As all the worst things in life it begins with a goat in a suit.
Bartholomew Goatfather III. clicked his lacquered hooves on the velvet marbled floor of the Cranial Parliament Chamber while leaving behind small puddles of ichor of non-descript shape where ever he stepped. His pinstriped suit made of funeral flags and his rather suspiciously large monocle carved from a, no doubt, ethically sourced, child's retina. His briefcase twitched lightly with every step he took, emitting something akin to a whine. For it contained cockroach confetti. Also, no doubt, ethically sourced.
Across the chamber, Prime Minister Trêvoirre Snaggletooth stood on the speaker's mound, half his face an open electric accordion emitting lullabies that would make a spider sleep. He smoked a bone pipe filled with his favourite flavour of tobacco. "Powdered nostalgia with butterly vomit and barbecue marinated tea". Despite this he could not hold his own and had to vomit every few puffs into a nearby white chalice.
The walls around them were whispering amonst eachother. Their lips in sync with an uncanny heartbeat like noise. Drowning hungrly and unseen into the void.
"You're late..." Trêvoirre hissed the buttons on his face. Still not really feeling like truly his own.
Batholomew shrugged. "Time is a construct by society and the bourgois overlords that want to sell us clocks so we know what age is."
In the Ninth Dimensions, as in most sixth degree parallel universe dimension, causality is more of a polite suggestion and reality is not per-se the most stable, regularly breaking apart in untold shennanigans. This place was under the control of the Hemogoblin Society: Twelve, rather stumpy looking but no doubt electric personalities, that distinctly looked goblinish. Elected by ritual bloodeletting and screams per capita. Their debates usually began with interpretaive aerobic tapdancing and economy was built on metaphycial agony, the only real kind. Stocks rose when hope was at its all time low. A system that truly worked.
Yet today. There was unrest.
The moon had exploded. No, really. It made a huge noise and was just gone.
Well obviously it wasn't the moon in the sky. It was everyones spleen moon. A very important part of the organs of the ninth dimension dwellers. One moment people shopped for pickeled brioch bread with apple-cider vinegar nerves and gelatinated lie sausages, and then boom, the next moment a noise that would make the evil lord himself lose his temper. Everyone had begun clutching their sides. Some even began to scream in gregorian hymns, more even in reverse.
The culprit of this unfortold desaster. DJ Contagion Fistycuffs.
Once a humble necromancer, now a member of a rather popular, glimp-emo-tecno-dance group, but more importantly a man who was not scared of chaos and provoking said chaos. He had started a subterranian rave so hard that the spiritually rich denizens of the club were ruptured in their lunar resonance across all of their organs. Last seen spinning Granny Bonebones on a turntable carousel made of rusty nails and badly written apologies. All while yelling "DROP THE DEAD! WUBWUBWUBWUBWUBWUBW!" as space-time sobbed around the unfathomably noisy display of decadence.
Trêvoirre tossed his chalice aside. It had bit him due to his incessant neglect.
"This means WAR." he declared, raising his iron fist, literally. "We must unmaker him. This very instant. Call the Choir of Nothing!"
Bartholomew openend his briefcase. The cockroaches spilled down to the floor, began arranging themselves into a twisted sigil while chanting in eleven distinct but still somehow human languages, three of which were yet to be invented in their universe.
"Its risky." Bartholomew warned. Voice more somber then a funeral procession at a fast-food drive-thru. "Last time, they made everyone remember that one repressed birthday party everyone has.
Trêvoirre's eye began twitching. "DO IT!" He began screaming in an enchanting hymn of self-reported crime statistics.
Thus the summoning began. At dusk. Which in the ninth dimension is every time you cracked your fingers in a slightly uncomfortable way, followed by a distinct smell of bad sex and regret.
The Choir of Nothing had arrived without fanfare. They were all wearing stilettos und began collecting into long-forgotten shapes of somethings. Silent weeping. Voices that would be remembered incorrectly for eons to come.
They sang until air turned into a sour grief.
Reality began folding as usual. Like a wet napkin at a funeral. The walls and buildings now began to weep blood. Birds flew backwards and people had their mid-life crisises in tandem with their puberty. Somewhere a child born, died of old age in three seconds. While your local tax accountant began investigating your suspicious monetary gain.
This was a perfect chaos.
And it birthed something.
Carl.
A sentient ashtray. Left over timeline deris and a seasoning of paradoxes uniting into him. He thus proclaimed himself THE god. Levitated of the ground and demanded that pants from this point on shall be triangular and made from cotton woven apology letters. Most complied wordlessly. A few erupted into therapy sessions.
Bartholomew bowed. He was pleased. Pleading with Carl.
Trêvoirre began wheezing erratically, his accordion body bending awkwardly. "Now this kids, THIS is DEMOCRACY!"
Outside the parliament building, the world began to buckle. Civillians began recounting their deepest memories to therapy dogs just to feel a sliver of something. Cities vanished and came back, fully changed or worse looked like they had just entered their goth phase.
Meanwhile, in a deep a musky cavern lined with moth winds and brazen love confessions, DJ Contagion Fistycuffs spun his newest track.
A filthy beat, cosmically indecent, morality itself would have a moral dillemma and then turn into sliced mortadella, because all good meat is a salume. The bass dropped and flattened three parallel universes, twelve timelines and seven six-quaters of different dimension. A nearby village turned to regretful moss.
Music played.
Carl... he cried.
The Choir of Nothing sang louder.
And somewhere, deep down, in the folds of the Ninth Dimension, a goat a goddamned striped suit wrote it all down and whispered in a perverse tone:
"Now thats what I call governance, chief!
The end. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
Or maybe not. Depends on who is reading this. Or if this keeps going.
And obviously on how many spleens they still have, hard to come-by those things lately.