The Restaurant at the End of the Internet was bustling with activity. It had been completely refurbished and renovated, expanded to about five times the size it had been previously, before two miscreants on an oddventure desecrated the establishment. As it turned out, though Cipher had been right about changes to reality “sticking” when perpetrated in the Ends of the Earth, peacekeeping forces tended to restore the status quo rather quickly.
So it went that the Venezuelan dollar had, within a few short hours, returned to its perch of insulting awfulness. But before it had sunk back to rock bottom, one lucky individual had managed to come into possession of almost every Venezuelan dollar in their version of Earth through judicious use of red balloons, movie theater projectors, some covenite, and a sadistic sense of humor. It was this individual that sat behind the helm of the Restaurant now, as its new owner.
The pale figure in the black suit kicked back and relaxed in a booth at the north end of the restaurant, lounging in his riches. This operator (at least, one of them) had gone through his fair share of turbulence after the Second Godmodding War. He knew his... relatives... would hate him after siding with the Narrative back then, and that they’d hate him for siding with the Narrative in the future. But for him, it had seemed like the right thing to do. The logical thing to do. It made sense to his warped alien mind, allegedly. Some nonsense about how you don’t necessarily have to be a good person to be a hero, or something. After all, the label of protagonism isn’t selective. All it takes is for someone to step up and steal the spotlight. And if there’s one thing this man was good at stealing, it was the light. Thereby typically replacing it with darkness and/or static, but that usually goes without saying.
The tall man strained the ears that he didn’t have to listen to a conversation occurring at the next book. He raised his head up a bit and saw its occupants — two soldiers in black and purple armor, one on each side of the table. The tall man cringed slightly, but dusted off his suit, feeling that the best thing to do would be to get this over with. He stood up and walked genially towards the two, clasping his hands together. His tentacles were put away, for now. Welcome to the Restaurant at the End of the Internet, my fine gentlemen. Is there anything at all I could procure for you? The soldier to the man’s left scowled, having not even touched his menu. “Sure. You could tell us how you bought this place, and what you intend to do with it.” The tall man twitched slightly, all electronics in the area blaring with static for a split second. Everyone in the restaurant jumped except the staff, who seemed used to it. Well, if you’re really that concerned with knowing... “Uh, yeah,” the soldier spoke. “We are.” He flashed his badge at the tall man — the official insignia of the Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron, coupled with personal credentials.
Turning backwards to look at the heart of the restaurant, where a whirlwind of food was being prepared with every passing second, the tall man tensed up. He had been afraid of this. The Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron had played a direct hand in reversing the horrors of the Venezuelan supercurrency, and what it had wrought. They’d probably come here, near the edge of Fictional space, to undo the last remnants of its power. If you insist. I acquired it through the use of around two hundred Venezuelan bolivars, and gave this hefty sum to the restaurant’s previous owner, Doctor W. D. Gaster. The two soldiers looked at each other, holograms in their visors flickering in fast-motion. “We think you should know, Mister...” Operator will do, the tall man quipped. “Operator,” the soldier continued, “That no official records exist of a ‘W. D. Gaster’ in our database.” The tall man’s head crept closer to the soldiers. I had a peculiar feeling that one of you would say that. You’re attempting to bend the laws of reality in order to close this establishment — one that I purchased quite legally. The right soldier scowled. “Your transaction was held at a time when the Venezuelan bolivar was paradoxically compromised on a conceptual level. By direct order of the Time Baby, any usage of the currency in said interstitial period is to be considered null and void.”
Hm. You seem to be confused. Typical behavior of skinbags, the tall man said. It seemed to take a moment before his words clicked with the two in the booth. “Excuse me?” the left soldier venomously muttered. I meant nothing by it. It’s just typical of those who fail to see reality as I do. You have to stand tall to look down upon the patterns. The lights, the shadows. The good doctor may not exist officially, but he can be found to those who have fun looking for him. And you both know this. Yet here you are, attempting to argue the point that his lack of physicality prevents him from having any say in the matter. The right soldier opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. The left soldier growled, slamming the table. “That doesn’t change the fact that you used the Venezuelan bolivar at a time when its existence put our reality in jeopardy!” The tall man seemed to turn away for a moment, his frail hands clenching into fists. Your organization hinges upon the collection and neutralization of paradoxes, correct? Both soldiers hesitantly nodded. Tell me. Do you see any paradoxes in this establishment? The soldiers blinked, looking around the restaurant before turning to electronic scanners in their visors. The left soldier scowled again. “The entire reason this place is here, now, is because of a paradoxical material. And we can’t ignore that!” The tall man adjusted his suit and took several steps closer. He was towering over the soldiers, whose hardened expressions began to crack. Do. You see. Any paradoxes. In this establishment, he repeated, slowly and carefully. Traces of static lay behind every word. “N... not directly inside of it, no.” The tall man nodded. Then I suggest you leave, before I report you to your superiors for engaging in matters beyond your jurisdiction.
The left soldier sputtered out of confusion. “Y-you... you’ll what?? Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? Our direct superiors are the ones that told us to come here! They instructed us to neutralize the effects of every Venezuelan bolivar! You claim that there aren’t any paradoxes here, but I’m sure that with some sleuthing, we can find the evidence we need. As if we’d trust your word...” Both soldiers stood up, advancing on the tall man, yet he stood his ground. If this is the path you’ve decided to take in these great crossroads of infinity, I can’t really stop you. But you should know— The left soldier held up his hand. “Save it for later. Scranton, let’s roll.” Both soldiers walked out, taking out equipment and weaponry from their belts and cocking it. They kicked down the door of the restaurant, apparently radioing for backup. Soon enough, the restaurant was encircled by several P.A.E.S. vans, sirens blaring. The employees and guests of the place were beginning to get seriously worried. Pepe, who had just nailed the job after spending a period of time in unemployment for being declared walking hate speech, looked up at the tall man with sad eyes.
Twenty black cubes glimmering with kaleidoscopic decals had been arranged in a ring around the restaurant, with personnel standing beside each one. They all muttered amongst themselves, pressing buttons on the cubes, with more personnel standing back beyond the restaurant, near the vans of the squadron. The tall man strolled forward, his feet not touching the ground and his hands in his pockets. Every P.A.E.S. member pointed their weaponry at the tall man as he approached, the sounds of their readied rifles piercing the thin air. The tall man coughed. Good quasievening, gentlemen. I believe that, as law-enforcing personnel, you should know that it’s against restaurant policy to brandish weapons on or around this property. The personnel gave no indication that they’d heard. I have to say, you aren’t doing an excellent job about being diplomatic at all. Opting straight for the warfare approach doesn’t seem very typical of you. A high-ranking officer with silver hair stepped forward. “Yes, well. That tends to happen when you deal with a Skinwalker. Just because you act like a gentlemen, you expect us to treat you like one. But we all know the truth. That you’re a walking natural disaster. A devil in a fine suit.” Every devil’s in a fine suit. You can hardly call yourself one otherwise. The officer gritted his teeth. “You get the point. You’re a living manifestation of fear, horror, and senseless brutality. So excuse us if we don’t trust your ‘facade.’ What’s in this for you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be sucking the souls out of children?”
The tall man’s pale head darkened, all kaleidoscopic light sources filling with static for a second. Racist, was his heated one-word reply. The tall man stalked off, hidden in shadow. The officer sighed to himself, then yelled to the others. “Clear the area! Move all innocents inside the restaurant to a neutrality zone! In three minutes, we activate Zeta-Formation!” A chorus of “yes, sir!”s rang out as multiple officers stormed into the building. The tall man sighed, reaching into the void and carving out a door through existence. He knocked once, waited, and then entered.
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