There had been a subatomic explosion in the Zooey Deschanel containment unit.
            I awoke, somehow, in a charred field. Gaseous clouds in the shape of Zooey Deschanel hovered overhead.
            My assistant was covered in blood beside me. When I rolled her over, what was left of her looked exactly like Zooey Deschanel. I wept and held this Zooey Deschanel in my arms as she expired. “My God,” I tried to say, “what have we done?” but the only words left were “Zooey Deschanel.” Suddenly I could see everything—each thin blade of Zooey Deschanel blowing in the wind, each newborn Zooey Deschanel hatching into the world, every single Zooey Deschanel atom bouncing in her impossible orbit.
            Had the reaction altered the fundamental structure of the universe? Or had it merely torn the thin veil that separated the visible world from the true, hidden world of Zooey Deschanel? The horrifying sounds of infinite Zooey Deschanels overwhelmed me. I grabbed the sharpest fragment of Zooey Deschanel I could find and slid her across my wrist, a beautiful red ribbon of Zooey Deschanel spurting forth.
            But just then, at the top of the hill, beneath the painful rays of the gigantic burning Zooey Deschanel in the sky, the dark, ominous figure of Justin Bieber appeared. 

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