BY ZEBULON CORK
Quentin was just 3 years old when he discovered the magical properties of his quilt.
He’d been falling asleep one night, dreaming of sugar plum fairies and the beefy bald man who’d snuck in and stolen their TV 2 nights ago, but had given Quentin a lollipop on condition that he never mention the theft to his parents. The bald man had introduced himself as “Mr. Nice,” and had said that he was stealing that TV for the local orphanage, so the little orphans could finally watch some Game of Thrones.
But Quentin wouldn’t think of that man for much longer…for just before he was about to go to sleep, his quilt – just an ordinary red-and-blue quilt with a portrait of Joseph Stalin embroidered onto it – began to glow!
“AAAAAAH!” Quentin screamed.
“Don’t be scared!” a booming voice said, which of course just made Quentin even more scared, “I’m here to obey your every command!”
Quentin froze then. A glowing quilt that could obey his every command? This could have some possibilities…
“OK,” Quentin said, “Mr. Quilt, I want to know everything!”
In an instant, Quentin knew all the secrets of the universe. His brain nearly imploded when he found out that beyond the edge of the universe was an alternate dimension that contained only Doritos…but he barely managed to keep his sanity.
“Very well,” Quentin said, now having a perfect command of the English language, “now, Mr. Quilt, I want you to make me God!”
“Oh, but you already are,” the quilt said, “with me at your side, you can do anything, literally anything. You can spawn galaxies from your fingertips, crush universes in your palm…you can even make Dairy Queen’s burgers and fries actually taste good!”
Quentin’s jaw dropped. “No,” he said, “you can’t possibly do that.”
“I can,” the quilt boomed, “I made you the most intelligent and knowledgeable human being of all time, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes,” Quentin said, propping his plump toddler chin onto his toddler hand, “but that’s quite the easy task compared to making Dairy Queen the number-one fast food company in the world.”
“Try me,” the quilt said, “say it, and it will be done.”
Quentin laughed. “Fine, then,” he said, “make Dairy Queen the greatest fast food place of all time.”
“Very well,” the quilt said, “thy will be done, o Quentin Hallaboosery!”
The quilt glowed very bright then, brighter even than the sun. So bright, that Quentin was blinded; his eyes fried in their sockets, and warm blood began to seep down his cheeks.
Then, Quentin was knocked out. Complete unconsciousness overcame him, and he gave himself to it, no longer able to resist.
The next morning, Quentin woke up to the sound of machine gun fire.
Quentin bolted out of bed, looking frantically back and forth; he’d noticed it immediately, noticed it as soon as he’d opened his eyes.
The quilt was gone.
Quentin tore apart his room searching; he was the most intelligent being in the universe now, surely he could locate a pathetic little quilt. But it wasn’t anywhere in his room: not under his bed, not under his dresser, not crammed into his closet. Nowhere.
But, a moment later, he got his answer when his parents stepped into the door, both of them dressed in full body armour, machine guns in hand.
“We’re going to Dairy Queen,” they said, “maybe if we kill enough of the other customers we’ll have all the burgers and fries to ourselves!”
“What…where did you get that body armour?”
“Oh, this?” they said, speaking in perfect unison, “we found a glowing quilt on your bed that gives people the power of God. Funny how we didn’t notice it did that when we gave it to you…anyway, as soon as we realized what that quilt was we stripped it off your sleeping body, tried to get it to give us precious DQ burgers and fries…but when it refused, claiming to serve only you, we took it and sold it to some guy named Gus in exchange for this nifty body armour.”
“Gus?” Quentin said, a pit growing in his stomach, “you mean the guy who keeps breaking into army supply stores and stealing the stuff, then selling it at ridiculously jacked up prices?”
“The very same,” his parents said, “he’s probably burned the quilt in one of his bonfires already! You know how much he loves his bonfires. Now come!” his parents came and swooped Quentin into their arms, “you have to experience the heaven, the paradise, the nirvana that is DQ. You have to taste the succulent beef, the exquisite fries…you have to experience heaven in your mouth.”
Quentin tried to fight, but it was no use. Mentally, he may have been beyond any human being to have ever lived, but physically…well, physically he was still a 3-year-old, and his parents restrained him easily.
“Gus didn’t have any toddler-sized body armour,” the parents said, as they dragged him out of the house, “so if you die, well, that’s just too bad. But it’ll be worth it if we can just have some more DAIRY QUEEN!”
And so the mother and father carried their son out of the house, prepared to make him their sacrificial lamb if necessary, just so they could get their hands on some indescribably exquisite DQ burgers and fries.
THE END
