In the beginning, there was nothing.

And there wasn’t even much of that.

Just the occasional dollop of nothingness splattered haphazardly, and without design, on a canvas of absolute void.

And then the big belch happened. And everything that was ever going to be anything came to be. The very stuff that would someday be birds and bees and rocks and mimes and carports and elk and Stephen Fry and mocha lattes and girls and boys and, oh, just everything, popped into existence in a fraction of a cosmic second. Even if you’d been there you would have missed it, it was that quick. And it was awesome.

A sun was born and planets formed, in that way that they do. And at least one of those planets, a bluish/greenish affair of middling size, made the hitherto unprecedented mistake of forming rudimentary life. Like a forearm tattoo of Boba Fett flipping the bird, it just seemed like a good idea at the time.

From there things moved rather quickly — evolution took over and blobs became bigger blobs and they, in time, became fish and, without much delay, and skipping over a bit here & there, they became you and me and everyone.

Unfortunately, it was really all just a great big waste of time.

Because through a series of ridiculous and unlikely events, all of it — time, space, Stephen Fry, everything — would come screeching to a dead halt on the morning of April 2nd, 2010. And utter nothingness would once again reign supreme.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The whole cataclysmic fiasco was set in motion a few days prior to the end of time, when a young man named Jerry, in a small coffee shop in Bozeman Montana, purchased a mocha latte from a girl he’d secretly been in love with for months.

Wheels were set in motion, however innocently, that morning, when the barista (who’s name I will not bother to mention, as she does not appear again until the very end of the narrative) asked Jerry a very simple question.

“For here, or to go?”

And, unfortunately for anyone who enjoyed things existing, Jerry chose incorrectly…

“For here,” Jerry replied.

It’s been obvious since Starbuck’s created a drink called “latte” that the world would come to an end. Order a “latte” in Italy and you’ll be handed a glass of milk. In Italian, “latte” means milk. Duh.

So, The raven-haired beauty working as the barista handed Jerry a true mocha latte: a tall cup of warm milk flavored with that mocha-flavored syrup. (At least the syrup is made in Italy!)

Ooops, I said the barista wouldn’t appear again until the end of the narrative, but it just seemed a little background was necessary at this point. Because, in fact, the world was about to come to an end.

Jerry–cardboard cup with a “sleeve” of mocha-flavored warm milk in hand–sat in the coffee shop. So there he sat, perusing the local tabloids and the ever-thinner local newspaper.

Blech. Warm, mocha-flavored milk. It reminded him of his childhood, when Jerry’s mom flavored milk with Bosco in order to urge him to drink it. After all, he was named after Jerry Mathers (“the Beav” in “Leave it to Beaver”) and in the late ‘50s, DRINK YOUR MILK was one of the most prevalent government-created lectures around. President John Kennedy had recently been assassinated, and the world was all a-flutter.

At least that’s what Jerry remembered as he pretended to enjoy his “latte.” He was too embarrassed to correct the barista, because he’d had a crush on her for so long. Besides, she was snarly, and clearly not having a good day.

The coffee shop began to fill up….and customer after customer ordered “lattes” and they–like Jerry–were handed cups of warm milk.

Milk? Not coffee? What was the world coming to? I mean, what’s next: Tarantino’s pizza topped with Velveeta instead of mozzarella? Jeesh.

Jerry sipped on his chocolate milk and watched the object of his desire. He pulled out his phone and texted his best friend, Gerald. “Attempt 27: Fail. Got a weird milk drink too.”

He scanned the room for familiar faces and realized that he didn’t recognize anyone. Work had been keeping him both isolated and jangled. This morning ritual calmed him and connected him in some way to his surroundings., but still, was there no one in the coffee shop that he knew?

He took another sip and tasted something odd. A hint of cardamom or almonds or something. A tall, scruffed dude wordlessly asked if he could sit at Jerry’s two top and Jerry wordlessly assented. He sat carefully and heavily. The dude stared at the wall and sipped his beverage, leaving a light brown rim on his untrimmed mustache.

“You got the milk thing, too?” Jerry asked, nervously. “What do you think?” The dude turned to him, but stared past him, at something next to his left ear.

“Seemed like something popular. I ordered a power coffee.” The dude had grey, almost transparent eyes. They looked like a cat’s. The pupils dilated.

Jerry asked, “What is it?” The scruffy dude began to speak, but no words came out. Jerry began to turn to see the whatever it was, but his phone jangled. It was Gerald. The text read “Bro, you suk! Man Up! you got to get that!”

Somebody screamed.

“Look! It’s a Frankie Valli tribute group!”

Sure enough. Striding into a cramped performance area normally inhabited by goateed men and hyphenated women – was a Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons tribute group.

“Frankie” wore a jet-black suit and flashed a thousand-watt smile, his teeth resembling thirty-two perfectly-spaced pieces of Dentyne Ice Arctic Chill gum. Jerry — no slouch when it comes to details — immediately recognized that only two of the Four Seasons were actually represented in Faux Frankie Valli’s background vocal group – and that they were indisputably female. If Jerry had to associate a specific season with each of the background singers, it would be Summer and More Summer; they were that hot.

Ersatz Frankie & the Two Summers began to sing:

Jerry, Jerry baby.
Jerry, Jerry baby.
Je-e-e-e-e-e-rry baby
Je-e-rry don’t you go out tonight.
Je-e-e-e-e-e-rry baby
Je-e-rry, don’t dare go out tonight.

Jerry was dumbfounded. He scanned the enraptured crowd and wondered if they were hearing the same lyrics. The Barista (and let’s face it, at this point this tertiary character is receiving an unwarranted amount of attention) was swaying to the music. Everyone else’s attention was focused on the performance; everyone except scruff dude, whose feline focal units were trained menacingly at Jerry.

(No, don’t you go out) to the college M.
(Don’t go out) when the bright moon shines.
(Don’t go out) the world won’t end right away.
But it’ll start a rapid decli-ine.

Je-e-e-e-e-e-rry baby
Je-e-rry don’t you go out tonight.
(Don’t go, go out tonight)
(Don’t go, go out tonight)
You-oo-ooh better ask ole Gerald.
To keep your ass locked out of sight.

What was going on here? It was as confusing as the notion that John Kennedy’s 1963 assassination took place in the “late 50’s.” Scruff dude’s puss-like peepers were still boring into Jerry as Phony Frankie Valli and Summer² continued:

(No, don’t you go out) past Zig’s on Bridger Drive.
(Don’t go out) past the Fish Technology sign.
(Don’t go out) then make a hard left turn.
What you see will make you lose your mind.

Je-e-e-e-e-e-rry baby
Je-e-rry don’t you go out tonight.
(Don’t go, go out tonight)
(Don’t go, go out tonight)

The coffee shop patrons clapped, whistled and hooted for more. As Mock Frankie launched into “Big Jerry’s Don’t Cry,” scruff dude leaned forward and finally spoke….