needs, well, like he needs a hole in the head.
Bad enough his combustible hairpiece won’t lay flat today and that he has to run this stupid meeting in an hour and his morning Peet’s was so bitter, but then to have this cosmic anomaly sprout from his temple? The worst.
Oh, and then the thing warps his blueberry scone to some far corner of the universe before issuing all kinds of galactically random garbage: jets of super heated dark matter, floating tendrils of primordial starsoup, a fleet of tiny alien warships, and this huge green hand that keeps slapping him across the face and slinking back through the singularity.
Wormhole? More like asshole.
