The realization hit Garth like a bucket of cold semen.
I won't be a moderator over there, he thought.
My powers... gone... He pushed his chair away from the desk, his face masked by a horrified daze. With a slow glance around his room, thickly-bespectacled eyeballs rolling over numerous empty Mountain Dew cans, scattered bags of dollar-store jerky, and his most prized possession: an autographed Shlomo Eisenberg poster of his 1977 tour, Oy Vey! Live from Tel Aviv, hanging off peeling wallpaper that had, in the past few months, begun smelling like a homeless junkie's crapping hole, the soon-to-be former VN moderator understood what it meant to be nothing. This must be what it was like to die. His second and third chins began to shake and quiver, bespeaking the torrential tide of tears to come.
He looked down at the bucket by his feet, and at the semen oozing down the front of his shirt. It would take him at least another month to fill it back up. The thought simultaneously exhausted and aroused him.
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"See that the men are thoroughly insulated, for we shall encounter extreme cold." - Dr. Zarkov
