LUNAR SECTOR 7 — June 18, 2026

In a move that economists, astronomers, and fast-food enthusiasts are calling "deeply concerning but strangely impressive," a coalition of extraterrestrial investors has officially purchased what they claim is the first McDonald's franchise located entirely on the Moon.

The restaurant, now known as McMoonald's, opened this week inside the Sea of Tranquility and immediately became the most visited dining establishment within 384,400 kilometers of Earth.

According to documents accidentally leaked by a confused lunar intern, the acquisition was finalized after alien investors concluded that Earth-based real estate prices had become "irrational, emotional, and frankly exhausting."

"We looked at New York, London, and Vancouver," explained Galactic Investment Director Zorblax-7. "Then we looked at the Moon. The decision was obvious."

The new restaurant features several innovations never before seen in the fast-food industry:

• Zero-gravity french fries that float directly into customers' mouths.
• Self-heating moon burgers powered by miniature fusion reactors.
• Drive-thru lanes designed specifically for UFOs.
• A teleportation pickup window.
• A play area where children can bounce 20 meters into the air.

Early reviews have been overwhelmingly positive.

"The burger literally orbited my head before I ate it," reported one customer. 

The announcement sparked emergency meetings among world leaders after reports surfaced that McMoonald's generated more revenue in its first six hours than several Earth franchises produce in a year.

Officials remain particularly concerned about the restaurant's loyalty program.

Known as Galactic Rewards Plus Ultra Premium Elite Gold, members earn one free moon burger for every 10,000 light-years traveled.

Experts estimate the program currently has approximately 47 million members.

The lunar restaurant employs over 3,000 alien workers representing 127 species.

Employees report excellent working conditions, including:

• Unlimited cosmic healthcare.
• Four-day work weeks.
• Free anti-gravity transportation.
• Complimentary asteroid parking.
• Monthly consciousness expansion seminars.

One employee stated, "Honestly, it's the best job I've had since the Interstellar Donut Wars."

Perhaps most controversial is the restaurant's secret menu.

Leaked items include:

🍔 The Black Hole Burger
🌌 The Quantum McNugget
🛸 The Flying Saucer Combo
🌙 The Lunar Mac
👽 The Area 51 Happy Meal

The Area 51 Happy Meal reportedly includes a toy capable of translating dolphin language and detecting government meetings from orbit.

Sources indicate the alien consortium is already evaluating additional franchise opportunities across the solar system.

Rumors suggest future locations may include:

• Mars
• Europa
• Titan
• A suspicious asteroid disguised as a shopping mall
• A parallel dimension with exceptionally good milkshakes

Meanwhile, Earth citizens continue watching the Moon every night, hoping to spot the glowing golden arches on the lunar horizon.

As of publication, wait times for a table at McMoonald's exceed 17 Earth years.

The aliens have issued a simple statement:

"We're not here to conquer humanity. 

We're here to serve fries."

OTTAWA, EARTH — In what historians are already calling the most Canadian diplomatic event in human history, the newly elected Alien Leader of the Free World officially arrived on Earth yesterday and was immediately presented with a complimentary Air Canada aircraft.

The ceremony took place at a secure airport somewhere between Ottawa, Toronto, and "a location that definitely exists on Google Maps."

Thousands of citizens gathered to witness the arrival of Supreme Galactic Chancellor Xylor-7, who descended from a shimmering spacecraft roughly the size of a shopping mall.

The alien leader emerged wearing ceremonial robes made from what scientists described as "extremely advanced space fabric" and what fashion experts described as "something that would absolutely sell in Montreal."

As Xylor-7 stepped onto the red carpet, a group of Air Canada representatives rolled forward a giant gift box.

Inside was a fully operational passenger aircraft.

"Welcome to Earth," said one smiling official. "As a gesture of friendship, we'd like to offer you one free airplane."

Witnesses say the alien leader stared silently at the gift for nearly three minutes before asking:

"Is this normal human behavior?"

Officials confirmed that nobody was entirely sure.

According to sources inside the Galactic Senate, most planets traditionally exchange symbolic gifts during first-contact ceremonies.

Examples include:

• Rare crystals
• Ancient artifacts
• Cultural artworks
• Interstellar navigation maps

Earth, however, chose to give away an entire aircraft.

"This is either the greatest diplomatic gesture ever made or complete madness," said one confused ambassador from Alpha Centauri.

"Possibly both."

Within hours of the ceremony, Air Canada announced preliminary plans for several new routes including:

• Toronto to Andromeda Station
• Montreal to Sector 9
• Vancouver to the Orion Nebula
• Calgary to Wherever The Aliens Park

The airline also unveiled its new loyalty program:

Aeroplanet™

Passengers earn points redeemable for:

• Free baggage
• Moon hotel upgrades
• Anti-gravity seating
• Complimentary wormhole access

Reaction across Canada was overwhelmingly positive.

"I still can't get a seat upgrade," said one traveler. "But apparently aliens get a whole airplane."

Another citizen seemed unconcerned.

"If giving away jets keeps us on good terms with space civilizations, I'm fine with it."

Meanwhile, several conspiracy theorists claimed the aircraft had secretly been exchanged years ago for advanced maple syrup technology.

Government officials declined to comment.

Later that evening, Chancellor Xylor-7 addressed humanity.

"Your species remains highly unpredictable."

"However, after observing your customs, we have concluded that your civilization is powered almost entirely by coffee, sarcasm, and paperwork."

The alien leader then thanked Canada for the gift and promised to use the aircraft responsibly.

Reports indicate he immediately attempted to install a quantum engine, a meditation chamber, and an interdimensional hockey rink.

Diplomatic relations between Earth and the Galactic Federation appear stronger than ever.

Plans are already underway for future exchanges, including:

• Alien engineers teaching humans how to fix Wi-Fi permanently
• Canadians teaching aliens how to survive winter
• Joint research into faster-than-light poutine delivery systems
• The first Interplanetary Hockey Championship

As celebrations continued late into the night, observers watched the gifted aircraft take off beside the alien flagship.

The crowd erupted into applause.

For one brief moment, humanity and the stars seemed united.

And somewhere in the distance, an Air Canada employee quietly asked:

"Wait... who approved giving away the plane?"

The morning sun rose gently over the majestic French Fry Castle, a towering fortress constructed entirely from perfectly salted golden fries and protected by a moat of spicy ketchup.

Inside the castle's highest tower lived the legendary Burger Wizard, Sir Big Patty the Infinite.

Wearing his enchanted sesame-seed hat and his cape woven from ancient napkins of destiny, the wizard spent his mornings studying mysterious prophecies hidden inside fortune cookies.

What began as a peaceful day quickly became one of the most important moments in the history of the Fast Food Realms.

At precisely 11:11 a.m., castle guards spotted a lone pigeon approaching from the eastern skies.

"Messenger approaching!" shouted Captain Onion Ring.

The bird flew through the clouds with surprising determination. Attached to its leg was a highly classified envelope sealed with the royal crest of the Mash Potato Kingdom.

The moment the pigeon landed in the castle courtyard, an unexpected celebration erupted.

Standing beside the wizard were his official support team: twelve intergalactic alien cheerleaders from the planet Pom-Pom Prime.

The aliens had arrived months earlier after mistakenly interpreting a burger commercial as a declaration of galactic friendship.

Ever since then, they had become permanent residents of the castle.

As the pigeon touched down, the cheerleaders launched into their emergency celebration routine.

"GO PIGEON GO!"

"YOU DELIVER THOSE SECRETS!"

"FLAP THOSE WINGS OF DESTINY!"

Their pom-poms sparkled with cosmic energy while fireworks made entirely of popcorn exploded overhead.

The pigeon appeared slightly confused but deeply appreciated.

The Burger Wizard carefully opened the envelope.

The entire castle fell silent.

Inside was a single page containing only seven words:

"The Vault Has Been Found Beneath Fort Knox."

Gasps echoed throughout the kingdom.

The letter continued:

"Further investigation reveals a second vault hidden beneath the Bank of Canada. Contents include strategic ketchup reserves, emergency gravy supplies, and the original recipe for Cosmic Onion Rings."

The wizard nearly dropped his burger staff.

The original recipe had been considered lost for over 800 years.

News traveled quickly.

Within hours, representatives from every major food nation arrived at the castle.

The Nacho Republic.

The Kingdom of Garlic Bread.

The United States of Pancakes.

The Independent Federation of Donuts.

Even the notoriously secretive Croissant Intelligence Agency sent observers.

Economists warned that if the hidden ketchup reserves entered public circulation, the value of ordinary condiments could collapse overnight.

Realizing the importance of the discovery, the Burger Wizard immediately launched Operation Crispy Thunder.

A special task force was assembled consisting of:

• Three tactical pigeons
• Two wizard burgers
• Four elite onion-ring scouts
• One highly motivated milkshake engineer
• Twelve alien cheerleaders providing morale support

Their mission was simple:

Protect the secret until the truth could be verified.

As evening arrived, the French Fry Castle hosted the largest celebration in kingdom history.

The pigeon messenger received the Medal of Extraordinary Flying.

The alien cheerleaders performed their famous Galactic Nugget Dance.

The Burger Wizard declared a national holiday known as Secret Letter Day.

Thousands gathered in the courtyard while giant gravy fountains illuminated the night sky.

To this day, nobody knows what else was written in the classified message.

Some believe it contained maps to additional hidden vaults.

Others claim it revealed the location of an ancient underground civilization of sentient tater tots.

The pigeon refuses to comment.

The Burger Wizard remains silent.

The alien cheerleaders continue practicing for future emergencies.

And somewhere beneath Fort Knox and the Bank of Canada, a mystery waits to be uncovered.

PARIS, EARTH SECTOR 7 — After months of rumors, mysterious flying lights, and an unexplained shortage of premium tablecloths across Europe, the Galactic Hospitality Federation has officially opened its first luxury restaurant for wealthy extraterrestrials and Earth elites at the very top of the Eiffel Tower.

The restaurant, known as "Le Kangourou Cosmique", promises what management describes as "the finest hopping cuisine in the known universe."

The grand opening attracted celebrities, royalty, billionaires, influencers, retired space pirates, and several alien ambassadors whose names cannot be pronounced by human vocal cords.

The restaurant's signature dish is a premium kangaroo steak prepared by a team of award-winning alien chefs trained on seven different planets.

Guests may choose from:

• Galactic Kangaroo Filet
• Anti-Gravity Kangaroo Burgers
• Quantum Kangaroo Tartare
• Interdimensional Kangaroo Wellington
• Triple-Cooked Moon Fries

According to management, the meat is sourced from "ethically confused kangaroos" raised on a luxury Australian moon colony.

Australian authorities have declined to comment.

Perhaps the most surprising feature of the new restaurant is its transportation system.

Throughout the evening, hundreds of futuristic alien hot-air balloons arrived from every corner of Earth and beyond.

Unlike traditional balloons, these enormous floating structures use anti-gravity crystals, plasma sails, and miniature wormhole engines.

Witnesses reported seeing glowing silver balloons the size of football stadiums slowly descending through the Paris sky before docking directly onto specially constructed platforms near the summit of the Eiffel Tower.

Each balloon carried wealthy passengers eager to secure a table overlooking Paris.

One guest reportedly arrived aboard a balloon shaped like a giant diamond.

Another arrived in a floating golden pineapple.

A third passenger reportedly docked a balloon resembling a giant dancing lobster.

Security personnel described the arrivals as "mostly normal by alien standards."

The restaurant's most expensive package, known as the Cosmic Emperor Experience, currently costs the equivalent of 14 luxury yachts.

The package includes:

• Private flying saucer valet parking
• Unlimited anti-gravity champagne
• Personal alien butler
• Access to the floating dessert cloud
• Complimentary photograph with a quantum kangaroo

Reservations are currently booked through the year 2087.

Guests arriving by saucer or balloon are greeted by a team of interstellar cheerleaders wearing shimmering silver uniforms.

Their role is to maintain positive vibrations, wave giant glow sticks, and congratulate diners who successfully finish the restaurant's famous 12-kilogram kangaroo feast.

The cheerleaders have reportedly become the most photographed attraction in Paris.

Government officials from several countries have requested access to the restaurant.

Many remain on a waiting list.

One anonymous diplomat admitted:

"We tried every channel available. 

Apparently our reservation priority was lower than a billionaire from Jupiter and a talking octopus from Alpha Centauri."

Restaurant executives have confirmed future locations are being considered.

Potential sites include:

• The Moon
• Mars
• Atlantis
• A floating city above Canada
• A luxury submarine resort beneath the Pacific Ocean

Construction could begin as early as next year if enough wealthy aliens continue to invest.

As midnight approached, hundreds of glowing alien balloons and flying saucers surrounded the Eiffel Tower, transforming the Paris skyline into what witnesses described as "the world's most expensive intergalactic traffic jam."

Whether humanity is truly ready for luxury extraterrestrial dining remains uncertain.

One thing, however, is now perfectly clear:

If you want the finest kangaroo steak in the galaxy, you'll need a reservation, a spaceship, and possibly several billion dollars.

DETROIT — What began as an ordinary day at Ford Field quickly transformed into one of the strangest sporting events in modern history after a notorious green flying troublemaker descended from the skies aboard a turbo-powered sleigh and began showering the stadium with millions of Skittles.

Witnesses report that the mysterious green villain was attempting to impress a squad of glamorous alien cheerleaders who had recently arrived from the Gamma Sprinkle Nebula to judge the annual Intergalactic Show-Off Championships.

Unfortunately, the stunt went far beyond expectations.

As rainbow-colored candy rained from the roof of the stadium, thousands of furious M&M spectators rose from their seats in outrage.

"Nobody asked for Skittles!" shouted one red M&M fan while dodging a lime-flavored projectile.

Meanwhile, in the center of the field, a giant Detroit lion and a heavily armored gladiator became trapped in an increasingly muddy battle after the field turned into what experts described as "a chocolate-colored swamp of athletic confusion."

The lion roared.

The gladiator posed heroically.

Neither appeared willing to leave.

As the candy storm intensified, emergency saucers belonging to the Intergalactic Department of Excessive Flexing entered Detroit airspace.

Three senior alien diplomats landed directly on the fifty-yard line.

Their mission was simple:

Convince the green troublemaker to calm down.

"We understand the desire to impress alien cheerleaders," said Supreme Ambassador Zorblax during a press conference. "But there are limits. You cannot simply dump an entire candy supply chain onto a football stadium."

The alien cheerleaders themselves seemed divided on the matter.

Some appeared impressed by the scale of the operation.

Others were reportedly more interested in the gladiator's mud-covered armor and the lion's dramatic entrance.

This revelation visibly upset the green flyer, who immediately doubled the candy output in a desperate attempt to regain attention.

The resulting Skittles rainfall became so intense that meteorologists briefly classified the event as a weather system.

Radar images showed a massive rainbow cloud hovering over downtown Detroit.

Traffic slowed.

Birds became confused.

Several squirrels reportedly attempted to collect enough candy to start their own investment fund.

The gladiator continued fighting.

The lion continued roaring.

Nobody knew why.

Eventually, the alien ambassadors persuaded the green troublemaker to land his sleigh and apologize to the crowd.

The apology was accepted after every M&M spectator received complimentary mud-proof umbrellas and unlimited popcorn.

The alien cheerleaders awarded the green flyer a participation trophy labeled:

"Most Excessive Attempt To Impress Anyone Ever."

The lion and gladiator were declared co-champions.

The remaining Skittles were donated to local schools, museums, and several confused space stations orbiting Jupiter.

As Detroit returned to normal, officials confirmed that next year's event would include stricter regulations regarding candy-based aerial bombardment.

The alien cheerleaders have since returned home, though rumors persist that they may return for the annual Galactic Mud Wrestling Finals.

Authorities advise citizens to remain calm if they notice colorful clouds, flying sleighs, or lions challenging gladiators in public venues.

After all, it is Detroit.

MONTREAL — Hockey history took a very strange turn Saturday night when the Montreal Canadiens faced the NHL’s newest expansion team, the Honey Bees, and discovered approximately three minutes into the first period that their opponents were not simply using a clever team name.

They were actual bees.

Alien bees.

More specifically, seven-foot-tall extraterrestrial bee women who look suspiciously like intergalactic top models and apparently learned hockey somewhere near Saturn.

The Canadiens lost 18–1.

And according to witnesses, it could have been worse.

The Honey Bees arrived at the Bell Centre wearing black-and-yellow uniforms, golden helmets and enormous translucent wings. 

Their captain, Queen Bzzzzara, entered the rink by flying directly over the Canadiens bench before landing at centre ice and blowing a kiss toward the crowd.

Nobody was sure whether flying was technically legal under NHL rules.

The referees held a short meeting.

They decided the rulebook never specifically says players cannot have wings.

Things went downhill immediately.

Only four seconds after puck drop, Honey Bees forward Stingoncé flew over two Canadiens defencemen, caught the puck in mid-air, spun three times and scored while somehow posing for photographers.

Montreal challenged the goal for offside.

Video review showed Stingoncé had never actually touched the ice.

The goal stood.

By the end of the first period, Montreal was losing 7–0 and several players were reportedly asking team officials whether insect repellent counted as performance-enhancing equipment.

“We prepared for speed,” one Canadiens coach said. “We prepared for aggressive forechecking. 

We did not prepare for six-foot wingspans and a goalie with compound eyes.”

The Honey Bees’ goaltender, Beeoncé, was particularly difficult to beat because scientists estimate she can watch the puck from roughly 4,000 different angles simultaneously.

Montreal finally scored halfway through the second period when a Honey Bees defender became distracted by a flower bouquet in the front row.

The Bell Centre erupted.

For nearly nine seconds, hope returned to Montreal.

Then Queen Bzzzzara scored four goals in 41 seconds.

Things became even stranger during the third period when arena officials discovered the Honey Bees were communicating telepathically with a giant glowing hive-shaped spacecraft hovering above downtown Montreal.

NHL officials immediately investigated.

The Honey Bees insisted the spacecraft was only being used for “coaching analytics.”

The league accepted the explanation.

One Montreal fan was furious.

“We can't even use our phones behind the bench,” he shouted, “and they have a mothership?”

Despite the crushing defeat, the Honey Bees quickly became extremely popular with fans.

Their jerseys sold out before the third period.

Their intermission dance performance received a standing ovation.

And more than 12,000 spectators reportedly remained inside the Bell Centre after the game hoping to get Queen Bzzzzara’s autograph.

Montreal players were less enthusiastic.

One unnamed Canadiens player said playing against the Honey Bees was psychologically exhausting.

“You hear buzzing everywhere,” he explained. “Behind you. Above you. Inside your helmet. At one point I thought I had the puck, but it was just honey.”

There may also be serious consequences for the rest of the NHL.

The Toronto Maple Leafs are reportedly demanding clarification on whether alien insects count toward the salary cap.

The Boston Bruins have already ordered industrial quantities of mosquito netting.

And the Florida Panthers are said to be scouting an unidentified team of extraterrestrial praying mantis supermodels currently training somewhere near Area 51.

Meanwhile, the Honey Bees remain undefeated.

Their record is now 9–0, with 112 goals scored, three goals allowed and approximately 600 kilograms of honey confiscated from visiting locker rooms.

Asked after the game whether she believed Montreal could eventually defeat her team, Queen Bzzzzara smiled.

“Of course,” she said through an alien translator.

Then she paused.

“Maybe in 600 years.”

She unfolded her wings, flew through the Bell Centre roof and disappeared into the mothership.

Montreal’s next practice has reportedly been moved indoors.

All windows will remain closed.

This story is satire. No Canadiens were actually defeated by extraterrestrial supermodel bees. Yet.

LONDON — In what officials are calling “a sensible redistribution of highly trained national-security resources,” Britain’s legendary intelligence service MI6 has reportedly begun sending underworked secret agents onto the streets of London to entertain tourists with juggling routines, magic tricks and highly trained baby monkeys.

The unusual program allegedly began after several agents complained that modern surveillance technology, satellites, artificial intelligence and people voluntarily posting their entire lives on social media had dramatically reduced the amount of traditional spying required.

“Twenty years ago, we had to follow someone through six countries just to learn where they ate lunch,” said one fictional senior intelligence official. “Now they post the restaurant, their table number and a photograph of the soup on Instagram.”

According to absolutely unofficial sources, MI6 headquarters eventually found itself full of elite operatives drinking tea, reorganizing classified filing cabinets and repeatedly asking whether anyone needed a mysterious envelope delivered to Prague.

Something had to be done.

The solution was reportedly Operation Monkey Business, a secret initiative designed to keep agents alert while improving public morale.

Under the program, highly trained field operatives are sent to busy tourist areas disguised as street entertainers.

Their equipment reportedly includes juggling clubs, portable speakers, bananas, tambourines and extremely small red waistcoats for the monkeys.

Witnesses near Covent Garden claim they recently saw two suspiciously well-dressed men wearing dark sunglasses performing beside several baby monkeys.

One agent juggled three clubs while maintaining what observers described as “an unnecessarily intense level of situational awareness.”

The second agent quietly passed around a hat marked:

TIPS — KEEP OUR AGENTS BUSY

Meanwhile, one monkey played a tambourine while another held a sign reading:

SMALL MONKEYS. BIG MORALE.

Tourists loved it.

“I thought they were normal street performers,” said one visitor. “Then one of them whispered something into his sleeve and suddenly three pigeons changed direction.”

Intelligence experts say the transition from international espionage to street entertainment has been surprisingly smooth.

Spies are already trained in disguise, improvisation, misdirection, crowd observation and maintaining a completely serious facial expression while doing ridiculous things.

“These are essentially the same skills required for street magic,” explained one imaginary security analyst.

Agents are reportedly particularly good at the classic disappearing-coin trick.

Unfortunately, the coins have occasionally reappeared inside secure government facilities in countries MI6 refuses to identify.

The monkeys, meanwhile, have supposedly adapted quickly to intelligence work.

One unnamed handler described them as “excellent observers, highly motivated by fruit and completely immune to interrogation.”

Asked whether the monkeys receive official security clearance, the source replied:

“They know too much already.”

Rumors are now circulating that MI6 scientists are developing specialized espionage equipment for the new program.

Possible prototypes allegedly include bananas containing miniature microphones, exploding bow ties filled with confetti and a tiny monkey-sized briefcase containing absolutely nothing because the monkey refused to carry classified documents.

One experimental banana reportedly cost British taxpayers £14 million.

Government officials insist this is completely normal for defense procurement.

The banana is expected to become operational sometime around 2043.

Foreign intelligence agencies are reportedly monitoring the situation closely.

The CIA is rumored to be considering a competing entertainment division involving bald eagles and motivational speakers.

French intelligence is said to be experimenting with undercover mime artists.

Germany has reportedly rejected the entire idea because the monkeys failed to complete the appropriate paperwork.

Meanwhile, several unidentified intelligence services have quietly begun recruiting circus performers, fearing that traditional espionage may soon become obsolete.

Londoners appear enthusiastic about the program.

Street crowds have gathered to watch agents juggling while baby monkeys dance beside luggage marked MI6 STREET ENTERTAINMENT — SAME SKILLS, DIFFERENT TARGET AUDIENCE.

Children laugh.

Tourists take photographs.

Former spies finally have something to do before lunch.

One elderly spectator reportedly approached an agent after the performance and asked whether he had ever conducted a real undercover operation.

The agent adjusted his sunglasses.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he replied.

The monkey immediately stole the woman’s banana.

Officials insist Britain remains fully capable of defending itself against serious national-security threats.

But until something interesting happens, agents may continue performing throughout London.

Future expansions could include MI5 magicians, SAS balloon artists and naval intelligence officers operating mysterious puppet shows near the Thames.

There is even discussion of launching an elite musical unit called The Secret Service Orchestra, although negotiations reportedly collapsed after nobody could agree who was authorized to play the triangle.

For now, MI6’s newest mission appears simple:

Protect the realm.

Maintain operational readiness.

And whenever possible…

keep the monkeys entertained.

This article is fictional satire. MI6 has not announced a monkey-based street-entertainment division — as far as we know.

Satire: all events, characters and quotations below are fictional.

GREENLAND — Canadian military engineers have begun installing a giant hot dog launcher on Greenland’s icy coast to support America’s mission to protect the island. 

Ottawa says the system will strengthen Arctic security, feed allied personnel and give Canadians a direct shot at employment in Europe.

Sometimes a little too direct.

The enormous machine, unveiled under the name Operation Arctic Wiener, can launch a bus-sized hot dog across the horizon. 

However, engineers discovered that replacing the sausage with a Canadian wearing a helmet also produced what the government described as “promising economic results.”

“We originally designed it for defence,” explained the project commander, standing beneath forty tonnes of mustard-covered deterrence. 

“Then someone asked whether it could get their cousin to a job interview in Germany. That’s when the funding doubled.”

Construction crews are currently anchoring the launcher into the frozen ground while an American liaison officer supervises with a paper plate.

Washington welcomed the contribution, although officials initially struggled to understand what Canada meant by “deploying a fully loaded battery.”

“We assumed missiles,” said one officer. “Then a forklift arrived with relish.”

Canadian officials insist the weapon offers a powerful deterrent. Any hostile vessel approaching Greenland will first receive a polite warning, followed by a hot dog large enough to end all discussion about lunch.

The second warning comes with onions.

Military analysts have praised the launcher’s ability to make an enemy commander reconsider his position, particularly if that position is underneath several tonnes of warm bread.

But the real excitement began when Ottawa announced that the installation would also operate as a weekday commuter service.

Under the new employment programme, Canadians can arrive in Greenland with a passport, a résumé and a reasonably aerodynamic lunchbox. After a brief orientation, they climb into a padded transport bun, fasten their seat belt and wait for someone to shout, “Good luck with the interview!”

The control panel has two settings: DEFEND GREENLAND and SEND KEVIN TO WORK.

A third setting, KEVIN FORGOT HIS LAPTOP, remains under development.

Officials describe the service as an affordable alternative to flying, with no baggage carousel, no connecting flight and very little opportunity to complain about legroom.

Economy passengers travel in a standard bun. Business class includes sesame seeds and permission to recline slightly before launch.

“People keep saying they want their careers to take off,” said a programme spokesperson. “We listened.”

The first volunteer, a Montreal office worker named Kevin, signed up after seeing a recruitment advertisement promising relocation assistance.

“I thought they meant help finding an apartment,” he said, watching a soldier check the wind with a handful of shredded cheese.

Kevin had accepted an accounting position in Belgium. During the launch countdown, he received an email explaining that his employer had moved the role back to Canada.

Engineers paused the launch while management discussed whether this counted as a return-to-office policy.

European employers have reacted with cautious enthusiasm.

A German manufacturer has requested twelve technicians, delivered individually and exactly on time. 

A French hotel has agreed to receive Canadian hospitality workers, provided the transport bun is replaced with a baguette. A Dutch company has asked whether its new employees can be launched with bicycles.

The Italian delegation stopped negotiations after discovering that ketchup was listed as standard equipment.

Meanwhile, an employment agency has begun advertising “immediate placement,” a phrase candidates are now reading much more carefully.

European immigration officials have reminded organisers that being launched across the Atlantic does not automatically settle the paperwork.

“You cannot simply write ‘incoming’ under immigration status,” one fictional administrator explained.

Ottawa has therefore added a document pouch to every transport bun. Applicants must carry their employment contract, required permits and a signed declaration confirming that they understand the difference between a departure lounge and a firing position.

On arrival, workers descend by enormous parachutes onto inflatable landing buns outside participating offices. Human resources departments have been instructed to offer a warm welcome and remove any remaining mustard before taking staff photographs.

One company has already complained that its new Canadian hire landed on the chief executive’s parking space.

“He apologised before touching the ground,” the receptionist reported. “We knew he’d fit in.”

In Greenland, residents are still examining the proposal.

“We asked for better transport connections,” said one local shopkeeper. “Apparently somebody thought that meant a man from Quebec flying over my roof holding a briefcase.”

Local businesses have nevertheless adapted quickly. One café now offers a departure breakfast, a packed lunch and a small towel labelled FOR YOUR FIRST IMPRESSION.

Back at the installation, Canadian commanders say the military and civilian schedules will remain carefully coordinated. Hot dogs launch after breakfast. Workers launch before their shifts. 

Nobody is allowed to press either button until someone checks what is in the bun.

That final rule was introduced after a Copenhagen office received an enormous frankfurter for a software engineering interview.

The company hired it anyway.

It had arrived on time, accepted the advertised salary and already came with excellent references from the Canadian military.

As the sun set over Greenland, Kevin finally climbed into his transport bun for a rescheduled departure.

“Will this really improve my career prospects?” he asked.

The commander adjusted his helmet.

“Kevin, by tomorrow morning, every employer in Europe will know you’re available.”

He checked the wind.

“Some of them may need to move their cars.”

Satire & absurd fiction

An ambitious celestial roadwork project leaves Google’s cameras staring at wet paint while everyone else gets on with their day.

BEIJING — The God of Street View descended from the clouds this morning carrying a paint roller the size of a passenger train, announcing that China’s roads would be receiving “a little privacy and a lovely satin finish.”

Within minutes, a Google Street View camera car approaching the freshly painted surface displayed nothing but gray static. Its navigation system recalculated three times before suggesting the driver “try being less curious.”

The god, known to his followers as Lord Panorama, surveyed his work with satisfaction.

“People keep asking where the blue lines went,” he said, dipping his roller into a bucket labeled ANTI-STREET-VIEW PAINT. “They’re under the second coat. Please stop touching it.”

The operation began after Lord Panorama discovered an old panoramic image of himself standing outside a convenience store in slippers, holding twelve instant noodles and scratching somewhere unsuitable for a divine being.

He requested that the image be removed.

Unfortunately, the form asked him to prove he owned the sky.

“I created the horizon,” he complained. “Apparently that wasn’t one of the accepted documents.”

He initially planned to blur his own house. However, after a celestial hardware store offered him a discount on bulk purchases, the project expanded considerably.

The paint, sold under the name Mind Your Own Business Premium, reportedly contains crushed pixels, powdered clouds, and the emotional energy released when someone says, “Why are you looking at my house?”

According to the instructions on the bucket, one coat blocks street photography. Two coats confuse satellites. A third coat makes the road deny that it has ever met you.

Available colors include Government Gray, Loading Screen Silver, and a tasteful beige called Nothing to See Here.

During a demonstration, Lord Panorama painted a busy intersection while ordinary traffic continued moving normally. Drivers could see the road. Pedestrians could see the shops. 

A man selling breakfast could still see that a customer was trying to leave without paying.

The Google camera, however, could see only a blurry rectangle and a message reading: 

“THIS STREET HAS CHOSEN TO WORK ON ITSELF.”

A technician wiped the lens.

The rectangle became slightly cleaner.

“It’s selective invisibility,” explained the god. “Your eyes work perfectly. The camera simply hasn’t been invited.”

When asked whether the technology involved quantum mechanics, he nodded solemnly.

“Almost certainly. I haven’t read the lid.”

Residents quickly discovered that the coating came with unexpected benefits. 

One apartment building requested an extra layer after its owner realized the last street image still showed Christmas decorations hanging in August.

A noodle shop asked whether the paint could hide its one-star reviews.

Lord Panorama offered to repaint the front door but advised that removing the cockroach from the soup might produce a more lasting improvement.

Meanwhile, a driver who had spent years washing his car immediately before the camera vehicle arrived was furious.

“I polished the wheels,” he said. “I even parked diagonally so it would look expensive. Now the whole neighborhood is a loading error.”

Tourists reported mixed results. One visitor attempting a virtual walk through the city spent forty minutes clicking the same gray square before announcing that the architecture was “very minimalist.”

Another awarded the square four stars.

“Peaceful,” the review read. “Limited parking information.”

The project briefly ran into trouble when Lord Panorama stepped backward into his own paint tray. His left sandal disappeared from every camera in the area, although he could still feel the pebble inside it.

He then placed a wet-paint sign beside the road, accidentally coating its base.

The sign vanished from Street View, leaving the camera car unable to identify why it should avoid the wet paint.

The resulting tire tracks briefly uploaded as a previously undiscovered highway.

Contractors have since asked whether divine paintwork requires planning permission. Lord Panorama produced an ancient scroll bearing a golden seal and the words “I KNOW THE GUY UPSTAIRS.”

The scroll was rejected because it lacked a project number.

He is now waiting for the God of Municipal Administration to return from lunch, a process theologians estimate began during the Ming dynasty.

By evening, the freshly coated roads shimmered beautifully in the sunset. Residents went home. Shops closed. The Google camera car captured six thousand identical photographs of absolutely nothing.

Lord Panorama declared the first phase a triumph and reached for his keys.

Then he stopped.

Somewhere nearby was his white work van. Unfortunately, he had painted the entire parking lot, forgotten which entrance he had used, and relied on a saved Street View image to find it again.

For the next hour, witnesses watched an enormous god wander between buildings, pressing his phone against his beard.

His final public statement was considerably less confident.

“If anyone sees a van with a ladder on top, please send me a picture.”

A resident did.

The picture was gray.

Forget spaceships, artificial intelligence and intergalactic mining. 

The richest and most powerful CEO in the known universe built his empire selling carpets.

For centuries, humans assumed that the great fortunes of the universe would be made through advanced technology, asteroid mining or mysterious sources of unlimited energy.

Apparently, we were thinking too hard.

According to highly questionable sources inside the Galactic Chamber of Commerce, the most powerful businessman in the universe is Zorvak Al-Rugmani, founder and CEO of Galactic Carpets, an interstellar flooring empire operating across thousands of inhabited worlds.

His estimated fortune?

Nobody knows.

Galactic accountants reportedly stopped counting after discovering that Zorvak owns three small moons, seventeen luxury space stations and a planet that exists exclusively to store carpets.

Zorvak claims his business career began modestly.

Thousands of years ago, he was traveling through a dusty trading station when he noticed something strange.

Aliens had mastered teleportation, anti-gravity and faster-than-light travel—but their living rooms still looked terrible.

Zorvak saw an opportunity.

He purchased twelve handmade carpets from a small moon near the Andromeda Galaxy and began selling them from the back of his spacecraft.

His sales pitch was simple:

“Your civilization conquered space. Now do something about your floor.”

Business exploded.

Within fifty years, Galactic Carpets had stores on more than 600 planets.

Within two centuries, Zorvak controlled nearly half of the known universe's premium carpet market.

Selling carpets across the universe is more complicated than it sounds.

Humans generally want carpets that are soft, attractive and easy to clean.

But Zorvak's customers are not always human.

The eight-legged inhabitants of Glorb-7 reportedly demand extremely large carpets because they refuse to place even one foot on an uncovered floor.

Aquatic aliens purchase waterproof rugs.

Fire-breathing species require carpets capable of surviving temperatures normally associated with volcanic eruptions.

And floating civilizations buy carpets even though they technically never touch the floor.

Zorvak doesn't question it.

“If they want a carpet,” he reportedly told investors, “we sell them a carpet.”

This philosophy turned him into an intergalactic legend.

His greatest commercial success came with the launch of the Quantum Persian 9000.

The carpet doesn't simply decorate a room.

According to Galactic Carpets' marketing department, it adjusts its pattern depending on the emotional frequency of whoever walks across it.

Feeling peaceful?

The carpet turns blue.

Feeling romantic?

It becomes red and gold.

Feeling angry?

It reportedly displays a small arrow pointing toward the nearest meditation room.

Scientists remain divided over whether any of this actually works.

Customers don't seem to care.

More than 40 billion units have reportedly been sold.

Perhaps the biggest surprise is what Zorvak claims about UFOs.

Humans tend to imagine alien spacecraft as sterile metallic environments filled with flashing lights and mysterious control panels.

Zorvak says that's completely wrong.

“The expensive ones have carpets.”

According to him, the true sign of status among advanced extraterrestrial civilizations isn't the size of your spacecraft.

It's what's underneath your feet.

Cheap UFO?

Metal floor.

Successful UFO?

Handwoven Galactic Carpet.

Extremely wealthy alien?

Wall-to-wall carpeting made from fibers harvested from a dimension where dust allegedly doesn't exist.

Zorvak now operates his empire from a gigantic floating marketplace known as Carpet Prime.

The station contains millions of rugs, private showrooms, restaurants, luxury hotels and docking areas capable of accommodating enormous interstellar vessels.

Visitors entering the main showroom reportedly walk across a carpet stretching nearly 70 kilometers.

There is only one rule.

Shoes must be removed.

Even emperors must obey.

One Galactic ambassador allegedly refused.

His civilization has not received a carpet discount since.

Despite dominating much of the known universe, Zorvak reportedly believes Earth remains dramatically underserved.

His analysts became particularly interested in humanity after studying online videos of people spending enormous amounts of money decorating apartments.

Zorvak immediately called an emergency board meeting.

“They buy decorative pillows they don't even use?” he reportedly asked.

When executives confirmed this, Zorvak realized Earth was ready.

Galactic Carpets is now rumored to be preparing its first terrestrial flagship store.

Possible locations include New York, Dubai, Tokyo and a mysterious warehouse somewhere nobody can find without making three U-turns.

Business schools across several galaxies have spent centuries studying Zorvak's strategy.

They expected to discover complicated economic theories.

Instead, his philosophy consists of three principles:

1. Find an ugly floor.
2. Put a beautiful carpet on it.
3. Charge more if the customer owns a spaceship.

Simple.

Effective.

Intergalactic.

Today, Zorvak's influence extends far beyond retail.

Planetary leaders reportedly consult him before major economic summits.

Alien billionaires compete for invitations to his legendary showroom parties.

Entire civilizations wait months for appointments with his designers.

Yet Zorvak insists he remains the same humble carpet salesman who started with twelve rugs and an old spaceship.

When asked what he plans to do next, the billionaire alien reportedly leaned back on his golden throne, adjusted his sunglasses and stared toward a distant galaxy.

“There are still floors out there,” he said.

“And those floors are naked.”

Somewhere across the universe, another civilization may be about to discover its greatest technological achievement.

Not faster-than-light travel.

Not teleportation.

Not unlimited energy.

A really nice carpet.

This article is satire and fictional entertainment. 

Any resemblance to actual alien carpet billionaires, living or operating beyond the observable universe, is entirely coincidental.