The void resounds. Space seizes and warps as the bounds of relevance erode away to nothing but the wishful nostalgia of times passed. There is a hole in the middle of the universe, and it is hungry.



But the denizens of this particular iteration of Earth C don’t know it. All of this is just business as fucking usual for a planet plagued by war, continuous inclement ghost weather, and the general malaise of being absolutely severed from canon. They spend their days absorbed in the petty and pointless pursuits of “having jobs” and “raising families” and “falling in love”.



In the midst of this, a middle-aged man kneels in a garden. It isn’t his garden, and he already has a name, but we will begin our story with him regardless.



Plants, Jake has decided, are really the best sort of chums. They are quiet, friendly, and easy to please. All they need is a little water and fresh earth, and they are perfectly happy to lie there all day in the sun. And they don’t make increasingly inhumane arms deals and appear on talk shows expounding on the dangers of interspecies marriage. They have never, as far as Jake knows, fucked a clown.