Trucks Will Rule the World

by Smokey the Bear

Over the last few months I have been slowly growing to realize the horrible truth behind who runs this world: the Trucks do. Keep reading to find out the shocking reality behind who owns your mind. The evidence has been carefully assembled into the following case, which soon shall be presented before the Supreme Court.

On February 29th, 1955, I was walking peacefully down the side of a road, humming to myself the moving theme song to "Star Trek: The Next Generation." The Truck roared by and called me a dork. I was offended! I hunkered down in the woods and hid, peeking out every so often at frightened pedestrians who took off running. They must have seen It too. When the sun fell off the edge of the earth, I crept out from my hiding spot, and shuffled along down the street as quickly as possible, keeping my face hidden from the satellites which surely were tracking me. You see, I give off radiant beams of superpower energy, and the CIA's satellites go ballistic upon finding one. They unfurl a beam of technological energy, and our beams fence. I am Luke and they are the Darth Vaders.

But anyway, I ducked into a bar. Inside were three men, a dead woman secured to the ceiling with a pitchfork, and a giant spider serving drinks. All three men stared at me. Dumbasses. I cover every inch of skin with duct tape for a reason - the air corrodes our life force, slowly degenerating our bodies. Insolent fools like them call it "aging." After a short pause, I approached the spider, and requested a cocktail. What kind, it asked. The kind with alcohol, I replied. The spider clumbered off, pierced Joe's abdomen with its fangs, and drank his guts. The slurping sound reminded me of the sound of the Blizzard machines at Dairy Queen. It proceeded to spat out the processed Joe in the form of the alcoholic cocktail I desired - up my nose! I screamed furiously, and got into a mad cool bar battle with the spider. I ripped a leg off, and stabbed it in the face. It died, spewing alcoholic cocktail everywhere. I mopped it up with Joe's limp, drained form, and drank. Delicious! Then the Truck exploded through the wall in a terrific crash of shattering glass and splintering wood. I yanked the pitchfork out of the ceiling, and the woman's pale form thumped into the ground. It fizzled ferociously, so I stabbed it a few times for good measure. But my games were rudely interrupted by the Truck running over my foot. I shifted my voice into low gear and roared. The Truck suffered fifteen bajillion hit points of damage and burst into flame. I laughed trimphantly, victoriously hurled the pitchfork onto the moon, and charged out of the place, crying out my gospel to the people in the streets. They screamed and ran. I suppose they'd seen the Truck, and their nerves were a little frayed already. Poor people, I guess I'll have to try speaking the Word later. Tired, I lept in an open second floor window, and slept violently on some twisted steel girders.

I dreamt dangerously that night. I was swept into the darkest chasms of Hell, where an army of Trucks awaited the command of the Grand Truck of Satan. Satan, in the meantime, stood anxiously at the pedestal. "Hear hear," cried Satan. "Hail the arrival of my great Truck!" Most of the Trucks cheered, but a few snickered. He threw his fist towards the festering ceiling of Hell, and bellowed "No, for fuck's sake It's not a fucking Chevy!" And with that, the disrespectful Trucks who'd smiled and laughed detonated with a terrific flash, their debris scattering over the other trucks as a reminder of the greatness of the Grand Truck of Satan. Then It arrived - the greatest of all trucks, the tormenter of the most shattered shells, the consumer of the most broken souls - Grand Truck! "Vrooom!" It thundered as It burst into the chamber.

"We will take over the world!"

"Raaah raaah AARRRRR!" replied the Truck horde.

"We will do it now!"

"YYAAAAARRR!" replied the Truck horde.

"But there is only one who can stop us!" The Truck horde fell silent, and stared, worried eyes growing wide. "That one is SMOKEY!" An uncomfortable murmur passed through the army. "He knows he can, too! His psychic genius has enabled his remote viewing capabilities to expand to seeing this very meeting!"

"NO!" yelled a careless, rebellious young Truck, who exploded, Its shrapnel littering the chamber as yet another reminder of the Grand Truck's greatness.

"Smokey is viewing this in his sleep! He now knows the only way we can be stopped is if he can post a summary of his tale at totse.com, and have it forever archived by the gods of totse!"

"Why'd you say that, you fuckin' idiot? There's no fuckin' way smokey knew this earlier!" an angry truck protested.

"Shut up! Die! BURN!" and the Truck exploded.

Then the Grand Truck turned to face my all-encompassing spirit in the vision, and said: "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Suddenly I was awake, gobbling up girders in a hungry panic. I remembered what I must do. I marched off into traffic, dancing like a fairy over rooftops all the way home. I cracked open a pepsi, sat down at the computer, and typed: "www.totse.com"

And so, here I am.