Rick Sanchez.
Madison's words fell into Ian's ears like a thunderclap from the highest heavens.
Ian knew that the invasion of foreign universes would bring many things the DC Universe lacked, but he never expected to hear *that* name in his own reality.
"Wait, is this even allowed?"
Ian Kent was instantly petrified. His theories about God, Heaven, Archangels, and the Seat of the Divine Oracle collapsed in an instant. Replacing them was something far more chaotic, dangerous, and uncontrollable. The delinquent girl's neighbor was named Rick Sanchez?!
He knew exactly who that name represented.
That was Rick from Rick and Morty—the mad scientist in the grimy white lab coat, pockets stuffed with mysterious liquids, and a cynical worldview that could deconstruct reality itself. He was one of the most dangerous and brilliant entities in the multiverse.
How dangerous?
The man was a hopeless alcoholic who almost always carried his signature flask filled with "the strongest alcohol in the cosmos"—a recipe allegedly scavenged from a destroyed civilization. Most people didn't dare ask *how* that civilization was destroyed; they just instinctively knew Rick probably had something to do with it.
He was a volatile mix of genius and jerk. His IQ was so high he could solve problems in minutes that other scientists spent lifetimes failing to grasp. He didn't just understand physics, chemistry, and biology; he practically owned them. If he wanted to, he could redefine reality. In many ways, he was a technological version of God.
Power isn't the scary part. Power combined with the fickle, petty emotions of human nature—that was terrifying. Rick could ruin an entire universe just to play a prank on his grandson.
Ian remembered an episode where Rick invented a love potion that ended up turning an entire world into "Cronenbergs." Thinking of this, Ian had to ask the one question that mattered: 'Is this universe even safe to live in anymore?'
Recovering from the shock, Ian swallowed hard, clinging to one last shred of hope. He looked at Madison. "Can you... describe the old stonemason's appearance in detail? Like, his hair? His eyes?"
"You know my communication skills aren't great. I can tell if someone's hot or ugly, but a plain old man? I can't describe it well."
Madison scratched her messy hair. Just as Ian felt a brief moment of relief—thinking "plain old man" might mean it wasn't him—Madison slapped her forehead.
"But I have something better!" She reached into her Chanel bag and pulled out a diamond-encrusted smartphone. Her manicured fingers swiped across the screen. "Here! Look! We took a selfie the other day when I was helping him move some stone!"
The 50-megapixel photo was crystal clear. She shoved the phone right in Ian's face.
The background was a cluttered yard filled with bizarre rocks and scrap metal. Madison was grinning on the left, throwing a peace sign. Next to her was a tall, thin old man with spiky white hair that looked like it had been struck by lightning.
His eyes were glazed over as if he hadn't slept in years, and a distinct trail of glowing spit hung from the corner of his mouth.
He wore a stained white lab coat, clutched a half-empty bottle in one hand, and wore a bizarre, wide-mouthed grin.
Ian's last bit of hope shattered. It was him. Rick Sanchez. The chaotic-neutral creator who could reset reality on a whim. Ian's face went through several colors of the rainbow before settling on a shade of white brighter than a gallon of bleach.
He began calculating how to convince his father, Clark, to pack up the family and move to another parallel universe. Or maybe he should just check himself into Batman's asylum on Kepler-186f for safety?
"Ian? What's wrong?" Madison asked, confused. "Do you have a weird disease? Your face is as white as a melatonin pill."
Ian didn't even have the energy to correct her pharmacological confusion ,melatonin is for sleep, not whitening.
"Madison... that is no ordinary stonemason. He is terrifying. I am a saint compared to him. He is the true King of Chaos."
Madison frowned, unconvinced. "King of Chaos? No way! If he was a demon king, why is he at home every night hammering rocks? Shouldn't he be out destroying things?"
"Maybe he's not hammering rocks. Maybe he's tinkering with tech that could turn us into Play-Doh," Ian explained weakly.
The drama with God's family hadn't even passed, and now a new American Horror Story had arrived. Ian felt like he should start burning incense for his future self.
"He does wear that dirty lab coat and looks like a failed mad scientist, but..." Madison insisted on her logic. "He accepted my order for the tombstones and delivered them on time! Doesn't that prove he's just a good craftsman?"
"Perfect logic," Ian muttered.
"Is it possible he just thinks it's funny?" Ian looked at her, then felt the chair beneath him. It was a high-tech masterpiece that looked like a throne from Heaven, but to Ian, it felt like sitting on a singularity bomb.
"Oh?" Madison thought for a second. "Actually, there's a chance. When I told him the tombstone was for the 'God is Dead, Ian is King' campaign to trick—I mean, *inspire*—the angels, he was thrilled! He called me a 'genius' and an 'interesting soul'!"
She spoke with pride. "He even said he's been annoyed with that 'old prick God' for a long time. He said he'd vote for you as the New God. See? The man has taste!"
Ian's eyes nearly bulged out. "Wait, how does he even know about me???" He felt like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
Madison, oblivious to Ian's near-death state, got even more excited. "You taught me! You said 'the masses are the foundation, never lose the high ground of public opinion'! I have great execution!"
She started counting her "achievements" on her fingers. "I didn't just tell the stonemason; I printed tons of flyers! I designed them myself with your photo, added some special effects, and that slogan: God is Dead, Ian is King!"
"Also, I added my own touch: Believe in Ian for Eternal Life, VIP registration for Heaven after death. Oh, and you said SVIP requires payment, so I noted that."
Ian's pulse was racing, his blood pressure soaring. Madison continued, "I figured Metropolis is your base, so we should start there! I gave the first box of flyers to your... uh, feminine-looking, gloomy brother who charges very reasonable fees. I told him to start handing them out!"
"My brother?! Jordan?!" Ian was stunned. He was the subject of this campaign and he was the last to know! What kind of part-time jobs was Jordan taking behind his back?!
He could already see the tragic picture: the Superboy of the next generation being chased down the streets of Metropolis by reporters and police while holding a stack of revolutionary, blasphemous flyers.
"Jordan? Maybe that's his name? Doesn't matter," Madison waved it off. "Anyway, he took the money and promised to help!"
"Once Metropolis is covered, we hit Gotham! Then all of America! Then the world! Everyone will know the New Era has arrived!"
Ian had officially become the "King of Confusion." His brain couldn't process this much self-destructive information. Looking at Madison's "I did a great job for my King" expression, he had only one thought.
The Middle Ages are over, but this girl really wants to be burned at the stake! And dammit, I'll be on the stake right next to her!
No sane person touches religious politics; it never ends well. He frantically pulled out his phone, his fingers moving so fast they left afterimages as he messaged Jordan.
[Jordan! I don't care what Madison gave you! IMMEDIATELY! RIGHT NOW! BURN THEM! Burn them all! Not one left! If anyone asks, say it's performance art! Sarcasm! A prank! Better yet, say you were being mind-controlled by an alien! JUST STOP HANDING THEM OUT!!!]
While messaging, he grabbed Madison's head and shook it, hoping to shake the water out of her brain. "You can't do this, Queen of Audacity! God actually exists!"
Madison looked at his frantic state and gave him a "I get it" look. "I know God exists! But you're the one the people want! Once the angels believe it, you'll be the real God, and the old one will be the fake. It's... uh... tactical home-stealing!"
Ian's face went stiff. He realized reasoning with her was useless. He needed a tactical distraction—a family specialty.
"Madison, think about the flyers. A normal person sees those and thinks you're crazy or it's a prank show, right?"
Madison thought and nodded.
"Right! But that old man... Rick Sanchez... he didn't think you were crazy. He supported you. Doesn't that strike you as weird? Would a normal person do that?"
Madison fell into deep thought. Ian waited for the spark of realization.
"I get it," she said, her eyes lighting up. "The stonemason is an anti-Christ! That's awesome! No wonder he was so happy to carve the stones and give you a massage chair. I bet there are plenty of people like him—at least 51% of the world."
Ian gave up. Their frequencies were not just on different channels; they were in different dimensions. Explaining the danger of Rick Sanchez to Madison was like playing a harp to a cow—and the cow might just get annoyed that the music is distracting it from the grass.
He tried to comfort himself. At least Madison saved Rick's wife? That meant Rick had an anchor of "humanity" left. As long as he didn't provoke the madman and stayed away from his house, maybe... just maybe... life could go on?
The bell rang for History class. The teacher, Mr. Wilson—a middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses and perfectly combed hair—walked in. He paused at the sight of the stone chair and Madison, but quickly resumed his stern expression.
"Open your textbooks to page 78," he said flatly. "Today we continue with 'Colonialism and the Founding of America.' We'll focus on how the thirteen colonies, through courage, wisdom, and a longing for freedom, threw off British rule..."
He began his lecture, presenting a sanitized version of history where early immigrants and indigenous people traded as equals. Ian's super-brain flashed with images of smallpox blankets and broken treaties, but he knew those truths were rarely discussed here.
"The Revolutionary War was a just struggle for democracy. The westward expansion embodied the adventurous spirit of the American nation..." The teacher's voice was "correcting" history with a mortal's confidence.
"And remember, we were the 'Arsenal of Democracy' in WWII, making an indelible contribution to world peace."
Mr. Wilson spoke with passion, trying to plant a singular, glorious national narrative into the students' heads. Most students were half-asleep or playing on their phones. A few "good students" took notes like they were recording holy scripture.
'What are Ian and that bitch talking about?' Emily thought, scribbling notes while staring at Ian with mournful eyes, as if recording a tragic history of her future husband being forced to live with evil forces.
Ian listened to the whitewashed history, his heart unmoved. He was too busy wondering what kind of "Rick" existed in this universe and why he had merged into DC.
...
Meanwhile, on the quiet bleachers of another high school in Metropolis, Jordan Kent sat alone. He didn't join the loud clubs or chat with classmates; he habitually found empty corners to find a sense of security.
He wore noise-canceling headphones with no music playing—just a prop to justify his isolation. His gaze crossed the distance of the city, locking onto a vibrant figure running on a far-off football field: his older brother, Jonathan Kent.
Jonathan was pouring sweat, every tackle and pass full of power, drawing cheers from the crowd. Jordan watched with a tiny bit of envy but mostly a quiet pride for his brother.
His phone buzzed. He frowned. He hated being interrupted. The sender was—Ian.
"Ian?" Jordan was surprised. His quirky, fast-thinking younger brother rarely contacted him unless he'd caused a disaster that needed cleaning up. He opened the message, expecting mental pollution or an emergency SOS.
Instead, the message read:
[Dear Second Brother Jordan:]
[When you see this, I might be working toward some distant, grand goals. But no matter what, I never forget that my family is my strongest support. Thank you for your silent support and understanding; your kindness is the gentlest treasure of this family.]
[Please believe that everything I do is to make this family better and brighter. Please keep believing in me, as I believe in you.]
[Love, your brother, Ian.]
Jordan: "...?"
He froze, reading it three times. No pranks. No weird requests. No nonsense. Just... sincere gratitude and warmth. Was this really from Ian?
Jordan felt a surge of warmth. He knew this was about the flyers! His brother cared that much! His small help was that important to Ian's "grand plan"!
A sense of responsibility and heat rushed to Jordan's head. His cheeks flushed with excitement.
Family! For family! Ian was working to make the family "better and brighter," even willing to challenge... the Supreme Being? How could he just simply hand out flyers? That was too shallow! He had to do more! Better! He had to be worthy of this deep trust!
"Money! I'm not doing this for the money!"
Jordan gripped his phone, his eyes filled with determination. He opened his notes app, his fingers flying across the screen. He was going to add fuel to Madison's fire. Ian had a talent for writing—it ran in the family. Why wouldn't he have it too?
[The Pantyhose Superman in Heaven: A Splendid Counterattack from Junior Angel to Supreme God]
With Jordan's creative spark, the content of the flyers became even more "enriched."
Act One: The Fallen Superhero.
Borrowing heavily from Ian's own unpublished tropes, Jordan's first act was an absolute bombshell.