Frank sits with his arms folded, glaring at the infinite sea of cheese as his companions debate whether they can "spiritually transcend the edge" or "manifest a new dimension." Meanwhile, Trump is trying to take a selfie with the wall and Zoot is passionately lecturing about the metaphorical significance of cheese.
Suddenly, a strange noise breaks the monotony: a low, ominous hum. Flower Power Dalek’s sensor light flickers as it turns toward the sound.
Flower Power Dalek: “Comrades… do you hear that? The sound of cosmic imbalance?”
Frank (annoyed): “I hear a lot of things. And none of them are helping.”
Trump (still trying to position himself for the perfect selfie): “I hear greatness. Me, front and centre. I’ll be a hero. I’ve always been a hero. They’ll love me on the other side.”
Suddenly, a massive ship appears on the horizon, cutting through the cheese like a knife. It’s a Rescue Vessel, but not just any rescue vessel—this one is sailed by a team of disgruntled bureaucrats.
The Flat-Earther squints through the fog of cheese.
Flat-Earther: “Oh no. No. It’s… them.”
Frank (eyes narrowing): “I know that look. This is either going to be the worst thing to happen to humanity since the invention of the celery stick, or it’s going to be spectacular.”
Zoot (leaning forward, her passion undeterred): “What a beautiful moment! Look, Frank! The bureaucrats are here to rescue us!”
The bureaucrats land with pomp and circumstance, each of them holding an absurdly large stack of paperwork. They step off the ship in unison, wearing identical grey suits and glasses that scream "mediocrity."
Lead Bureaucrat (in a monotone): “You there. All passengers must complete Form 43-B for transport to the Escape Zone.”
Frank (deadpan): “Escape Zone? You mean the one that’s as real as the tooth fairy?”
Lead Bureaucrat (unfazed): “It’s a standard procedure. You cannot leave without Form 43-B. And the application must be submitted in triplicate, notarised, and processed by the Complaints Department.”
Frank (sarcastic): “Oh, of course. Because when you’re stranded in a sea of cheese, the first thing you need is paperwork. Make sure you also need a fingerprint and retinal scan while you’re at it!”
Flat-Earther (furiously shuffling through the stack of forms): “Where’s the edge form? Where’s the edge form?! I need to declare this as a discovery!”
Frank: “You’re not discovering anything except maybe the need for a better hobby.”
Trump (seizing the paperwork from a bureaucrat): “You know what? I’ll just sign everything. They’ll let me through. Everyone knows I’m a master at signing things.”
The bureaucrats glare at him, unimpressed, and begin filling out additional forms to register his unauthorised action.
Meanwhile, Zoot, delighted by the drama, addresses the bureaucrats with all the enthusiasm of someone hosting an awards ceremony.
Zoot: “Oh, how magnificent! The rules, the forms, the grand dance of officialdom! How can we possibly thank you for such an elegant rescue?!”
Bureaucrat #2 (nodding seriously): “Your gratitude must be submitted on Form 37-Q, along with your personal tax information.”
Zoot (undeterred): “We’ll gladly comply! But first, please, tell us—what is beyond the edge?”
Lead Bureaucrat: “A void. A standard bureaucratic oversight. We’re here to ensure nothing escapes.”
As Frank watches the absurdity unfold, his frustration hits critical mass. He suddenly stands up, flailing his arms toward the bureaucrats.
Frank: “You want a form? You want a form?! I’ll give you a form! It’s called Form 1-C, and it’s for dealing with incompetent dolts who think they’re going to save us from a cheese storm with a clipboard! I’ll have you know, I’ve been to a thousand ‘Escape Zones,’ and this one is no different—IT’S A BUNCH OF CHEESE!”
The bureaucrats, stunned by his outburst, freeze for a moment before one of them hands him a pen.
Bureaucrat #3: “You must sign here to confirm your dissatisfaction with the escape process. Please initial.”
Frank (grabbing the pen, shaking his head): “Do you even know what a ‘zone’ is? I’m going to write a letter to your manager—after I complete form 8-B and make a complaint about your customer service.”
Flower Power Dalek floats peacefully over, undeterred by the chaos.
Flower Power Dalek: “You see, all this paperwork, all this chaos, it’s but an illusion. The only thing that matters is that we exist in this moment, my friends. We’re part of the cosmos, whether we’re in a canoe of crackers or surrounded by cheese walls!”
Frank: “You’ve got a point, Dalek. But it’s going to be a lot harder to get cosmic in the middle of a cheese tsunami with a bunch of angry bureaucrats. Let’s just sign the forms, get off this cracker ship, and go home before I explode!”
Just as Frank is about to finish signing the endless stack of forms, a rumbling sound shakes the ground beneath them. The bureaucrats go into full emergency mode, frantically shuffling papers, while Zoot watches with rapt attention, as though the whole thing is a divine performance.
Frank (frustrated, throwing his pen on the ground): “I swear to God, if this is another form I’m supposed to sign, I’m going to lose it!”
Suddenly, the rumbling grows louder, and Trump stands, looking alarmed but also vaguely excited.
Trump: “What is this? Is this a new luxury cheese? A Trump brand cheese?”
Flat-Earther (grabbing his compass like it’s a life raft): “We’re going to hit the edge, I can feel it! The cheese is trying to keep us from the truth! We must break free!”
But it’s too late. The cheese—which had been creeping in from all directions like a slow tide—suddenly erupts.
A massive wave of cheese surges forward, swallowing the bureaucrats, the paperwork, and everyone in its path. It engulfs Frank, who’s left shouting:
Frank: “I knew it! This was the only logical conclusion! I’m buried in cheese, and this is how it ends! Just like the old adage: ‘you can’t escape the cheese.’”
The bureaucrats, still holding their forms, are swept away with only their pens and stacks of paper visible in the bubbling, cheesy foam. The Flat-Earther tries to shout something about “the edge,” but his voice is muffled by the flood of dairy. Zoot, undeterred, simply laughs joyously as the cheese rises above her head, unbothered by the chaos.
Zoot: “Ah, cheese! The symbol of life’s mysteries! We are but curds in the great cosmic churn!”
Flower Power Dalek, floating serenely on top of a mountain of cheese, spins around in quiet contemplation.
Flower Power Dalek: “All is cheese. All is one. We are all part of the cosmic fondue. Embrace the gooey unity, my friends.”
Frank (struggling, covered in cheese, shouting to the heavens): “This is it! This is how I go out! I’m swimming in cheese, and it’s all your fault, Dalek!”
But no one can hear him anymore—except for Zoot, who’s now casually resting in the middle of the cheese ocean, blissfully unbothered, as the flood reaches its peak. She has reached the final level of enlightenment.
As the cheese finally overtakes everything, we fade to black.
And so, Frank, Trump, Zoot, and the rest of them... were consumed by the cheese. The great cheese tsunami became their final destination, a fittingly absurd and chaotic end to their journey.
The world, however, would never quite be the same again. It would remember the adventurers who tried—and failed—to escape, but at least they went down with the most glorious, dairy-filled explosion imaginable.
The End.
And, of course, there’s always the possibility that, deep in the folds of cheese, somewhere... Frank is still complaining. đ
