The meteor is summoned by Pink Anne.

The meteorite reaped through the atmosphere at tremendous speed. Andrew could already feel the heat from the air transmitting through the window and onto his skin. There was no time to think. He had to do what he'd always done best: saving the world kneeling down and beg.

"Please, Anne! It wasn't my fault, but I'll make it up to you! Just tell me what to do!"

"Oh, you know what to do." Her lips curved into a wicked smile. At that same time, some of her 'toys' dropped from the second shelf of the wardrobe: a leather whip, some neck cuffs, bondage mittens, and dildoes. Those were not to use on her.

Andrew's face contorted. He thought a real man would be prepared for anything, but all the men who'd said that had proabably not had something stuck up his bum.

I will not endure this, he thought. He sprung up from his spot, aiming for the window. The glass shattered as he hurled his entire body on it. Before long, he was falling from the fourth floor of Anne's mansion. His life flashed before him.

Too late to think. Too late to listen. Too late to stop.

Andrew brought his hands to cover his face, his eyes shut.

He hit the ground with a thud. Or he thought he'd hit the ground.

There was conveniently a trampoline in Anne's front garden for some reason, and Andrew fell on that. He bounced a couple rounds then rolled on the grass with only a couple bruises on his arms and legs. He brushed himself up, glancing at the logo 'Plot Armor' on the side of the trampoline, then back to the fourth floor window where the pink-haired college girl was staring him down with fire in her eyes.

He turned away and ran. The meteor to his left had already changed its course and was flying across the sky.

I still have a chance, Andrew thought. I'll save the world from the meteor, and from that wretched witch Anne.

As Andrew's back grew smaller from her sight, Anne picked up her leather whip from the floor. She ran her fingers along the whip, smirking to herself as she mumbled, "Run all you want, Andrew. I'll see what you can do."

***

"I am standing here on the tumultuous Fifth Boulevard of Matrix City, where everything is a huge jumble." The lofty senior reporter of Channel 420 defied his common sense to approach to the burning meteor in the air, his eyes glued to the camera and hands grasping his microphone. "The citizens have lost the plot! Look at that guy over there! He's just squeezed himself into a trash bin hoping that he'd somehow survive impact. Other, more sane individuals are running away from the meteor, as far as possible—" A frantic woman pushed the reporter aside and ran past him, pushing his fedora to the ground. He picked it up, put it on his head, and flashed a strained smile. "Wow, it must sucks to be a Channel 420 viewer right now. The world's ending, and the last thing you're gonna see before you die is the bald head of a 50-something year old guy."

He continued to report, but his voice got hoarser second by second. "Perhaps. . . this will be the end of humanity. . . Hug your family, pray to God, make love to your wife. Enjoy the rest minutes of your lives. Our afternoon news ends here."

His camerawoman and wife of twenty years turned off the equipments and silently put them back inside the van. The reporter sighed as he tapped on her shoulder. As she turned back, he said, biting his lips, "Listen, Barbara. There's something I've been wanting to tell you, but I couldn't muster the courage. But now that the world is going to end, I gotta get this off my chest."

The wife raised her eyebrows. "Go ahead, say it."

He inhaled deeply, "I've been fucking your sister."

"What?" Her eyes widened.

"I'm sorry. It was a spur of the moment. We were drunk, and. . ."

"But you're always drunk!" She threw her hands in the air, her face was now as red as a fireball. "How many times have you done it?"

"Five. . ."

"Five times?"

"Y-yeah."

"That's not too bad. . ."

"Five times a week. I accidentally get drunk quite often. . ."

"What did you just say?" The wife gripped on the camera like she was about to snap it in half.

"Hey, calm down. I didn't want all this to happen. It's just that I wasn't getting the hots with you, and I needed someone who could get me excited in bed."

"Oh yeah? Well tell me how to 'get the hots' with someone whose dick goes limp every five minutes? The next door neighbor Rupert doesn't wobble like a chewing gum!"

The reporter gasped. "You fucked Rupert? That redneck?"

"Yeah, I did. I fucked the redneck with a functioning cock." She folded her hands before her chest.

Now it was the reporter's turn to get angry. "Oh yeah? Well your cousin Sarah said that her times with me were the best sex she'd ever had! Sarah actually knows how to get me hard and she doesn't whine every time I want to slap her butt!"

"Oh yeah?" She pointed her finger at him. "Well I fucked your co-worker Sam!"

"Well I fucked Bianca!"

"I fucked Tyler!"

"I fucked Zoe!"

"I fucked the whole production team!"

"I fucked your whole extended family!"

Barbara's eyes went wide. "E-even Jeff?"

"Even Jeff."

They both turned silent. As the meteor swooshed through the air, there was nothing else they could say. At least, both of them could agree on one thing. The world was going to shits anyway, and none of this mattered anymore. At least they could die being truthful to themselves, truthful to their spouse, truthful with their sins.

At that moment, a strange figure appeared in their vision. He went against the flow of people rushing out of the city, sporting bizzare outfit: a tight black suit with a bright white star badge in the center of his chest, a mask like that of Batdude in that famous superhero comic, and two guns strapped to his hips. As he approached the meteorite, he flashed a confident smile and plucked the gun on his left. He spinned his gun around like a Western cowboy.

"Who the heck is that?" The reporter muttered.

The guy in suit faced the giant ragged rock, raised his gun and pulled the trigger. A dark beam shot out from it, hitting the meteorite with a pow, and it disappeared as if it was never there.

The middle-aged man was stunned, just wanting to bury his feet on the ground, but still managed to drag his body nearer to the guy in suit. The man stuttered as he asked, "E-excuse me. W-who are you?"

The hero turns to look at him, eyes focused and brimming with pride. "You can call me. . . AntiMatter. . . er. Sorry, had to wing the nickname on the spot."

"AntiMatter. . . er?"

"AntiMatter. . . er. Yeah. Keep the last 'er' extended like that."

Then, the hero ran away, vanishing into the crowd of people flocking to look at nothing in the sky. That man was none other than Andrew Garage.

As the superhero left, the reporter and his wife were left alone with hundreds of other people, puzzling as they process the sequence of event that'd just happened. So the world's not going to end anymore.

The reporter looked at his wife, scratching the back of his neck as he laughed wryly. "Sorry for fucking your whole extended family, I guess?"

He took a slap across the cheek.