...boomed the baritone, mechanical voice at an exorbitant volume. Sherman knew that voice. It was the voice of a model 42 V-Tech brand time bomb. He'd often seen ads for them in his Soldier of Fortune magazine, right between the ads for the hydrogen-inflated bunkers and the exorbitantly powerful and highly illegal bastard shrapnel guns, used by poachers, expeditioners, and homeless derelicts to turn elephants, tigers, and upper-middle class snobs into piles of meaty pâté.

Oh, yeah, the bomb. Sherman wasn't surprised at the exorbitant intervals in the countdown. This WAS a work of fiction, after all, and thus, all timing devices were horribly slow and inaccurate. He recalled the episode of Dragon Ball Z he had watched, in which it was said that the planet had only 'five minutes left to survive.' The planet didn't explode until about seven half-hour episodes later. Sherman had plenty of time to get down to his exorbitantly furnished bomb shelter.

Sherman continued jauntily down the staircase of his split-level suburban home. He stopped at the fridge for a bottle of disgusting locally brewed cat-vomit, and drank it casually. While he fixed himself a sandwich, he realized he was out of salami, and had to run down to the store to pick some up. As he walked back in the door a few minutes later, a salami under each arm, he heard a booming

Sherman put his sandwich together, and headed downstairs. He had no idea where this bomb was, but he knew he was going to be alright. For just such an occasion ('just such an occasion' including such occurrences as a communist invasion, a declaration of marshal law, or the debut of a new sitcom starring the exorbitantly despicable Olsen twins), he had built himself a bomb shelter, lined with packing peanuts and filled with Cadbury Caramel Eggs, the all-purpose food of the future, according to 'Merc Today' magazine. He adjusted his mirrored spectacles, pulled his camouflage cap down over his eyes, and turned down the last flight of stairs in his house.

This would be the longest interval. The last dramatic point in time before the bomb blew up, where he'd save himself by the skin of his teeth. Sherman wrenched the door of his exorbitantly impenetrable shelter open, and leaped inside headfirst, his fall cushioned by a pile of schematic blueprints he found of the robotic copy of the president he knew was running the country. He kicked the door shut with his steel-toed boot, and sat back content in the knowledge that he had beaten Charlie at his own game (Sherman wasn't a Vietnam veteran, but he liked to let on that he was).

The house was left totally unscathed. Noone had heard the exorbitantly loud explosion. Noone had seen it. Noone was aware that it had ever happened.