The Orange Tyrant was pastel with fear. Although he knew he was invulnerable, invincible, and almighty, he lived in terror, quaking at the thought of el Hombre-oso de Chihuahua coming to murder him. No other being could penetrate the great Wall he had ordered built along the southern border. Would anyone protect him? Could anyone protect him?

The toupee-wearing tyrant couldn’t depend on the Sasquatch people of his great realm. After all, none of them had voted for him. They would just continue their endless games of hide-and-seek and never confront the invaders. His special black-clad, well-armed eismenschen wouldn’t merely melt; they would sublimate in the hot sun of the majestic deserts of his domain. An overwhelming fear was that el Hombre-oso would ally with the monstrous bird-like Wakinyan, the Guardians of Truth and the Keepers of Sacred Rituals.

Who could he depend on? What if he freed the gargoyles from imprisonment on the great cathedrals and on the Chrysler Building? Would they remember their obligation to him? He had been betrayed so often. What about the Thunderbirds that cruised the clear skies of the southwestern deserts? They were fast, agile, and powerful. Too bad there’s only one Phoenix. Oh wait, there are those treacherous Maricopa butterflies that accompany the Phoenix.

There was only one thing he could do. He would flee; his magic carpet would take him somewhere safe.