Suddenly, a nuclear penguin explosion

If I was a supervillain, my special power would be disguising nuclear doomsday missiles as Antarctic penguins.

Imagine that.

A herd (flock?) of penguins tottering on ice. Suddenly, one of them blinks, and its eyes glow bright electric red. Stiffly it raises its wings, and they freeze into position like some rocket’s fins. And then the penguin shoots into the sky, carried up by a horrendous gout of chemical flame from its backside.

The sooty flock of remaining penguins looks around, puzzled and a bit ruffled.

And meanwhile, in a plane high above, the Sidekick screams: “Captain! Incoming! A penguin at three o’clock!”

“Evasive action!”

* * *

Then again, if one has a huge bomb disguised as a small penguin, why bother with moving it anywhere?

* * *

A snow-covered ridge of ice. Some penguins are walking around, looking like the Gentleman Butlers’ Walking School on a winter outing. In the valley below, some more strut and preen.

Suddenly there is a light from the valley. One can, just for a moment, see one of the penguins there turn into an incadescent point of painful brilliance, and then a flash of light melts the ice and snow, and turns the penguins into clouds of ash.

Some kilometers away, a single penguin is pecking on a wall of ice, wondering whether the wall’d move if annoyed some more. A sudden sound makes the penguin turn — a faint rushing of wind. Turning around, it sees a wall of ash, dust and superheated air rushing towards it. There is just time for a very surprised “Caw?” before the pressure front comes.

A pair of parka-clad and scarf-covered scientists, standing on a sheet of ice at the cold ocean’s edge, are quite concerned. One asks the other where all the penguins went. The other can only repeat what they both saw: Suddenly the animals froze, glanced at the hills, and scrambled to the sea, diving underwater.

“As if they had escaped something”, the first scientist muses.

“Bhah!” the second mutters. “Tain’t nothing I know that’d faze a pengwin.”

By this time the first one has looked up and is pointing, slack-jawed, at the mushroom cloud and the onrushing wall of snow and deadly needles of ice.

“Well, like the Frenchies say, bugre moi.”

* * *

Ah, this happy speculation rose because I am happy, and I am partly happy because there is finally snow on the ground. Now, if there only were penguins in Finland…

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