“People of earth,” the message crackled and echoed across the planet. “We will be arriving at the location known to you as Washington D.C. I demand to speak to earth’s president immediately.”
The voice boomed and reverberated as if it had come out of an old set of horn loudspeakers broadcasting in a public square. Instead, it had come simultaneously from every speaker on the planet. Every TV, radio, iPod, smart phone, and stereo carried the message live. We all heard it.
The president called an emergency meeting with his staff. He wanted to know what was going on and what they could do. As wild speculation flew across the room, a message came in from NORAD. They had spotted…something.
The president made a call to scramble all aircraft: to throw everything we had at the unidentified craft. So did every other military power in the world. Within minutes, the alien crafts had circumnavigated the world destroying every plane, helicopter, and missile in the air. It was done so effortlessly, as if it had been a video game played by some teenager who had used all of the game’s cheat codes at once.
The earth had no more air defense. All of the aircraft of all of the planet’s air forces were blown from the sky. This included not only our toys which no one was supposed to know actually existed, but also those of other nations like Russia and China. Their secret planes, which we sort of knew about (wink, wink) were finally proven to exist. Well, to have existed. All of them were immolated in mid flight.
Even the F-22, America’s most advanced air superiority vector, at a cost of approximately $200 million per unit, which hasn’t ever actually proven itself in any situation and won’t have a chance to before it gets mothballed in lieu of the even more expensive to produce F-35, was no match for the alien ship.
The president’s staff scrambled for a new plan of action. It was decided that a “blame the other guy” strategy might be best. The alien had called him earth’s president, not America’s president. Perhaps if the president could convince the aliens of this he could shift the blame, whatever blame might be cast on him. There were other nations on earth and other leaders. It was their fault, whatever it was. Perhaps he could blame in on the brown people in the Middle East who had all of the oil, or maybe on the Chinese.
There was little time to rehearse as the alien ships landed on the White House lawn. The president quickly rose and went outside to meet the visitors hoping to appease the invaders with a friendly greeting.
The creatures began filing out of their ships one by one. They were huge, hulking, near-humanoids with mauve skin and small horn-like protuberances on their heads. They had many tentacle-like appendages emanating from their bodies. They slid slug-like toward the president and his entourage.
“President of earth,” the creature bellowed. Again, his voice boomed, tinged with reverb as if he were speaking through a public address system. There was none. That was just his voice. “I am here to give you one last chance before we are forced to eradicate you from the universe.”
This wasn’t what the president wanted to hear. Worst case scenario, indeed.
“We have been studying your culture, which has been very easy to do since you broadcast everything regardless of whether or not anyone else wants to hear it. Luckily for you, most of the universe finds much of your programming enjoyable. However there is something that has come from your planet which is an abomination against all sentience in the universe. It comes from your rock and roll.”
The president, who was elected by appealing to a younger crowd, felt the need to say something in rock’s defense. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the alien.
“Silence! We do not hate all of your music. We love your Beatles and your Stones. I, myself, have spent many days enjoying your Ramones even though I have no idea what a Blitzkreig Bop actually is. Some on my home world have speculated that it is an ice cream treat mixed with nuts and served on a stick.”
The alien began pointing his tentacle appendages at other members of his landing party as he spoke.
“Gorznax is a Faith No More fan. Argtrisha enjoys PJ Harvey and Sleater-Kinney. Myzzigx has spent years pouring over the music of Frank Zappa seeking out every nuance. Pragdar has a near encyclopedic knowledge of college rock from your nineteen-eighties. Wranton has started his own garage punk band. Even Kogqixl here has found enjoyment in Bon Iver, but we all know he has shit taste in music.”
The group of aliens began to convulse in a manner that seemed to imply that they were laughing at their comrade. The back-slaps seemed to back that up.
“No, we do not hate all of your music, but there is one thing your planet has produced that is so offensive to intelligent life that we can only assume it has been developed as a weapon. It is the band you call Five Finger Death Punch.”
The president stood confused for a moment, not sure who the aliens were talking about. An aide quickly whispered something into his ear, and a knowing expression filled his face.
“Not only is the sound abrasive,” the alien continued, “but our scientists have proven that hearing the sound permanently damages the ability of any sentient creature in the universe to think clearly or form memories. It is the most powerful weapon your species has created.”
The president asked, “Even more dangerous than our nuclear…”
Before the president could finish his words were drowned out by another alien laughing fit. The leader bent over in a motion that looked like he was slapping his knee, if he had one. Another wiped a tear from its eye.
“You have a choice. Either hand over the weapon at once so it can be destroyed or we will wipe all life from the face of the earth. You have one of your earth minutes to decide.”
Without hesitation the president responded, “I can’t see a problem with that. Anyone else?” A chorus of “nopes” and “I don’t see why nots” came from his staff.
Immediately there was a world-wide effort to erase all mention of the band Five Finger Death punch. CDs were destroyed. Hard drives were wiped of MP3s. YouTube videos were pulled and deleted. The members of the band were rounded up and brought to the aliens who ate them at a barbecue on the White House lawn with a Carolina-style mustard sauce.
With advanced copies of the new Melvins album in their tentacles, the aliens boarded their ships and left earth peacefully knowing that the most insulting and offensive thing in the universe, Five Finger Death Punch, had been annihilated forever.
And we all lived happily ever after. The end.
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