By Terry Pratchett
In the bustling metropolis of Ubergloom, where the buildings leaned together like curious schoolchildren trying to eavesdrop on a particularly juicy rumor, two fledgling superheroes prepared for the most significant—and perhaps the most absurd—battle of their short but storied careers.
SABO stood confidently on the rooftop of the Gloomy Giraffe Tower, the most prominent landmark in the city known for its unfortunate design (it looked like a giraffe that had been startled by a lightning bolt). They were a slender figure, cloaked in a fabric that shimmered like oil on water, each hue more elemental than the last. With a flick of their wrist, they summoned a swirling cyclone that danced around them like an eager puppy. “I will draw forth the power of the elements! I am… Sabo!” they proclaimed, pointing dramatically at the sky, where a very unimpressed pigeon sat, entirely uninterested in the theatrics unfolding below.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the rooftop, Deezifupleez, whose name was a marvel of both rhetoric and utter confusion, was caught in a moment of cosmic existential dread—or at least that was how she liked to describe it. “Once, I was not. It is indeed difficult to believe that there was a time I did not exist!” she shouted, arms aloft as if to impose her grandiosity upon the heavens. “Now the world rejoices! If you ever need to find greatness, remember to look for DEEZ!” She flexed, and it looked like she was trying to crack her own spine while also posing for a nonexistent audience.
Just as she prepared to declare victory over whatever it was that bored her today—perhaps the universe itself—she remembered the old chant that worked wonders on the crowd’s attention. “UGAH UGAH UGAH...spew...what would you do-oo-oo for a Klondike Bar? This is getting kind of old. Updating my BIO getting BI-Old!”
SABO raised an eyebrow, their elemental cyclone dying down to a gentle breeze that rustled Deezifupleez’s hair. “Are you... quite alright? Should I call someone?”
“Who would you call? Fairy Gnome Patrol? I’m DEEZIFUPLEEZ! I’d just be so—”
Before the sentence finished, the air was charged. In a moment of simultaneous inspiration, they charged towards each other, ready to unleash the awkward fury of their developing powers.
As the world held its breath, SABO unleashed a flurry of wind gusts, attempting to form a shield, but their lack of experience showed. The wind blew everywhere except where they intended. “Oh, blast it!” they mumbled, as the wind ruffled Deezifupleez’s flamboyant cape, which, while magnificent, had all the aerodynamic aptitude of a brick.
Deezifupleez, in a moment of overconfidence, discharged a blast of color that was supposed to dazzle and confuse—unfortunately, it just turned the rooftop into a psychedelic mess that made both heroes squint. “Boom! Yummy!” she shouted, firing energetically, even as her words became a whimsical cacophony of uncontextualized references.
SABO, however, took this opportunity to gather their thoughts. “Well, if you’re going to go with the tasty metaphor, let’s spice things up!” With a dramatic whirl of their arms, they channeled the elemental forces into a cyclone that focused all their newfound energy. The wind swirled toward Deezifupleez with a determination that was more persuasive than her earlier soliloquy on existential boredom.
With a perplexed squawk, Deezifupleez prepared her next verbal onslaught. “Push-it! Pus-”
But the cyclone—now fully formed—caught her off-guard, and she was swept away as if she were a stray piece of paper caught in a gust of wind, tumbling helplessly over the rooftop's edge.
“I-I was just trying to say I’m really, really... Okay, fine, you win!” she called as she dangled precariously from a nearby fire escape, her bravado crumbling like an undercooked soufflé.
SABO landed gracefully, the cyclone dissipating into a soft breeze at their feet. “I may not be a master of my powers yet,” they said, wiping their brow dramatically, “but perhaps we can learn together rather than fight?”
Deezifupleez swung back onto the rooftop, ruffled but resolute. “I’ll consider it! But only if we can have Klondike Bars!”
And with that, the battle that was meant to shake the very foundations of Ubergloom ended not with a victory or a defeat, but with an agreement over ice cream, making it perhaps the most sensible decision either of them had ever made.
As they walked off into the sunset—one full of promise and the other burdened by a million unfinished metaphors—the world could not help but be a little bit brighter, or at the very least, a little kookier. In the grand tapestry of both heroics and absurdity, Ubergloom had gained not only a duo but perhaps an unusual alliance.